On Being Mothers

Several weeks ago, my mom arrived from Canada for an extended ‘visit’ and I feel like a new mother myself. I’ve never been an actual ‘new mother’ but have witnessed the rollercoaster of emotions that come with the job.

Unlike childbirth, bringing my 86-year-old mother to Merida was the easy part. I made sure to have her room set up with all the comforts and no obvious hazards. I stocked the fridge with healthy food, diet coke and a little chocolate so if she did feel weepy, there was a an easy salve. But like any new mother, all the preparation did not set me up for the reality of her arrival; here, suddenly, was someone familiar yet strange, with complex needs I didn’t understand but was determined to meet. 

We’ve spent very little time together in the 12 years since I moved to Mexico. Before that, we lived in different cities in Canada with only the phone to keep us connected. My mom is not a phone person.

After I moved away, mom went from living in a 2 bedroom + studio walk up on a slip of land in Victoria with access to the ocean, to an assisted living ‘suite’ in Kimberley BC, with her small dog, a garden view, and far too many people hovering over her independence. Her dog died, her spirits waned with the second coming of winter and even my two sisters couldn’t lift her melancholy. It was time to suggest a change. In less than 3 weeks, the sibling pass off complete, she’s now ensconced in her air conditioned suite with both my husband and I wondering, ‘what’s next’?

There is no MasterClass on how to live with an aging and somewhat needy parent who insists that they are not – needy, I mean. Unlike a newborn, at least my mom has verbal skills, when she chooses to use them, or as dictated by the lunar cycle, how hot it is, or whether she’s been up all night working on a puzzle. She seriously did this one night, surprising me by coming out of her room at 6 am (when I get up) with a wild crazy look in her eyes like she’d been up dancing all night on Ecstasy. I told her that and we both laughed as she cracked a diet coke and headed back to finish what she’d started 18 hours earlier.

With mom, I quickly learned to view each portion of her 24 hrs as its own day. Her moods shift dramatically from morning through to evening, and with lightening speed. What might start out with a promising ‘hey, pal’, can spiral down to 8 hours holed up in her room with me yelling ‘CHECK’ through the door. Even my dogs hover outside her room, sniffing to make sure nothing untoward has happened. The only thing that seems consistent is she likes to sleep and she likes to be alone.

So as I was making coffee at 7 am this morning, I was shocked to see my mum up and looking like she was ready for the day. To say she’s not a morning person is like saying Gengis Khan was not a nice guy. But there she was with her red Nitro walker, motoring towards the terrace to sit in the cool morning breeze, I had assumed.

Lesson 1: never assume anything when it comes to an almost 87-year-old woman who has progressively felt ‘incarcerated’ by both body and circumstance.

I resumed making coffee (turning my back on her for ‘only a moment’) and the next thing I knew she had managed to maneuver herself into our pool, solely on a wing and a prayer. (We live in Mexico where building codes require much less than you’d think, like safety railings.)

She’d positioned and locked her Nitro ingeniously to act as a ballast so she could ease her not slight self into the 13.5 m lap pool. Like any good child/parent (I am both now it seems) I was filled with pride and mortification in equal measure. 

My mum is weak and unsteady from a titchy heart and too much inactivity, and there she was, channeling her inner Esther Williams as if this was just no big deal and all she needed was a chance to show the world she wasn’t done yet.