Would You Like to Talk to Mom?

There are subtle changes and then there are transitions. I call my folks just about every week at least once, and we catch up on the mundane and the milestones of life. In the past few years as mom’s Alzheimers has progressed, I call my dad. Mom’s cell phone was cancelled a few years ago. After chatting for how ever long we like, my dad always asks, “Would you like to talk to mom?”.

Until yesterday.

I called dad to wish him a happy birthday, knowing that he was preparing for hurricane Dorian. He is in his mid 80’s and the last thing he should be doing is installing hurricane shutters on his double wide, but that’s what he was doing. His normally strong, confident, baritone voice has taken on a slightly shaky, weaker, more defeated edge these days. He sounded tired. He sounded sad. He sounded worn out and fed up.

“Would you like to talk to mom?”

He has said that every single time I’ve spoken to him, every single week, for as long as I’ve lived apart from them. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Until yesterday.

But yesterday hurt. Hurt like a baseball hitting my chest at 90 miles per hour. Hurt like a crushing, suffocating weight, preventing my lungs from working. Dad didn’t ask “Would you like to talk to mom?” For the first time ever. Was he just too tired to put on the charade anymore? He told me they have decided to put her in a facility. He just has to decide which one he can afford. It hit me. He didn’t ask the question. And for all those times when he DID ask, and I kind of dreaded the ensuing empty conversation, I wanted to SCREAM, “YES! I WANT TO TALK TO MOM!!!!” I want to talk to my mother. My funny, beautiful, Irish, laughing, singing, costume making, compulsive cleaning, daily church going, family loving, caring, nutty, baby loving, lasagna making, perfect penmanship, beach loving, fucking amazing MOM. I fucking want to talk to mom.