"I'll bathe you, Mumma." As I said those words to her, I knew, I really knew that our lives had turned around. She looked up at me, her eyes more dim than I had ever seen them. "I'm so embarrassed," she said. Mother/daughter, daughter/mother everything had turned around.
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The cold winter in Connecticut in 1991 made our home in Florida seem very inviting to my 80-year-old mother. She had already decided that she wanted to spend the winters in Florida, dividing her time among her four children who lived in the warmth of the Sunshine State. My two older sisters lived in Central Florida, and an older brother lived two hours north of where my husband and I had our home. Mumma had perfected a plan whereby she would spend one month with each of us; however, there were some problems with her plan. My husband and I worked outside of the home, and Mumma couldn't be left alone for any length of time. She needed assistance. She walked with the hesitation of the frail and elderly, and we were afraid that she might fall. And we did not want to give her free rein of the kitchen. What would happen if she burned herself on the stove, or accidentally cut herself with a knife? My Florida-brother and I talked about what to do. Neither of us had a guest bedroom, so Mumma would have had to sleep in a makeshift bedroom. I did not know how my other siblings, two sisters and two brothers, felt about Mumma's plan. Due to a family misunderstanding, we had not spoken to each other in almost three years. The family feud was about Mumma.
It was the winter of 1988, and the family was embroiled in conflict over an idea, promoted by our youngest brother, that Mumma should leave her home and go into an "adult care facility." The siblings were divided into two camps: most were embracing the idea, but my Florida-brother and I were against it. In the end, Mumma decided that she wanted to remain in the home that Daddy had built with "his own two hands," but that did not end the conflict. It festered, an open wound refusing to heal, and for the next three years we cut ourselves off from each other, all smarting from words spoken and unspoken--words never spoken can be as deadly as those hurled in anger. Broken-hearted over the estrangement of her children, my mother tried to make peace, as she had always done when we were children. With six children to care for, my mother had always sought ways to keep family conflict under control; consequently, we were expected to keep the peace. We never learned the valuable childhood lessons surrounding the resolution of conflict. Resentments went underground until, in 1988, they rose to the surface and shattered the illusory peace of a family once joined together in song around the ancient, upright piano in the dining room, and Mumma’s bountiful Sunday dinners in the warmth of our country kitchen.
So, in the winter of 1991 Mumma wanted to come south. I felt guilty about trying to discourage her from staying longer than two weeks, but I kept trying. Reluctantly, I began to face my ambivalence. Was it really her safety I was concerned about, or was I just using that as an excuse to save myself an inconvenience, selfishly thinking of only my needs? Mumma was always available to me when I needed her, wasn't she? Was she asking so much, one month, maybe two? Why was I so afraid? I had lived in Florida, far away from her, for twenty-five years. We visited back and forth for short visits, and we talked on the phone every week. But now she wanted to live with me for a month or two. Now, she needed me--could I handle it?
Mumma arrived on a balmy afternoon, her blue overnight bag perched on her lap, wheeled off of the airplane by a solicitous flight attendant, and my fears were confirmed. I took her to my home and tried to cope. A new blood pressure medication had dulled her into a constant state of confusion. She was incontinent at times. Frantically, I contacted her doctor in Connecticut, trying to remedy the medication problem. We went back and forth to the local emergency room, so that her blood pressure could be monitored. I was afraid that she would have a stroke, maybe even die, and I was afraid that it would be my fault. Having had no previous experience caring for an elderly person, I resented having to learn on-the-job, with my own mother. Confusion, guilt, sadness, longing, and anger overtook me, the feelings often intersecting, cutting off the love. I did not want this job! My mother was supposed to take care of me! Although I was forty-eight years old, I still needed her. I wasn't ready to give her up.
Trying to accommodate the need for safety, I borrowed a walker from a friend, so that Mumma would have something to lean on while taking a shower, but she wasn't using it. I soon realized that she was not even bathing herself. I had read somewhere that elderly people were afraid of falling while in the shower. I reasoned that if we addressed that fear, the problem would be solved. One evening I asked her if she would rather use the larger shower area in the master bath, sure that she would have an easier time getting in and out, and that the walker, which was too large for the smaller shower area that she had been using, would be easier to navigate. She agreed to the new arrangement. Certain that I had solved the problem, I guided her to her to our shower, but I was not prepared for what would happen next.
I had never seen my mother's naked body, and now, my first glimpse of the tiny, frail woman who stood shyly before me filled my heart with sadness. I watched in horror as she struggled to wash herself. She just could not manage it. As she stood in the shower looking up at me (my mother stood only 4' 11" tall), I knew that everything had turned around, and that she desperately needed me now. I put aside my own fears and longings and I gently said, "I'll bathe you Mumma."
"I'm so embarrassed," she said, avoiding my eyes. "It's okay Ma," I soothed, "I know that you did this for me when I was a child, and that you wanted me to feel clean and sweet. Now, let me give this back to you." Gently, I cleaned her soft and wrinkled body. I patted and powdered and primped her, and as her face softened into acceptance, I knew that she felt loved and cared for. And she was. She had become my baby, and I caressed her like I had done with my own babies many years before, with motherly love.
Later, my heart breaking, I cried in my husband's arms. I knew that my mother was dying. I knew that the strong woman who had nurtured me was no longer there: there was no going back. I thought of my own mortality, and I wondered if my daughter would have to bathe me some day. I became more aware of the changes in my own aging body. There was no going back. I began to grieve for my mother. There were several more baths after that evening, and each time we repeated the tender ritual, my spirit was lifted to a better place.
The following year, my mother had a stroke and died in a Connecticut hospital. I now find comfort in the intimate memories of a special time when I was able to nurture my mother, as she had so lovingly nurtured me, and that has made it easier for me to let her go.
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