It was a Friday and I was out for my morning walk. I called my mom as I often do durning my walk, as long as I’m in cell service.

Mom answered the phone and I asked my usual question; “hey, how’s it going?”

She replied her usual reply; “I’m losing my fucking mind.”

I asked what had transpired to bring her to this conclusion.

“Tasmania. I couldn’t remember where Tasmania is……….I just…..I couldn’t place it. All I could think of was Sri Lanka; which used to be Ceylon……and that’s south of India. How could I think Tasmania is Sri Lanka? Then I remembered……Hobart…….Hobart is the capitol of Tasmania and it all came back to me….. Australia.

I shook my head. I knew none of these facts. Was I losing my fucking mind too?

I made her reiterate the entire conversation. Fact by fact, sentence by sentence so that I had it in burned in my memory just so I could retell this mind fuckery of my mom, whose age is; well, let’s just assume she is older than me by a few decades, was dealing with.

“Mom. First of all, there is NO one I know that I could even have this conversation with. Maybe Steve Gideon or Noah Stout. Most people your age can’t remember where they left their teeth and you’re upset that you temporarily forgot where Tasmania is located. I think you are a tiny bit hard on yourself.”

We laughed really hard over this and mom seemed to realize that she had not actually lost her fucking mind in this instance.

Age. Aging. We all do it. Why do we think it will not happen to us?

Today I talked to my mom. She said she was moving slow. And she’s cold. A cold snap. She was bundled up in mulitple layers. I looked up her weather. Sixty one degrees and sunny. I’m not doubting she is cold and can’t warm up. But I don’t understand. How can I know what it is like to be her? I can’t. How many times can I ask her if she’s been to see her great grandson walk? She has not felt up to it. How many times can I ask her if she went back to the YMCA? I feel like I am shaming her. Am I?

Today she told me she made banana bread. From a box, she clarified as opposed to from scratch. “What can I substitute for eggs”? she asked me. I’m surprised by this question. Eggs? I said. I use a ‘flax egg’; one tablespoon ground flax and three tablespoons water. Let is sit for a bit to congeal. “Do you grind them or can I buy them ground”? she asks. I grind them in a coffee grinder, I say. It’s fresher. (I’m just reiterating what she told me several years ago). She repeats the process to me. Why? I asked. You eat eggs. Who are you cooking for? “They are so expensive” she replies. Here’s an idea, make banana bread from scratch and you’ll have enough money for eggs. Shaming again. Damn it. Plus she has enough money for eggs. The thought of paying that much for eggs is that with which she struggles. The thought.

Last month I asked her what she was having for dinner. I ask this often; one, because I want to know what she is eating and two for a conversation, and I just thought of a three; three, it’s a family thing, sharing what we’ve made for dinner, it’s a deal. She told me what she was making, which I forget most of it but one thing was potato salad. “Without the celery of course”. What? I said. Who eats potato salad without celery? “Have you seen the cost of celery?” she exclaims. “What do you pay for celery?” she asks me. I have no idea. Plus, I say, celery is one of the ‘dirty dozen’, I always buy it organic. Shaming. This thought is beyond her comprehension. “It goes bad before I can use it all” she explains. Throwing out food being the worst thing she can think of. Growing up, she often told my sister and I that her own mother would get a single orange for Christmas at the orphanage. They ate the whole thing including the peeling. I want to tell my son to go buy some celery and take a stalk to my mom. I don’t. She has the money for celery. It’s the thought of spending that much on celery that stops her. She doesn’t want my son buying expensive celery either.

On one call my mom told me of her outing that day. Her outings are an ordeal. Her prime window is 11:00 to 2:00. She gets everything done in that time frame. The effort exhausts her. But even more exhausting for her is the thought of the outing. It takes her a good week to recover from an outing. But she always comes home with entertaining stories. Flirting with men as she pumps gas; them flirting back. She heads to the store with her list written on an old envelope and ripped into the size of the list as the envelope can be used for more lists. She loves to randomly talk to strangers. She walks next to a woman in the produce section and says; “look at this list, I have written ‘vegetables’. All I have is corn and radishes. It’s all so expensive. I’m not going to pay for this expensive produce”. She tells this stranger her concerns with the expectation that the woman will commiserate in her pity party at the outrages prices of produce. But this particular stranger flips the script on her. The woman tells my mom to pick out all the vegetables my mom wants and the stranger will pay for them. “OH!. No.” My mom is embarrassed. As if she were a beggar on the street. She just wanted someone with whom to bitch. Someone who was angry with the system to join her. To wallow in her misery. Maybe even laugh about it together. How does my mom explain the thought of paying that much for vegetables is the problem, not a lack of money? How does my mom explain that she bought her own winter coat for Christmas when she was 13 and put it under the tree from Santa Claus? How does she explain that she owns her own house now. A two story house. She owns her own house damn it! Did my mom’s mom ever own her own house? Did her mom put expensive celery in her potato salad? Use a flax egg in her banana bread? Self shaming. That is the issue perhaps. It’s not something I can fix. Not something my sister can fix. It is in my mom’s DNA. A guilt that can not be removed. Expounded with age. This is not the woman who raised us. Who is this woman? Age. Or. Is this the woman who raised us who we are now seeing through our own older eyes? …….And you thought this was going to be a travel post.