What She Fears More Than Death
2017; Wiley; Volume: 65; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1111/jgs.14721
ISSN1532-5415
Autores Tópico(s)Palliative Care and End-of-Life Issues
ResumoI first notice the opposing positions of their chairs, and next how, despite her lumbar degenerative disc disease, the woman, nearing ninety, sits sword-spined in her seat and folds her rheumatoid-ravaged hands neatly on her lap. Her daughter greets us with a smile shaped by tight lips. I follow after the family's primary care physician into the clean, white room. We fill the last two empty chairs. I'm glad we can have this family meeting, the physician says. Yeah, me too, mom's crazy, she thinks she can still drive at her age! The daughter laughs. I shift my feet as if I can avoid the places where small, tangible packets of laughter accumulate on the floor. Says she needs her car to take out the trash. The garbage collection place in her condo is an uphill walk across a parking lot, and even with her walker she can't make that walk, so she needs her car to drive there. I'd come get her trash, but no! She wants her car to drive it. A lady on a walker, driving—that's crazy, completely crazy! Make her give up the keys, the daughter demands. I look over at this old woman who does not have much, but she has two squared shoulders. I wonder what her eyes have seen and what her back has carried. I've never had a car accident, the old woman says, and I don't drive anywhere except to the trash and back. Not true! That one time, you turned onto the road and got lost, remember? That was one time. The daughter's laugh is a heavy sound. I am glad I wore closed-toe shoes. You're not safe to drive, the daughter says. The physician clears her throat. May I ask a few questions? Sure, the daughter answers, go ahead. The physician lays her fingers on the mother's old, wrinkled hand. May I? Yes, the old woman says. We conduct a mini-mental state examination and she scores a perfect thirty–I am a medical student, and I often do not even know the date. The physician asks: Why are the keys important to you? I need my car to take out my trash. Your daughter says she'd take out the trash. It's my trash; I'll take it out. Why is that important to you? I want a clean house. I mean, taking out your own trash, why is that important? The old woman says nothing. Her back is straighter than the legs of the walker at her side. She looks quietly at the daughter. She's just being difficult, the daughter helpfully explains. For a moment, the physician is also quiet. May I speak to your mother alone? Sure, I'll wait out in the hall. We sit together, three women of three generations; but really, we are just three women. Her hands are stiff and her feet will not climb uphill, but inside she is not much different from the girl she was at age sixteen. I'll talk to your daughter. There's no reason we have to take your keys, but I wanted to talk to you about some things. Do you feel safe at home? Yes, but my kids don't respect me—they wanted to take my car. Why is the car so important to you? The old woman stays quiet. It's okay; we don't have to talk about it. I'll be right back, okay? I'll go talk to your daughter. The door shuts softly, leaving the old woman and I alone. She looks at me. Her eyes are amber, ringed by wrinkles. Perhaps she expects me to fill the silence with more questions, but I fill the silence with more silence. I fill the silence with my chair scraping across the floor until we sit side by side. I fill the silence with my hand resting on her forearm. And she fills the silence with water in her eyes. With a river on her face, pooling on the ground, swallowing our ankles, rising to our knees. I feel the water inside my lungs. I feel it flooding all the empty places between my ribs, the spaces left behind wherever life has taken something from me. I don't want to lose it, she says. Knowing it is not the car she is most afraid of losing, I know, I tell her. It's because her eyes do not belong to a woman with moonlight hair and canyon-deep wrinkles. They belong to a newly licensed driver. They belong to the girl finally driving on her own, the girl on a road trip with the radio playing her favorite station, the girl laughing with her friends by the sea in the summer wind. They belong to the girl sleeping on that seashore; the girl beneath a moon, dangling from a chain of stars; the girl with sand like stardust in her hands; the girl with a bright future of kindness and kisses and warm cups of coffee and new books, new friends, new cities, sunrises, sunsets, and every moment in between. Because while sitting behind the driver's wheel, even if only to drive across the parking lot—she is sixteen again, and she is free. Conflict of Interest: The author has no financial or personal conflicts of interest regarding the cover letter or this manuscript. Author Contributions: Michelle Izmaylov is responsible for the conceptual design, drafting, and all critical revision of this manuscript. No additional authors contributed to this work. Sponsor's Role: None
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