It is Thanksgiving Day. My infant daughter, my mom, and I stand gathered around my grandma in her wheelchair to take a photograph that winds through four generations. My mom holds my baby in her arms, while my arms rest by my grandma. The flash sparkles it’s brief and blinding light to let us know the camera sees us, it remembers us, and it will make sure we remember ourselves years later. We intertwine ourselves like this to celebrate the chains of life and family that start with my 84 year old grandma, Popo, and rests with my nearly 4-month old daughter, Hazel. Linked in between them are my mom and me; we stand at the head and tail end of middle age. Our roles overlap like links in the moebius strip of the circle of life.
Because of the holiday, Mom has sprung Popo from her assisted living facility so she can join the family for Thanksgiving Dinner. I have sprung Hazel from daycare.
Mom picks Popo up in a special taxi that can accommodate her wheelchair. She has been wheelchair bound for the last six months. Whether it was her deteriorating kidneys, her Alzheimer’s, or general decline in health from the catch all of ‘old age’ that put her in the wheel chair is any one’s guess. When she was in better health just a crisp year ago, she fought the wheelchair fiercely in the battle to deny her increasing frailty, even if it meant she’d have to rest every few steps on outings. Now though, the chair takes her everywhere she goes, whether it is to the other side of the room or outside to get some air. She no longer recognizes the battle with frailty; and it needn’t be acknowledged anymore because it has simply arrived, quietly nestled among us.
I put Hazel in her infant carseat and strap her down. When she was two months old, she fought the car seat fiercely. Whether she hated being strapped down or wedged into a seat is any one’s guess. Today at nearly four months though, the battle with the car seat is over for now. Most days, she is calm when we put her in the seat. She simply looks around, takes in the world around her and enjoys the ride to see new sights, hear new sounds. The car seat goes nearly everywhere Hazel goes, and she is fine with that.
Popo used to cook a full Thanksgiving dinner, Chinese style. Now we rely on a hodge podge pot luck of home cooked, store bought, and catered food for our revelry. The feast of our Thanksgiving meal and full trimmings surround us: soy sauce basted roasted turkey, turkey curry with lemongrass and bay leaf base, spring rolls lined with a long sprig of fresh chives that peak out like a green tail, chow mein noodles glistening in their greasy shiny glory, and slow cooked rice porridge with chicken topped with cilantro and green onions. Popo has already eaten though. She is on a liquid diet, fed directly into her stomach via a feeding tube because chewing has become a great difficulty in the last three months. She has thrived, relatively speaking, since the feeding tube has been inserted though. Since its insertion, she has put on a few more critical pounds on her once round frame and she is more alert, her cheeks a little more pink, relatively speaking. She’ll have a few spoonfuls of porridge perhaps, but it is the pureed food that trickles into her stomach that she relies on. Food is love though, and so my mom and her siblings take turns to carefully feed her small teaspoonfuls of soup and porridge, coaxing her to swallow, to drink, to partake, to thrive. Tonight, the feeding for Popo is done in our living room; most nights, the feeding is done in the assisted living facility, either in her room, the dining room, or the physical therapy room. The rooms rotate but the dialogue remains constant:
“Mom, have some soup.”
“No, I’m done. You eat.”
“No Mom, you haven’t had any yet. Please have a spoonful.”
“I already ate.”
And when Popo does manage a few spoonfuls of food, mom carefully wipes her lips and cheeks for her. A mountain of dignity granted with just a napkin.
At Thanksgiving dinner, Hazel looks around her at all the new faces and the food. She is curious about the food and stares at it as we put it in our mouths. She’ll be an eater when her time comes, my husband Geoff and I surmise. Until then, she relies on me for her milk. And through that, she has gained critical pounds, her frame is round and plump, she is alert, and her cheeks are pleasantly plump. I cradle her as she drinks, coaxing her to partake, to thrive.
As Hazel drinks, milk drops flow down her cheeks and settle into the folds of her double chin, nestling itself into the crook of her little neck. I grab a burp cloth and wipe her lips and cheeks for her. It isn’t dignity I worry about, but rather the smell of old milk on an otherwise sweet smelling baby.
Mom’s typical mornings are hurried. She wakes early, and cooks meals for the day before rushing into Popo’s assisted living facilities. She is retired but there are no leisurely cups of morning coffee for her. Even in an assisted living facility, the level of care leaves much to be desired. Mom goes in every day to basically assist with the assistance so that Popo ’s level of care befits Mom’s love and gratitude. She is the ever dutiful daughter, washing Popo ’s face for her in the morning, combing her hair to cover her bald patch on the top of her head from the rough few months before the feeding tube was placed, making sure she turns in the bed and avoids bedsores, and rallying nurses and aids to help Popo make it to the bathroom so she can avoid wetting her diaper and sitting in excrement. Mom pays attention in physical therapy sessions so that the exercises can be repeated once the physical therapy benefits run out for the year. In practice, love is dignity and comfort. Mom tries to spread that out as far as she can these days.
Mom worries that the care at the facility lacks adequate stimulation for Popo . She sees elderly residents without family parked in wheelchairs in front of the community tv room, staring blankly as Regis and Kelly banter at 10 AM, as Oprah extols the virtues of her favorite things at 3 PM. She knows that when she’s there, Popo will have a little more stimulation. Her blankets won’t be kicked off, her socks will stay on, and she will have a friendly face to look at, familial eyes to look into.
They have nonsensical conversations because the nonsensical is better than the nonexistent. Popo tells Mom she loves deserts. What kind of desserts? Oh, rice flour dumplings with sweetened mung beans and a ginger sauce. Great, you and I will have that tomorrow then, shall we? Yes, that would be wonderful.
Every night, before I go to bed, I pack my work bag, my lunch, my husband’s lunch, and my baby’s bag. Empty bottles for breast milk to be loaded go into my bag. Full bottles for breast milk to be unloaded go into Hazel’s bag. Chicken salad goes into Geoff’s bag; rice and stuff goes into my bag. Bottles get washed and diapers get packed in preparation for the busy morning ahead. But even so, my mornings are still rushed. I change and feed Hazel to ready her for daycare. I wipe the sleep from her eyes, dried drool from her cheeks; prepare her for the day ahead. I cover her bald little head with a warm knit cap for the drive, and send extra blankets, socks, bibs, sweaters, and onesies with her to daycare so she will be well provided for while I am at work.
And then I fret. I worry that she is sitting in excrement. That she isn’t being adequately stimulated by a friendly face, and being talked to so she’ll learn more. That she isn’t being loved as much as I’d like. I worry that she doesn’t have enough nonsensical conversations with oohs and ahhs and goos and gahs that beautifully don’t make sense. I worry that my love and dutiful devotion as a mother means that either I or my husband should be with our daughter, instead of daycare. I wonder if her blankets are kicked off, whether her socks have stayed on. And in the evening, when I pick her up, I look her over closely to see that she’s okay. I hug her close, smile, and wait for one in return.
On this Thanksgiving evening though, there is no assisted living, there is no daycare. Just time and roles overlapping enough that those growing into life can share an evening with those growing out of it. Both Popo and Hazel look a little dazed by the bustle of the evening, the din from all the faces and commotion that surround them. Perhaps they won’t remember this evening; Popo will forget by tomorrow and so will Hazel. But Mom and I will remember, as will the camera. And when we forget, we will remind each other.