mother and daughter

I’m about to leave the house at 5:45 a.m. for a long seven-hour drive to Delaware to visit my mom.

I shower and dress and gulp down a quick cup of “wake-me-up” tea quietly so I don’t wake up my sleeping guy. I even tiptoe while hunting for my shoes and lugging my suitcase to the trunk of the car.

My mom is anxiously awaiting me. At 92 and diagnosed with dementia, days and hours and weeks all merge into one long wait for her. I want to get there as soon as possible for the weekend visit.

I walk to the hallway table, the one whose drawer holds all the keys to our life: cars, house, mailbox, and a few that are “mystery keys” (as in, what the heck does this key open?).

I reach for my car keys and stop in horror. Continue reading →

As I sit in the car in utter fear and mortification, counting, counting, counting, I wonder: what has led me to this humiliating, horrible experience?

Is it because of some deep-seated hatred for my brother?

No. I shake my head vehemently as I whisper 77, 78, 79… I love my brother.

Do I want to sabotage myself by making my family, and my new sister-in-law-to-be, hate me?

Again, I shake my head no and continue counting…80, 81, 82.

No, the fact is that I hate being late, and yet, I am always delayed, postponed, behind, tardy, unpunctual, behind schedule, overdue; well, you get the picture.

I was late at birth – two days I’m told. I was a late bloomer, and didn’t even enjoy a first kiss until I was 17. At 35 I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. Yet I did know I wanted to be a good sister.

83, 84, 85…

“How many more?” my mother screams in my ear, even though we are only sitting a foot away from each other.

“I don’t know,” I respond, gritting my teeth.

I am about to be late for my brother’s wedding, and I can find no excuse for it.

I rack my brain for any clues from my brother when he left the hotel (earlier) to get ready at the church.

We are all in strange territory. His fiancée’s family lives in West Virginia. I arrive from San Francisco, my mom from Delaware, my bro from Maryland.

89, 90, 91, 92…

“Don’t be late!” I do remember brother telling me that at breakfast. “It’s a 15-minute ride to the church, and there could be traffic.”

I scoffed at him. “Traffic? In this little town?”

He grimaced and admonished: “I know you.”

So, my mom and I leave 20 minutes early, noting a bit uncomfortably that we are the last relatives to leave the hotel.

93, 94, 95…

“Beep your horn!” Mom shouts.

“It’s a train, Mom, not a herd of sheep!” I shout back.

Yes, that is correct. We left 20 minutes early, but our car is stopped at a railroad crossing, and the longest train in the annals of history is chugging in front of us.

98, 99, 100…

One hundred cars I’ve counted, with no end in sight.

“Mom, we’re in the back waters of nowhere, and we are going to miss your son’s wedding.”

Like in a stupid adolescent movie, the kind rated PG13 that only gets two stars, Mom and I scream out loud, to no one in particular, together.

But the train moves no faster.

We are desperately…

Pathetically…

Late.