People are important. People are not important. They matter, and yet they don’t. As with everything else in this world, this is a situation of duality. Both ideas coexist at the same time. But truly, in the ultimate scheme of things, none of us individually really means a whole lot to the totality of our species. It may sound like a depressing thought, but the universe really doesn’t care. The caring part is up to us.

I spent an afternoon recently at the emergency room with my mother, watching – and sometimes even smelling – the folks who came, waited and then went. I saw a large young woman with a distant, disconnected look in her eyes – she appeared to be heavily medicated – and I watched as she was admitted into triage and then carefully walked back to her seat by a member of the ER staff. I smelled a homeless person before I saw her; the pungent scent reminded me of an old farmhouse, maybe a barnyard – and so my associations at first were pleasant – until a funk began to grow – the sweet smell of decay; the smell of a human unable to wash. (My mother’s words from just an hour earlier came to mind: “I took a whore’s bath” she had said when describing how she’d prepared herself to go out to the ER.) The stench quickly became too much for me, but I remained in my seat so as not to hurt her feelings by moving. I saw elderly folks, wearing masks as they waited. They arose from their seats in a feeble, cautionary manner. We all experience weakness and vulnerability, but it’s not a pleasant truth to face.

All of these plain, ordinary people had been in such a state of need, and yet the staff was so kind and tender when they received each one of these patients. I marveled over that. These were not beautiful people, they did not stand out as exceptional – in fact, had I seen any one of them on the street I might easily have passed them by without a second thought (or perhaps with a critical thought, if I’m being completely honest) and yet there in the emergency room they were all cared for and asked after with kindness and respect. It was very moving to watch.

I thought about the deaths of a few people just the day before, on a bridge in Baltimore that had collapsed. I remembered being surprised at the traction the story had had – and yet when I heard in first-person the stories of the families who had lost someone dear, it instantly became real. It’s so easy to disassociate from people because they’re removed from our own experience; do we really feel the pain of those who die in dire circumstances in far-away places on the globe? We may want to, but I don’t believe we truly can. Yet when it happens close to home, and right in front of our eyes, we begin to sympathize in a deeper way. The situation is made human, it becomes real. Of course all tragedy is real, but it doesn’t always feel to be. 

In the emergency room, there were numerous mini tragedies underway all the same moment. On the outside, these folks looked unassuming and unmemorable, and yet each was being treated like the precious human they truly were. It was heartwarming, it was reassuring. It was humbling.

I thought of Pompei in ancient times. The volcano erupting and swallowing thousands of people. When I was in high school, I saw a touring exhibit of plaster casts that had been made of actual inhabitants of the city during their final moments – in the poses they struck upon their deaths. Those frozen figures were both distant to me and yet very real all at the same time. When I hear of disasters on the news, I often flash back to the sight of those anguished individuals, and I realize we humans, no matter our place in history, cannot ever be protected from tragedy, pain and fear. And no matter how it befalls us, not a one of us is beyond the purview of death. At best, we can only hope for a peaceful transition.

Every human who has suffered or died was as real as you or me. Those who have experienced frightening demises may seem a world away, but their stories could easily be ours as well. This thought is never terribly far from my awareness. And that day, while waiting in the emergency room, it came close to home again.

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For some reason my mother and I had a heated argument as she prepared for the drive to the hospital. Since then, we’ve spoken a few times on the phone and, as it comes easy to us, we’ve compartmentalized very successfully and were able to fall back into the “I love yous” before too long, and then things became normal again. 

But goddamit, may I not be as distrustful and defensive as my mother when I enter my elder years! I have taken to using the phrase “It’s not a hardship” when speaking to my mother about a situation in which a decision must be made, because for my mother everything is a hardship. Yet saying this aloud seems to make no difference – it does not reach her. “We can take your rollator in the car or not”, I will say, “We can take Braim Road or Locust Grove – nothing makes a difference to me – but if it does to you – just say something!” But that’s not how my mother operates. Passive-aggressive asides said under her breath are commonly used as a vehicle of primary communication. Not speaking up for her needs is her MO. It’s simply how she’s lived her whole life. Much as I’d wish that common sense and my honest declarations might make a difference, they do not. She makes simple non-issues into topics of debate. I have told her numerous times that I am a sixty-year-old woman, I have run a successful business and raised a brilliant child – what makes her think that I can’t make basic choices as we make our way out the door and on to our destination? I have never received an answer to that query.

