Trimming the Fat
My dad brings prime rib, tells her he's going to cook it for her tomorrow. And though I know his intentions are good, I get upset, watch her barely able to swallow the strawberry yogurt, and think it's just mean to taunt her with that, knowing the only way she could eat the steak is if we ran it through the blender.
But the most distressing part is when she says that she's lost 37 pounds in the last few months. The doctor told her so. "Everytime I'd go to the fridge and start to get something to eat, I'd think 'Do I really need that?' And I'd say, 'Nah.'" This comment brings back so many memories, and so much sadness. Making shakes with Slim Fast powder and skim milk in her kitchen. I must have been 11 or 12. She showed how to flavor it with almond or coconut extract to make it taste better. The locked freezer in the storage closet which was packed to the brim with Drumsticks and ice cream sandwiches and tubs of Blue Bell and frozen key lime pies. And she is 88 and bed-ridden and finally the size of an adolescent girl. She is proud of her accomplishment.
The next day, I spend hours throwing away expired cans of soup, pasta, tomato sauce, taco seasoning packets, preserves. Canisters of ancient Tupperware that hold rancid flour, sugar, the plastic surely degraded and leaching into the grains. Toxic. She sleeps most of the day, and I know that tasks like this will be overwhelming when she's finally gone. Now it is something I can distract myself with, focus on. Once I finish the pantry and my back is screaming at me, my family goes to work too. My dad starts on the garage, and my aunt pitches in to help. A Nolan Ryan baseball we gave my grandfather rests in the bottom of a box of trash. 5 citronella candles. Fishing poles we don't use anymore, a fillet knife. Later we start on the stacks and stacks of coupon ads and magazines. My hand comes to an ad for a bathtub that has an entry door in the side. I feel punched in the gut, seeing the picture, the words proclaiming " Now you can enjoy a relaxing bath again Without Worrying About Slipping or Falling," and knowing she will never leave the bed again, never have the strength or ability to get into a tub. Because there's still a clot in her brain, the doctors say she can't do rehab. Any strain could knock it loose. Best just to spend the time she has in bed, surrounded by family.
But as I continue through the stacks, coming to each new ad with the exact date it was received written in her cursive on the outer page, they keep appearing. One after another. The pages torn out. "Bathe Easily. Bathe Safely." The tubs surrounded by slate tiles, a white-haired woman immersed in bubbles. The knot in my stomach grows as they begin to pile up. I stop throwing the new ones in the cardboard box we've designated for recycling, make a stack as I sit cross-legged between the kitchen table and sideboard. Finally, I stand up and walk away. Put the ads into a plastic grocery bag and set it next to my suitcase. I help my mom change her Depends, which I'm starting to get used to. Marvel at how smooth her skin is. Try to remember to warm my hands before lifting her onto her side, as she hates it when anyone touches her with such cold. I go into the bathroom that adjoins my grandmother's bedroom to put the new aloe baby wipes into an old plastic Huggies box I've washed out and bring it back to my mom. She says Thank you, babe, and I start to sob. And I tell her about seeing the ads, the pictures, and how that will never happen for her, and mom hugs me and says, Probably not. But she's had a really long full life, and that's the best any of us can expect. And she starts crying too, and we stand in the doorway of the bathroom like that until my aunt comes in and puts her arms around both of us. After a moment, we straighten up, my aunt walks back out, and I pull two tissues out of the box on the counter and hand one to my mom.
