One of the most bone-chilling things about the visit with my mother was the specter of death that floated around the room, like those microscopic particles that flicker in the corners of your eyes. You know what I mean, right? Those eye floaters that appear if the sun hits them directly? “It’s watching. No napping—or else.”  Those were my thoughts.

Several times during our visit, it seemed she’d tapped out. But then she’d awaken, shuffle into the kitchen, turn some leftover roasted lemon-pepper Publix chicken into chicken salad. She wasn’t mirthful or particularly able-bodied, but she sometimes managed these small tasks, and sometimes she’d smile while doing them. 

I hoped this awakening wasn't spurred by my presence, since I couldn’t stay very long and it might be back to square one, where she is crippled by catatonic loneliness. What is that fancy psychiatric term? Dysphoria. She’d be smothered by dysphoria. 

I have to remember that there is nothing physically wrong with her, but also everything is wrong with her—every joint sore or twisted, every muscle atrophied, or every toe bent crazily. There are constant UTIs. (What is with old people and UTIs anyway?)

The real part that made me want to run out of there but also simultaneously hold her tightly was that she was so cognizant of how old she was, how abandoned she felt. Actually, it was less about true abandonment, and more like this constant threat of being left behind. Outliving both her family, friends, and money—money that is right now used to pay the aides.

And then the aides won’t be able to shower her or nudge her to take walks with them near the marshes, the same marshes where the alligators lay in wait for some distracted dog-walker who’ll let their corgi wander a little too close to the water line and then, wham, they’ll just vanish in an instant, pulled away and under into the smelly abyss. And I know sometimes maybe that feels like the best option to her. I know she’s hinted at it before. I think I know the feeling, and this is what gets to me.

This is a particular kind of grief that doesn’t get enough attention: imagine living in constant fear of abandonment where living in the present seems impossible. I know this is pretty typical Al-Anonic brain damage but aging must exacerbate it.