I walk past a woman walking with her mother. I give her what I hope she interprets as the “you’re wonderful, I know what you’re going through” smile. She acknowledges me briefly and then turns back to her mother. She takes a step by putting one foot forward and then bringing the other foot to meet it, then pausing. Her mother, who is walking with the aid of a cane, is continuously moving, kind of, in that slow motion that elderly people acquire. We get old and we stop acquiring things and start acquiring accommodations to our body’s deterioration. Where did the ability to function smoothly and easily go? We lose a million skin cells a day – did it turn into the dust that infiltrates our pillows and mattresses, that balls up and dances in the corners and underneath the beds, is it the feast that dust mites enjoy a million times a day?
I know that pace, I’ve done that pace. You can tell she’s done this with her mother many times, and she’s OK with it. She stays with her, even keeps a hand on her mother’s back. The ones that are not OK with it, they walk ahead, sometimes just a step, sometimes a couple of steps, looking back, then walking back, wondering how their parent got so far behind. But they keep going at their pace; no, not quite, which is why their faces always show a hint or more of frustration. They are not going at their usual pace and they cannot go at their parent’s pace and they do not really appreciate that their parent cannot go at their pace. The parent is going as fast as they can, in fact, often as fast as they dare. Memories of stumbling and falling, the inability to truly sense themselves in balance, the chain of command from head to foot slower than it used to be, and perhaps, in the wake of each step, a moment of gratitude and even celebration to have done it. Again.
On the phone, there are moments of silence. Like moving one foot forward, bringing the other foot to meet the first, then pausing. I say something. Then there is silence. Then my mother responds. I wait. When we are together, I say something and watch her face. Sometimes, her eyes get big and her eyebrows rise up when she takes in what I have said. Then she’ll burst into a smile and talk and laugh at the same time. I have to admit, these are my favorite moments. I tell the same joke for months “Do you know the number one reason why parents don’t listen to their children?” She always starts laughing – “Because they’re watching TV?” Yesssss… we both laugh.
The impatient one in me is gone, swallowed by the grateful one, the one who is so happy for all the moments I get to spend with my mother, no matter how slowly we go. It truly is the journey, not the destination. The impatient one is humbled by my mother’s courage, by her willingness to get up and go, by her not being cowed by this change she is well aware has come and is coming over her, by her participation the best she can given the cards she has.
And we go slowly, step by step, because we can go no other way. Going slowly, we can savor every step, we can choose to make it happy, step by step. It is truly the journey, because on this journey, there is only one destination. And we will get there, step by step.