On a Mission...
My mother has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and I refuse to believe it. For months, I try repeating phrases and actions in order to prove that she is still capable of learning new things. One that we use frequently is a line from the Blues Brothers movie. Whenever she gets in the car with me, she slides her sunglasses on. I put on mine, face her, and say, "You know what this means? "'We're on a mission from God.'"
She laughs and nods her head.
"Say it with me," I prod, hoping to imprint the experience in her mind. "'We're on a mission from God.'"
"On a mission," she repeats, her voice shaky.
"'We're on a mission from God,'" I say again, this time trying my best Elwood voice.
My mother uses more gusto, but still doesn't get the line.
"Say it with me," I urge once more as frustration flattens my tone. "'On a mission from God.'"
She gets excited now; whether it is from the movie-quoting or the opportunity to be running errands, I don't know. Her voice raises a few decibels, "On a mish-on!"
We practice this line dozens of times over the next year. Every trip to the store, quick errand, and joyride in my car starts with this routine. She never remembers the line, and even after my prompts only says "On a mish-on!"
Slowly, I give up.
Two years pass, and during that time we do not mention that movie reference. My mother forgets how to buckle a seat belt or open a car door. On a frigid January morning, we sit in my car, waiting for the layer of frost to melt off the windows. The memory of how much I wanted my mother to recite that quote flashes in my mind and disappears. It has become too painful to dwell on, crowded by doubts that my mother even knows what that line means anymore.
Air blows from the defrost vent, drowning out the farm report on the radio. Maybe it's the static noise of cold air on the windshield or the grayness of old snow and overcast horizons, but in that moment, I'm restless.
"You know what this means?" I test her with the familiar prompt.
She stares at me, saying nothing.
"'We're on a mission from God.'"
She returns her gaze to the windshield, and the frost fills the space between us.
I mumble the phrase one last time.
Quietly, my mother repeats, "On a mish-on."
She laughs and nods her head.
"Say it with me," I prod, hoping to imprint the experience in her mind. "'We're on a mission from God.'"
"On a mission," she repeats, her voice shaky.
"'We're on a mission from God,'" I say again, this time trying my best Elwood voice.
My mother uses more gusto, but still doesn't get the line.
"Say it with me," I urge once more as frustration flattens my tone. "'On a mission from God.'"
She gets excited now; whether it is from the movie-quoting or the opportunity to be running errands, I don't know. Her voice raises a few decibels, "On a mish-on!"
We practice this line dozens of times over the next year. Every trip to the store, quick errand, and joyride in my car starts with this routine. She never remembers the line, and even after my prompts only says "On a mish-on!"
Slowly, I give up.
Two years pass, and during that time we do not mention that movie reference. My mother forgets how to buckle a seat belt or open a car door. On a frigid January morning, we sit in my car, waiting for the layer of frost to melt off the windows. The memory of how much I wanted my mother to recite that quote flashes in my mind and disappears. It has become too painful to dwell on, crowded by doubts that my mother even knows what that line means anymore.
Air blows from the defrost vent, drowning out the farm report on the radio. Maybe it's the static noise of cold air on the windshield or the grayness of old snow and overcast horizons, but in that moment, I'm restless.
"You know what this means?" I test her with the familiar prompt.
She stares at me, saying nothing.
"'We're on a mission from God.'"
She returns her gaze to the windshield, and the frost fills the space between us.
I mumble the phrase one last time.
Quietly, my mother repeats, "On a mish-on."
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