When driving my mother home (I have known that driveway for over fifty years) she will still point to the driveway lest I miss the turn. Good lord. Really? This is the level of distrust and control with which my mother lives – at least with relationship to me. It is endlessly frustrating. I do know that she believes me to be a control freak – and in light of the deep and fundamental distrust she feels for me and my choices, I can understand how it affects her responses to me. But still. Really??

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Days have now passed since my mother’s visit to the ER – one which ended up in an overnight stay and a surgery in which a stent was placed in her kidney – and she is back to her usual self. General anesthesia at her age always makes me a little concerned, but she and I appear to share a high tolerance for the stuff that knocks us out. There do not appear to be any lasting effects from the anesthesia. And that is good news.

This near-the-end chapter must feel a little strange for her, perhaps even a little scary, but it’s not something she reveals. I tried to investigate further the other night when we had dinner together, but she didn’t offer up any insights. (I had bought some lamb, string beans and potatoes for her, suggesting she make herself an Easter dinner. In that her prime creative expression in life has been that of being an exceptional cook, I was happy when she offered to make dinner for the two of us. And it was so delicious. When I arrived at her house and she was in the midst of preparing everything – in spite of her steeply bent-over spine and arthritic hands – I realized how lucky I was that my mother, at 89, was still making home-cooked meals like this. In spite of how crazy we make each other, when she finally does leave us, I will miss this time.)

Even though I am glad to have her here with us – and to still know the sense of home and permanence her presence provides – there is a part of me which almost wishes that the Band-Aid be ripped off already. I wrote a song called “House of Cards” in which I ponder this strange place of worry and not-knowing. Will things become dire? Will my mother fall, will she experience an event that changes everything in an instant? Will the entire remaining estate go to pay for her care until she dies? Will she die in a place other than her home? My one main goal is to ensure she does in fact die at home, but one can never truly be guaranteed of that outcome. I also worry about her being bored; her life is very small, very repetitive. It seems her whole day is simply about getting dressed, eating and then going to bed. In between she feeds and watches the deer outside her windows, and she enjoys a drink in the evening while watching the umpteenth episode of MASH or All in the Family. Can this be enough? It would likely drive me insane. But perhaps as one enters the truly aged years the need for stimulation and new experiences wanes. I can’t imagine being in a place like that, but then again, just ten years ago I couldn’t have imagined that my own body would age as it has, or that I would find myself wanting go home and be in bed by eleven.

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I began writing this at a local Irish pub as a means to learn how to use my new Bluetooth keyboard and iPad setup. I began writing with loud music playing, a beer at hand. It’s also where I’m concluding this piece. At a bar, with the energy of people all around, again with a beer at hand. I can’t imagine a life without this experience, and yet I’m fully aware that it’s made possible by relative youth, health and vigor, and a certain place of privilege in which I exist.

But no matter the level of privilege into which we are born, the primal losses unite us all. May I find it in me to navigate the coming unknown waters with compassion and patience. And even as the contours of my life change in those impending and profound ways, I intend to savor every moment of these earthly pleasures, knowing deep in my heart that it will not always be thus.

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Post Script: My song “House of Cards” explores the worry of not knowing how life will play out. “Depression Era Girl” is a song about my mother; writing it helped me to organize the sorts of idiosyncrasies I mention in the post.

Before too long I will have an EP on all the platforms so that you may finally hear what I’ve been doing for the past year. I love songwriting, but it sure feels good to write for this format again and I hope not to let four months pass before posting my next piece. I deeply appreciate your still being here!