Ariel Gore - Confessions of a Reluctant Caregiver

When my mother was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, I didnt want to take care of her.

Her epic temper tantrums had already gotten her thrown out of more than one assisted living facilitynot to mention all the restaurants in town.

I didnt want to take care of her. But I knew that I would.

It was the right thing to do, after all. Wasnt it?

She was a widow and I was able-bodied.

I could sell my house in Portland, move my family three states away, move into a duplex with my dying mother.

Maybe it was a lot, but I could handle my mother.

How long could this dying thing take, anyway?

In her usual and offensive communication style, my mother shook her head. Pitifully, Tiniest, she said with a sigh, youre all I have.

Yes. I was almost 40 years old and my mother still called me Tiniest.

My older sister, for her part, simply refused to answer her phone that week. Dont bother Leslie about all this, my mother admonished me. Shes chaneling Pele on the Big Island. We dont want to ruin her retreat.

Maybe I should have been chaneling Pele.

Instead I was examining oncology scans under fluorescent lights. Lung cancer. My mother didnt have any noticeable symptoms, but doctors and the Web sites I read estimated she had anywhere from a few weeks to a year.

We can do anything for a year, my partner, Sol, reassured me when she got home from work that night. And then she leaned back in the chair at our kitchen table and lit a fat joint.

I poured myself a drink.

Eve wont live a year, anyway, Sol mumbled. Stage four lung cancer is no joke.

Eve. My mother. I knew I didnt owe her anything in the caregiving department. When I was a kid, shed prided herself on her similarities to Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest, her parenting style teetering between benign neglect and intense bouts of violence. But I was grown now, and I wanted to do the right thing. Sure, my mom had been abusive. But she was old and sick now. I wanted to behave in a way Id be proud of.

And the logistics seemed to line up, too:

My writing career was portable.

Sol dreamed of opening a little candle shop in New Mexicoshed lived there when she was in her 20s and always romanticized the place.

My daughter, Maia, was off at college.

Our son, Max, was still in preschool.

Portable.

Yes, we could do this thing.

And why not?

I picked a book from my shelf at randomThe Upanishads. I played that game I sometimes play where I open to a random page and ask my question: Should I or should I not agree to live with my mothermove my family and my lifechange everything? My random oracle seemed self-evident: Live with me for a year, then you may ask questions.

So there I had it.

And thats how I found myselfafter a few months of oncology appointments, family meetings, realtors, and road tripssitting in our new candle shop in Santa Fe, New Mexico, waiting to meet with my mother and a home hospice intake nurse whose name I didnt know.

It was a bright Tuesday.

I leaned across the counter of the candle shop to chitchat with a 50-something intake nurse, all toothy smiles.

I explained that my mother still didnt have many symptoms, but she did have this diagnosis, and I was trying to get ready for we-didnt-know-what.

You never can be too ready, the nurse chirped. She had fuzzy blond hair and a fuzzy rose-colored sweater. How wonderful for your mother that she has you, Ariel. Its going to be quite a journey.

I was starting to really hate the word journey.

The intake nurse leaned toward me and whispered, One thing to watch out for is when she starts coughing up blood. Promise me that youll call us when she starts coughing up blood.

Sure. I didnt ask if she expected my mother to start coughing up blood without warning or what. I just nodded. By now I was getting used to gruesome forecasts and predictions. Of course Ill call, I said.

A customer stepped in through the French doors of the shop just then. Greetings from the north, south, east, and west. She wore flowing sage linens and amber jewelry. She reached her arms out like a scarecrowor maybe like a crucified person. Ah, she said, turning her palms upward. I know and feel that Im in the right place. My coworker has placed a curse on me. Do you perform curse reversals?

No, I admitted. I dont personally perform curse reversals. But I have a Marie Laveau candle here if youre interested. Shes the problem solver. Or you could try Santa Barbara? Shes known for her protective qualities.

The hospice lady squinted at me, like, Are you a witch or what?

The cursed customer spun around three times, grabbed both candles, dropped a $10 bill on the counter, and rushed out, calling over her shoulder, Blessings and thank you from each of the four directions.

Any time, I called after her.

People who came into the candle shop were like that.

The pink hospice lady scanned the shelves for just a few minutes before my mother crept in, looking particularly pale and tired.

It occurred to me that maybe my mother could just turn this illness thing on and off at willtransmutation at her fingertips. Snap and she could be misdiagnosed or terminal, seductress or victim, abusive mother or old woman in need.

The pink hospice lady whispered, My God, shes beautiful. Like I didnt know.

Id brought three folding chairs out from the back room of the candle shop, but the hospice lady dragged the giant Mexican equipale chair from the corner of the shop, like maybe she thought it looked more comfortable than the folding chairs. She motioned for my mother to sit down in it, but when my mother did sit, the image was all wrong, my tiny mother in that giant pigskin chair. She was maybe 95 pounds now, but she looked even smaller in that ridiculous chair, feet not touching the floor. Lily Tomlin as aging cancer patient.

The hospice lady didnt seem to notice. She and I sat in our folding chairs, and she shrugged and smiled, shrugged and smiled. People are really into conscious dying right now, she said.

Conscious dying.

Who knew there were trends even in dying?

I dont want to know anything about dying, my mother said.

You dont want to know? The intake nurse smiled a wide white smile like shed never heard such a thing, but she was going to be nice, like some preschool teacher pretending that sucking on ones own knees might be in the realm of the socially acceptable. Its important to be conscious as you decline, she tried.

Im not declining, my mother snapped. She inspected her manicure.

I checked it out, too. Not a chip.

Are you in pain? the hospice lady asked.

No, my mother said. She sucked in her cheeks and looked more gaunt.