There was something uniquely depressing about that moment in May, when I pulled the little pile of paper scraps out of the mail bag.
It was Mum’s 70th birthday. For about a year now, her resolutely advancing Parkinson’s has grown grimly evident, in every aspect of her physical and mental existence. Simple movements, eating, drinking, even just sitting – all of these are an enormous challenge. The disease saps her strength, slurs her speech, muddles her memory and throws her emotions into disarray, bit by excruciating bit. Every day, the bastard steals another tiny piece of her. But even though it claims a few battles, she never lets it win the war. My wonderful Mum. My lovely, loving, fighting Mum. Even just one of the remaining scraps of her is bigger and bolder than that mean little mindfucker.
I did a quick mental check of my facial expression before I turned back round. Keep the eyes neutral and the mouth chatty. Focus on the little, everyday tasks that keep the wheels turning. Be reassuring and positive. Never mind the fact that she’s torn up her financial paperwork whilst confused – it’ll just have to wait. Remind Mum that I will be there on Saturday, to take her to her birthday party. Slip the paper scraps behind the other things I am carrying, and give her a hug and a kiss before I go.
And that was it, for the next couple of months. The birthday party came and went. I struggled with a couple of minor illnesses and migraines, and slowly learned the importance of working on my hormonal balance. My health improved enough to allow me to phase back in to full-time work, and I began to really love my job again. I went on holiday with my husband, our first in several years. It was absolutely glorious. I began to reconnect, with him, with friends, with me. The scraps of myself began to reform, into a new and hopefully happier whole.
Today, I tidied away the last bits of my holiday unpacking. The task was already ten days overdue, but what the hey. I am slowly learning to pace myself – things like housework just take longer now. The clothes once again neatly folded and put away, I turned my attention back to my wee pile of paperwork. I’ve been looking after Mum’s admin for a while now, a task that I am happy to do and that tends not to pose any major challenges anymore, now that I am up and running with it.
Except that I’ve never had to stick scraps of paper together before. Ah well, it’s a mindful task, I have the time and energy for once, might as well listen to some music I like, while I get on with it. There are people in the former Eastern bloc whose whole lives are scattered across boxes in basements, in tatters smaller than this. Mum’s financial confetti will probably turn out to be bollocks anyway. But I’d better make sure.
About one hour later, the scraps are taped together like Frankenstein’s bank statement, and they have indeed turned out to be bollocks. But at least they are not depressing me anymore, strewn about my desk like trampled cigarette butts, a mockery of my mother’s mental cohesion. My husband comes home with the groceries. It’s a beautiful life; time for me to carry on living it.
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