growing older in one day...

most days, I'm not really conscious of growing older--sure, there are days when I feel my knees creak, and times that my physical body reminds me that I'm no longer 21, the almost whiteness of my beard, the takeover of the salt in my hair, the victory of hair growing in places I never thought possible, and the loss of hair in the places I hoped would win--the periodic lapse in memory, the more frequent "you kids get off my lawn" moments, a stronger distaste for hip-hop:  yeah, I know the signs, but, today, I had a conversation with my mom, Jo.  I call her every weekend, usually on Sunday afternoons, when she has been to Sunday School and church, had lunch with her friend Sarah, and is about midway through her afternoon nap/reading.  Sometimes I call her on a Saturday, when she isn't as lonely, and doesn't list all the relatives who never call, and who never visit (always starting with my brother and his wife, my nephews, her brothers, her in-laws.)  She has not aged with grace, but, she has become more angry with each passing year: angry that she is left more and more alone, angry that her own body is failing her, angry that she often feels abandoned by my brother, my nephews, and I guess, me.  Probably like any mother of adults--particularly adult sons, who are grandfathers themselves: we do not call enough, visit enough, care enough.  Jo will be 80 in August, and she is not looking forward to the hallmark experience.  She tells me that she prays "for the Lord to just take me home."  Not what this son wants to hear: and I remind myself that the phone conversations are not about me, not about how I feel, not about what I want to hear--they are about the woman who birthed me and raised me, who supported me, who loves me.  Yet, I feel guilty for feeling impatient with her melancholy. 
Up until this past year, she has been in relatively good health.  Some gall bladder trouble, a broken ankle (from falling down the bank while fishing), some TMJ--but, nothing major.  She was the champion care-giver for my father and his long arduous months following his stroke, and then the caregiver again for her boyfriend, Dan Magness, following his heart attack and other illnesses.  She knows her way around a hospital and nursing home.  She can communicate with nurses, doctors and therapists: she will do battle with business offices and billing companies.  Jo knows how to fight, and that is one of her most admirable and irritating qualities. 
Today, I asked if she had been to the dentist, as she had planned, on last Monday. "no," she said, "do you want to know what I did instead?"  Of course: she began the saga of last Sunday afternoon--post nap, when she didn't feel well, and went to the kitchen, there, she fell, and hit her head.  She hit her head hard enough that it caused her to bleed, and she woke up on the kitchen floor, with blood all around her. 
She had been passing out over the past few months.  He legs get weak, he stomach 'does flips" and she lands on the floor, the ground, against the wall.  She passed out once while she was babysitting her great-grand daughter, Haylee, and fell against Haylee, then, soon woke up very upset and frightened.  My nephew and his wife made the wise decision to find another caregiver for Haylee, and Jo was sad, lonely, and upset with the realization that she could not care for her great-grand daughter as she had cared for her grandchildren and other great granddaughters, Tesa and Cheyenne.  With my nephew and his wife expecting Haylee's little sister, my mom knew that she could not babysit for the new baby, and was deeply sad about missing the baby's first few months, and the special bonding she had with all the others.  Aubrey Kay arrived over one month ago, and Jo has seen her only twice, and she is in pain over that. 
When Jo woke up on the floor and saw and felt the blood, she crawled to the phone and did not call 911, but, called my brother.  She was surprised that he answered the phone--she is convinced that he ignores her calls, and that he is too busy to talk to her--(and, she has to relay that thought to me in each phone call.) 
He and my sister-in-law immediately went to her house, helped her up, cleaned her up, and sat with her until she was feeling better.  They suggested that she see a dr., and the next morning, bright and early, she called her dr., who could see her in the afternoon. 
About the time she was telling me this saga: I began to feel myself getting older.  I was hearing my almost 80 mother tell me about the series of doctors and tests and medications and...I was hearing my older adulthood announcing itself as a town crier.  "Hear ye, Hear ye: you are OFFICIALLY old. Both of your parents will soon be gone, your original family will no longer exist, and, you will be...old." 
Jo kept talking, doctors, appointments, rides to the appointments.  No one called me, no one sent an email, no one let me know.  "I don't want to worry you."  I told her that I would appreciate being "updated on her condition, and then I can decide if I want to worry or not."  She told me that probably would not happen. 
She has always told me what to think, what to worry about, what NOT to worry about.  I know that is how she communicates, but, I would like the privilege of deciding how I will respond to my mother's illness. 
And there: in that moment, I knew the shift was taking place.  I told her that she could not protect me from feeling a certain way about her situation, that it was my decision, not hers.  In reply, she said, "well." 
We finished the conversation: she asked me about my little garden, about the dog, about my work--all I could say was, "fine."  I was already crying, but, could not let her hear it, or know it.  I gave her a cheery, "talk to you next week," and told her I loved her. 
Then, I hung up, and wept.  I needed to cry for a bit, to grieve for the family that I will never have again, to miss my Dad--to wish I could tell him how I felt about Mom, and I missed my Mom, already. 
Life stages, passages, circle of life, aging...I know all of the verses to those songs, but, today, on a beautiful Cinco de Mayo, sitting on my front porch swing, I grew older.