Wednesday, July 18, 2001
Remembering Reality - To LTF
My mother announced yesterday morning that I am older than her. This is how it happened. I was clearing books off the floor and she asked me what "that big book" was.
Me: "It's The Noonday Demon. It's about depression."
Her: "How much do you remember about The Depression?"
Although I realized she had misunderstood I decided not to correct her. Instead I said: "Nothing, Mom. I wasn't born, yet."
She looked at me as though I'd attempted to play a rude trick on her and said: "Of course you were! You're older than me!"
I laughed. "Mom," I said, "I was born in 1951 and you were born in 1917. I think that makes you older than me."
She looked out the window and said, "You could be right."
By now you know what that means: "You are most certainly wrong, Gail, but I know how sensitive you are, so I won't mention it."
The funny thing is, in attitude, she is, in a way, right. Moodiness, despair, those things don't exist anywhere in my mother's gene pool as far as I know. I also know from experience that these qualities are associated with "old age" in her family, even though people in her family live forever without every experiencing moodiness or despair. People in her family also never consider themselves or each other "old". It's all those other people out there who get old and mordant. I can still remember my Grandmother in her 80's coming home from cooking for "Meals on Wheels" and talking about "all those poor old people" at the Center, most of whom were in their 60s and 70s.
So it seems appropriate that my mother would consider me older than her. I'm not concerned about what that means about who I am to her now. Although I am usually still Gail, I don't think I've been her daughter for a long time. It's funny, because I tend to consider myself, privately, barely (and not much more competent than) 11; but to my mother I'm pushing 110. Or maybe I'm 49 and she's 9. I'm not sure. It reminds me of that rhetorical question, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?" To my mother, I guess, the question is, "Since I can't remember how old someone is, how old do they seem to be?" Maybe the answer to that question is more informative than knowing how many years a person has been hanging around.
You know, LTF, I'm convinced that the best way to respond to the type of memory failure my mother exhibits is not to consider it a failure but to consider the reality she perceives in the absence of her memory. Sometimes, I think, it's a good idea for me to correct her. But many times what she "remembers" tells me much more about her and her world (and mine) than the facts behind her garble.
Me: "It's The Noonday Demon. It's about depression."
Her: "How much do you remember about The Depression?"
Although I realized she had misunderstood I decided not to correct her. Instead I said: "Nothing, Mom. I wasn't born, yet."
She looked at me as though I'd attempted to play a rude trick on her and said: "Of course you were! You're older than me!"
I laughed. "Mom," I said, "I was born in 1951 and you were born in 1917. I think that makes you older than me."
She looked out the window and said, "You could be right."
By now you know what that means: "You are most certainly wrong, Gail, but I know how sensitive you are, so I won't mention it."
The funny thing is, in attitude, she is, in a way, right. Moodiness, despair, those things don't exist anywhere in my mother's gene pool as far as I know. I also know from experience that these qualities are associated with "old age" in her family, even though people in her family live forever without every experiencing moodiness or despair. People in her family also never consider themselves or each other "old". It's all those other people out there who get old and mordant. I can still remember my Grandmother in her 80's coming home from cooking for "Meals on Wheels" and talking about "all those poor old people" at the Center, most of whom were in their 60s and 70s.
So it seems appropriate that my mother would consider me older than her. I'm not concerned about what that means about who I am to her now. Although I am usually still Gail, I don't think I've been her daughter for a long time. It's funny, because I tend to consider myself, privately, barely (and not much more competent than) 11; but to my mother I'm pushing 110. Or maybe I'm 49 and she's 9. I'm not sure. It reminds me of that rhetorical question, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?" To my mother, I guess, the question is, "Since I can't remember how old someone is, how old do they seem to be?" Maybe the answer to that question is more informative than knowing how many years a person has been hanging around.
You know, LTF, I'm convinced that the best way to respond to the type of memory failure my mother exhibits is not to consider it a failure but to consider the reality she perceives in the absence of her memory. Sometimes, I think, it's a good idea for me to correct her. But many times what she "remembers" tells me much more about her and her world (and mine) than the facts behind her garble.
