Oh Shoot

Today I took my momma to one of her doctor’s appointments. It was downtown.

I knew I would need to pick her up an hour before her check in time, just because it was so far and she doesn’t move all that fast.

I try to ignore the condescending remarks, like “You’ve got this all figured out now, don’t you?” Like I’m twelve and that don’t normally driver to this very same hospital about three times a week to interpret.

During the long drive, she brought up all the regular people from her past, just as she always does, and asks why she can’t talk to them anymore, again.

There’s my brother, and her ex-husband, and occasionally my dad. She asks if I’ve talked to any of them.

Then she goes on to tell me how badly she wants to get out of her assisted living facility. It doesn’t matter how many times, or how many examples I give to show how nice her place is, she always tells me, “I know. I know.” And the next time I see her, she’ll tell me again.

Today, I ask her what she would do if she didn’t live there. What would she like to do?

“I have no idea.” Something else she also, always tells me. “I just feel lost.”

We talk about her brain, and how it’s not her fault. We talk about how this appointment is not going to fix her; we’re just hoping for her to stay the same.

Not mentioning that today she is better than what she’ll be tomorrow, and yesterday, she was better than what she is today.

For someone who struggles with talking, she always has something to say. After unsuccessfully searching for the right words, she ends up settling for, “… Oh shoot.” I keep listening and help out when I can.

After agreeing with her new specialist throughout the thirty minute appointment and reassuring the young doctor she didn’t have any questions, we walk down the hall and she asks me, “Did we find out anything?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, shoot.”

“It’s ok. You’re ok.”

We get back in the car and start the long trip home in rush hour traffic, this time.

Trying to console her, I reach over to hold her hand. She grabs it with both hands and as if by instinct, or possibly habit, she reassures me, “I know, Kim. It will be ok.” She pats my hand.

Concealed behind the tint of my sunglasses I start to cry.

I imagine, one day, when we’re in heaven, she will hold me close after being healed from all this life has thrown at her. And she will tell me, “You did good, Kim. I didn’t make it easy for you, but you did really good.”

I drop her off, text my brother to call his mom, then drive home to make dinner for my family.

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