Humor Me, Darkness

There are two things people need in life: Jesus, and Costco.

That’s the joke I used to tell people growing up. Half my belief continues to be confirmed when I take my parents to Costco to do some shopping. I don’t know why my parents need Costco per se, they could easily buy the same stuff at any standard-issue grocery store. But I love Costco, so I don’t object.

My dad grabs a shopping cart lying in the parking lot and pushes it towards the entrance. I grab it from the front, and help pull it so he doesn’t have to push so hard.

“HEY!” my dad suddenly yells, jerking the cart and shoving it in his direction.

“The door is this way, Dad,” pointing to the entrance. He seems to be aiming for the exit.

“I want to go sit down!”

Oh. Now I get it. He got the cart to act as a walker. Not as, a shopping cart.

I sigh, let go and grab another shopping cart and join my mom. We pick up a random assortment of groceries: salmon, broccoli, some bananas. I love the way my mom says “banana” and I can’t help but chuckle every time she does it. It reminds me of those minions in the Despicable Me movies. I hope she doesn’t think I’m laughing at her.

We walk past the alcohol aisle, which is a glorious hundred feet of wine and spirits, and I can’t help but ask if I can get something since it’s both cheaper, and you get a bigger bottle.

I dash away, and return with a bottle of whiskey and await my mom’s reaction. She seems totally fine with this, and we move on. This time I’m laughing on the inside. I have never asked her to buy me alcohol because I was never into it. Years later, life has changed. I’m in my early thirties, I’m living with my parents, and my mom is buying me whiskey.

Dark humor, is what keeps me going. And I have never needed it so much as I do now.

I am at home on a mission, which is something I have to remind myself of regularly. This isn’t an endless “I’m here to help out however long” kind of deal. There are some goals, one of which is to get my parents’ lives in order; make sure they’re ready for their “twilight years,” in case things go wrong.

A friend wisely told me to research a few things, like becoming a power of attorney, in case my parents can’t make their own decisions anymore. So I add it to a list of things to familiarize myself on, including all of their health records, financial assets, and of course, their will.

My mom always reminds me where her will is, because she forgets that she’s already told me many times. I decide I should actually read it. It covers both my parents, even though I know my mom initiated and basically did all of it. She’s strangely planned everything really well, or so I think. It’s a little hard reading through all the legal jargon.

There’s even details about their gravesite, which have all been paid for. I’m sure I will one day count that as a blessing.

I remember once when our whole family was at the cemetery years ago. My mom was finalizing some tombstone details, and she wanted the opinion of her two kids.

“What do you think?” she asked us. “Should I choose the one with the flowers or the angels?”

I didn’t know what to say. I really had no opinion on what my parents’ tombstones looked like, and was honestly a little weirded out by the whole thing.

My brother stepped in. “They both look nice. Which one do you like?”

“I like the angels,” she said.

Great, we’re done, I thought. Let’s go home.

“But maybe having angels is idol worship though,” my mom objected to her own opinion.

I wanted to yell at her. It’s just a engraving on a tombstone. Who cares. It’s not even actually idol—

My brother jumped in before I could actually say any of this. It’s a moment etched deep into my memory, since it’s a reminder that my brother really is the wisest person I know.

“That’s fine,” he said calmly, not skipping a beat. “No angels then.”

He flashed a grin at me. I knew he was right. My brother, is always right. Why argue? Why be right? It doesn’t matter, so just roll with it and be done.

It’s a lesson that comes in handy when I take my mom to see a neurologist in San Francisco. My cousin joins us. I’m grateful, because she’s been periodically helping to take my mom to various health appointments. My dad also tags along for the ride. I don’t share the same gratitude for that.

Babies can honestly be real ugly. They can’t control their bodies, are obnoxiously loud, and have to be watched nonstop. But they’re babies; they’re cute and so they get a pass. Bastards.

We also know they just don’t know any better.

But if babies cause you any measurable grief, the elderly, who are basically giant babies who unfortunately can use words, will drive you insane.

This morning, my dad is a machine that yells in all directions, bangs against the car window when I don’t park in the parking spot he wants (even though the one I choose is closer to the elevators), and spits all over the ground. As we carefully navigate the hospital maze, I'm constantly cussing under my breath because my dad has to be grumpy about every single fucking thing under the sun. Even shit that doesn’t exist.

“I need to go to the restroom!” he seethes.

I point down the hall. “There’s one right here…”

His body agrees to change direction. I’m still holding his arm, recalling the shopping cart at Costco. But he seems to hate that too. He shakes my arm off, almost like he’s trying to hit me.

“Hey-unh!” is some sound he makes. Kind of like a cross between a Chinese version of a growl and a cliche cowboy “yee-haw” but for when you’re angry. “I’m trying to go there! Why are you pulling me!?”

It clicks. He’s interpreting my “support” as me trying to force him to go in a certain direction. Even though, it’s the direction he wants to go in. I grit my teeth and immediately decide between letting go or continuing to hold on to him. I pick the latter.

“I’m just trying to give you support. Can you make it on your own?”

“Yes!”

And with that I switch, and let go.

I inhale as deep a breath I can while he’s in the bathroom, and imagine this is what parenting is like. You learn to enjoy those few seconds when your kids are in the bathroom because every second is so precious and feels so good and you hope they have to take a dump so that this will last longer.

