A Moment of Clarity

Fluorescent light bounces off recently-waxed linoleum and gum packs wrapped in plastic as my mother and I wander through one grocery aisle after another.  I dodge shoppers whose metal carts never slow down, while my mother trails behind, stuck in a traffic jam next to the lettuce.  As she slowly wades through the crowd, I grab spinach, mushrooms, apples, …so that when my mother catches up with the cart I can deposit the items and we can move out of this area of the store. 

She creeps along with the cart, staring at the chilled produce and automatic mist-ers.  I return to her and unload my arms.

“Ok,” I say above the chorus of squeaky wheels and requests from the p.a. system for more cashiers, “let’s keep moving.”  I weave my fingers through the front of the cart and lead my mother around stationary shoppers and stockers filling shelves.  As we maneuver through the congestion, I try to strategize the most efficient route for the items on our list, as well as calculate how quickly we can make it through.  When I do my own weekly stop at the grocery store, I am in and out in less than twenty minutes.  With my mother along, this takes over an hour. 

She moves slowly, studying the items on the shelves to see if they are familiar. As she inches down an aisle, I walk ahead, collecting what we need, and then dump the items in the cart and lead it to the next lane. 

I wait in front of the juices for my mother to catch up.  This is a tricky aisle because most of it is filled with candy—something my mother always notices are the M&M’s and surrounding chocolate bars.  I have run out of ways to explain why we do not need to get more, but she has lost the ability to understand that she already has enough at home. 

As she moseys along, I turn my back to the candy and study the grocery list.  My father’s handwriting fills two sides of scratch paper.  His cryptic shorthand and spellings are a challenge to decipher, and the one person who used to read it with ease now cannot even read labels on cereal boxes. Studying the list, scanning the juices, and watching for my mother, I grow more and more impatient and frustrated.

When she closes in, I ask what flavor of juice she likes.  She gives me a blank stare before shrugging her shoulders.  Her right hand mechanically moves to her face, and her index finger presses her top lip. 

“Whatever you want,” she says, shifting her focus to the cart. 

I know this routine; it occurs with ever-increasing frequency as she struggles to “act normal.”  She is so afraid of doing the “wrong thing” that she no longer voices her opinions or acts independently. 

“Well,” I sigh, “do you guys like grape?”  I pull a bottle from the shelf without waiting for an answer.  I grab apple, too, and deposit both in the cart. 

As I consult the list again to plan our next destination, my mother places her hand on my forearm.  Her eyes catch mine, and she says in a solid voice, “Now, some of this is for you, right?” 

I shake my head, “No, Mom, that’s okay, I have my own food at my apartment.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as her nose flares.  She points at the juices in the basket.  Her words come out slowly as she tries to verbalize thoughts, “I am your mother, and you will take some of this.”

“Ok,” I sigh.  We have this conversation at least once a day, and things go a lot smoother if I just agree with her. 

I return my gaze to the list but have a hard time focusing on it.  My mother’s words work their way through my brain, and their importance begins to dawn on me.  She is a woman who needs help with almost everything she does, but she is not letting that stop her from being a mother.  Suddenly, I wonder how many more times she will ask me to take food and how lonely grocery trips will feel when she can’t communicate with me at all.  In this instant, I realize that each successive visit will be different from the last as the disease continues to steal her personality, her thoughts, and her priorities. 

For the first time since we arrived at the store, I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.  Over the clanking of metal carts and screaming children, a Beatles song plays through the speakers in the ceiling, and my mother softly taps her foot to the beat.  I glance up, and she is staring at me, waiting for the next move.  The corners of her mouth curl upward, and I realize that I am smiling back.  The background noises and distractions fade away, and I understand that here, in this store, with my mother, is the only place I want to be.

We continue on, winding our way down one aisle after another at my mother’s pace; only now, we mosey side-by-side.