by cheri block
Took my mother Joan to her monthly infusion at the local hospital this morning.
There, sitting with a drip line in her tiny arm and a Glamour Magazine in her crooked fingers, she said,
How did I get to be this old so quickly?
She’s had several strokes, so her memory isn’t what it used to be. She’s also deaf, one of many byproducts of a vicious attack of meningitis when she was 67 years old, but for all who know her, these things haven’t stopped her from living her life.
Mother, this is a question all of us ask, but few of us answer. More importantly, was the story your caretaker Belen told me this morning true?
As I said, my mother’s memory is short. I wanted to tell her the story again.
You told Belen that when you turned 100, you want to dance on a table and in case your memory has gone bad, you wanted Belen to remind you of your wish.
Belen told you that when you turned 100, she would be 87. Perhaps her memory would be poor by then, she confided.
Belen told you that she would ask Cheri to remind her to remind you to dance on a table when you are 100.
Mother seemed please with this plan, so pleased, I felt it was my duty to disrupt it.
Mother, I will be 80 when you are 100, so perhaps I won’t remember to remind Belen to remind you that you must dance on a table when you are 100.
Her brow furrowed and she waved her arm, the one with the drip-system delivering her drugs.
How old will Sara be when you are 80 Cheri? She can remind you….
And so the story went.