We eventually make it up to the neurology area. I ask the receptionist if they can add my name so I can help schedule appointments, look up office records, and otherwise be in charge. They hand me a form and suddenly I now have access to everything they know about my mom.

My cousin and I go over my mom’s medications before seeing the neurologist, because he’ll probably ask what she’s taking. The list is long, several pages long, single-spaced, one line for every time my mom has gotten or refilled a prescription. I’m momentarily depressed, but I snap back.

“Tell me what’s going on,” the neurologist says.

He decides to run a number of tests to see what is the cause of my mom’s constant trembling. He asks her to take a few steps in a straight line, to bounce a finger on her knee, to follow his finger with her eyes but not her head. I test myself, just for fun. I wonder if I’ll have the same struggles in a few years. My hands already suffer a milder version of her state.

It’s a little hard, watching my mom like this. She passes some tests. But others, she fails. And fails spectacularly.

He tells her three words, and asks her to recite them back to him: bus, rose, television.

“Bus…” she says. I wait, and watch her eyes look at the floor. Nothing.

“Bus, and…”

She mumbles to herself, and then looks up. “I don’t remember.”

Something in my chest cracks, and then whatever’s there collapses. Emotion floods into my body, and I realize I’m watching my mom descend in front of my eyes in a way I’ve never consciously felt.

I’ve seen her forget things. She’s called me multiple times to ask the same thing. She’s literally asked me the same question two times in a row.

But somehow, watching her fail a medical test, performed by an expert in the field, is different altogether.

The emotions bring memories. Memories of how she used to walk, run, do all things she wanted to do.

I remember who she used to be.

And I have to remember that this, this woman in front of me, it’s still her.

There are endless philosophical concepts of what makes you “you.” One of the most popular thought exercises being: Take a wooden boat. Now replace one piece of wood. It’s still the same boat, right? Now replace another piece. And another piece. Until you’ve replaced all the pieces so that not a single original piece is there. Is it still the same boat?

I think, the answer is “yes.” In the same way that your body is never actually the same set of cells. Or that a river is never the same shape or even made up of the same water.

And so I think I land on the idea that what makes you “you,” is really more the progression, the continuity from who you were, who you are, and who you might become. That’s you.

For my mom, that has to include this. That even as she descends into chaos, she’s still my mom. And if I truly love her, I have to accept all of who she is. Even whoever she becomes, she’s still my mom.

She always will be.

At some point, I type all of the medical information into a Google Doc to share with my brother and cousin. I add all her previous medication, and the new one the neurologist prescribed. He wants to rule out Parkinson’s, once and for all.

I also keep a calendar of her appointments, and see she has a dentist appointment coming up. I ask her if I can come along. She refuses me.

I play my usual hand. I want to go. It’s more convenient for me to go. It’d be nice for someone else to be there for all her health appointments.

But this time, she doesn’t bite. Maybe she sees through my redirection. Or to be honest, my lies.

I keep trying, but suddenly I notice my blood is getting hot and frustration is flooding my mind. I’m now annoyed that I’m not being successful at taking her, that I’m not getting through, and it’s starting to feel like maybe she doesn’t appreciate my help, or maybe even want it.

“Fine. Whatever you want,” I say, finally giving up Cantonese and switching back to English. I get up and leave the room. I'm immediately regretful, and I have to suffer my mistake. Something in me hurts, and it pulls at the other emotional scars of my childhood. And there are many.

Since moving back in, I’ve long felt emotions stirring under the surface. I want to cry, but I never do. Today though, a tear gets shed. A few of them. I’ve finally been broken.

I head to the gym. It’s one of the few Seattle routines that I can still do without skipping a step. I also feel myself wanting a drink, and order of operations says to go to the gym first.

My workout isn’t as productive. My focus isn’t quite there. But I do it anyway. You don’t only eat when you want to; exercise, in all its forms, works the same way. It’s also one of the few times I have fully to myself, and I’m not going to let go of it.

My mom finds me the moment I return home.

“Can you help me with something?”

“Sure,” I mumble.

“Can you help cut my nails?”

She’s never asked this before, but this whole time of my life is all new, so why not. Her hands tremble as I hold them, the skin wrinkled and weirdly a little like plastic. I’m afraid of cutting into her fingers and that she’ll yelp as soon as I pinch my fingers together. But she doesn’t.

“How do you normally do this?” I’ve switched back to Cantonese. The gym may not have released all my anger, but if nothing else, I’m calmer now.

“Dad usually helps me.”

I wonder about that.

“Thank you,” she says as I clip her second pinky.

“Mm,” is the sound I make to acknowledge her, wrap up her clipped nails into a kleenex and toss it into the trash.

I haven’t finished my gym routine yet, so I head for the refrigerator looking for my yogurt. I bought some the other day. The local Safeway doesn’t have the same brand I usually go for in Seattle, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I pick up the carton and notice that it’s real light. Someone has been eating it. I pull it out and show it to my mom.

“Have you been eating this?” I shake the yogurt in my hand.

“Yes,” she admits, and I think I catch a slight sheepish smile. “It’s very delicious. You should buy more.”

My mom is stealing my yogurt. I muster a laugh.

It’s the only thing that stops me from crying.

That and a shot of whiskey.