Mom & Me Four Archive

...my mother awoke to go to the bathroom. This isn't unusual. Normally the routine is:

• She awakens.
• Whether I'm awake or asleep, because of where I sleep (on the floor of my bedroom inches from my bedroom door so that when she awakens in the middle of the night I'll hear it, if I'm not so tired that my ears are ignoring everything) I hear her rousing usually before she's out of bed.
• I raise my head and wait to see if she's simply readjusting herself or will be shuffling to the bathroom.
• Once I hear her shuffle, I raise to a crouch, readying myself to spring into action.
• I remain this way until I see her peer to her right from her bedroom, checking to see if I've heard her.
• If she doesn't see me crouched on my futon, she makes a bit more noise than usual heading toward the bathroom, i.e.: Securing closets, noisily using the wall for support, etc.
• If she sees I'm alert to her, she heads the few feet down the hall to the bathroom door opposite her bedroom door. Because she is a proud woman and still capable, between the walls of our narrow hall, of getting to the bathroom on her own, I await her entrance into the bathroom before I rise to join her.
• She pees. By this time, I'm standing, usually naked, in the bathroom with clean underwear for her.
• We exchange a few groggy jokes about naked middle aged and old women wandering the halls in the middle of the night.
• If I happen to have put on my bathrobe, she asks why I'm wearing hers (our bathrobes are the same type, although different pastel colors; I think, in the middle of the night, her eyes aren't interested in making out subtle differences in off-hues of white).
• I assure her it's my bathrobe; sometimes a light-hearted "argument" ensues.
• We change out her underwear.
• Either she signals that she's ready to rise or, if she's so groggy she's begun to fall asleep on the toilet, I signal that I'm ready for her to rise.
• I help her by taking her arms and saying, "Okay. Lean back. Throw your weight forward from your hips. Rise. There you go," then move out of the way so she can grab the bar on the wall and position herself toward the door of the bathroom.
• I help her pull up her underwear and secure it in her thigh creases to prevent as much leakage as possible.
• I remind her to "wash your hands, with soap," then assure her, "I'll meet you in the hall."
• I stand to one side of the door while she exits, let her know I'll secure the door, she says, "Thank you," and heads into her bedroom.
• I follow her, make sure she replaces her oxygen cannula, kiss her and say, "Good night, again." She responds similarly.
• I go back to bed.
• We both immediately fall back to sleep.

    Last night, though, circumstances changed. Before going to bed I accidentally made myself a cup of caffeinated coffee rather than my usual decaf, the warmth of which usually soothes me into slumber. I realized this when, upon retiring, I simply couldn't get to sleep so I arose to confirm, from the location of the coffee scoop, that I'd raided the wrong canister. So, when I heard Mom rousing to her bladder, I was up and on my well caffeinated feet before she rose from the edge of her bed.
    "My, you're up late," she commented.
    "Well, I was actually in bed, but I accidentally drank caffeinated coffee and I can't sleep."
    "That'll do it," she said.
    Once we were in the bathroom she said, "I couldn't sleep either."
    This isn't exactly true. When I checked on her before retiring she was completely relaxed and gently snoring. I didn't question her, though. "Well," I said, "I'm thinking of getting back up. Want to join me?"
    Spriteliness overtook her. She practically raised off the toilet on her own in it's wake. "You know, I love staying up late."
    "I know. Let's see if we can cause some trouble while everyone else is still sleeping."
    "Good idea."
    We were up until dawn, maybe a couple of hours. We talked, a little, about those dead relatives she'd been dreaming into life while she was sleeping. We searched the cable for Bette Davis movies or something else equally fun. No luck. I suggested we read a little further in The History of Old Age. We decided this would be a good time to examine all the plates in the book that we usually skip. Thus, we ushered ourselves into an extemporaneous conversation of what old age looks like to those who are yet to be Ancient. We also shared our sense of our own devilishness for being up at such an unseemly hour in excited spurts of conversation about how everyone else was dreaming the world into existence, wondering if we were in a "zone" where we could alter their creation without them realizing it, stuff like that. At Mom's suggestion, since our being up shimmered with nefarious possibility, we also had another piece of the luscious spice cake I'd made yesterday afternoon, this time without whipped cream. Thus, I'm expecting her blood sugar to produce a fireworks display when she finally awakens. What the hell. That's what nights like last night are for.
    I didn't bother to check the clock when we finally retired. It wasn't yet light but we could see the intention.
    Thus, it will come as no surprise that I'm letting Mom really sleep in. I figure, at about 1500, if she isn't up on her own, I'll call her. The business to which I'd planned to attend is languishing in that late-start area of muddled magic that plays havoc with the best laid plans (of mice, men, mothers and daughters). I'm considering today part of an extended Sunday. I imagine my mother will, too.
    Nights like last night don't happen often for us, so I like to take advantage of their air of mystery. The day after is rather like the day after a slumber party, groggy but satisfying, especially if you have some time to hash over the dregs of the party with your party mates.
    Lucky me, I live with my party mate.