Everything OK in there?

When a daughter is perhaps a little TOO helpful.

The disease hadn’t taken her voice yet, but it robbed my mother of her balance fairly early on. She started falling a lot and bruising easily. She often made sad, brave jokes along the lines of “Yeah, but you should see the other guy…!” She had been diagnosed with Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, a terminal brain disease. My mother was tough as nails and determined to live as much as she could with the time she had left. OK, then. The rest of us had to take our cue from her, and do our best to match her strength and grace.

Now you’d think such a grim diagnosis would at least get us off the hook for the baby shower invitation from the choir director’s granddaughter, but no dice — Mom wanted to go. She actually enjoyed these types of things, so it was off to TJMaxx to shop for a gift. I parked the car and pulled the walker out of the trunk. She linked her arm though mine, and gripped the walker with both hands as we made our way slowly through the parking lot and into the store. Suddenly my mother leaned over and whispered a panicked “I’m sorry — but I’ve got to use the bathroom… NOW!”

I knew the side effects of her medication were not to be trifled with; there was no time to lose. We picked up the pace as best we could, and hustled our way to the back of the store where the bathroom was located. As we were hotfooting it down the aisle, I suddenly realized I’d left my brand new cell phone on the dashboard of the unlocked car. (Crap!) We made it to the back of the store where the single bathroom with a grab bar and a heavy door was unoccupied. Perfect. I helped my mother inside, and told her I needed to run out to grab my phone from the car. “Stay right here; I’ll be back in a second.” She nodded as the door closed behind me. As I sprinted through the store, and out to the parking lot, it occurred to me that if I were home in NYC, that phone would be gone in two seconds flat. But no — my phone was right where I left it — I reached through the open window and snatched it off the dashboard. Bless small towns, is all I have to say.

I ran back into the store, momentarily pausing at the rack of bags on sale. I reminded myself this was no time for dithering — Mom’s on the can, waiting for me for chrissakes — and made a beeline for the bathroom. The door was still closed, so I knocked on it and called out, “OK, I’m back!” Silence. I knocked again and said, “Everything OK in there?” There was a long silence, and then finally a small voice replied, “Yeah.”

“OK, I said loudly, “just let me know if you need any help –” I stood in the hall outside the bathroom, and started browsing my email. A few minutes later, I knocked again — it certainly seemed to be taking a long time — and called, “Do you need any help? Do you want me to come in?” Again, a silence, and then the small voice hesitatingly, “No.”

“OK,” I yelled, “Just let me know — I’m right here.” I was thinking about what a tricky and sad balance it was — my mother had been the first female administrator of the hospital in our town, and also raised 5 children — she was the smartest, strongest, most capable person I knew. But here we were, and I was starting to get worried about her alone in the bathroom at TJ Maxx. It had been well over ten minutes, and while these things can take time — this was longer than usual. And her voice had sounded a little strange, come to think of it. I knocked again… silence. I knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. “ARE YOU ALRIGHT??” My heart started to pound, and I felt the panic rising. Had she fallen? Was she bleeding and unable to call for help? Should I call a manager? That’s what I’d do, I decided — I’d find a female store manager with the key to go in and rescue my Mom. I hoped to God it wasn’t too late. “OK — I’M GOING FOR HELP!” I hollered.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a complete stranger stepped out of the bathroom, clutching her purse and looking warily around. I stared at her in shock, “You’re not my mother!” I said indignantly. “No,” she said, “I’m not! JESUS CHRIST!!” I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Well… where is she?!” I demanded. “How should I know?!” she yelled, “Get the hell out of my way!” and darted frantically past me, breaking into a run.

Good Lord. I poked my head into the bathroom (just to make sure) then stepped out of the hall back into the store, frantically scanning the aisles until I spotted my mother in the baby section, calmly going through a rack of onesies. I went thundering over, “Mom!!! I told you to stay put till I got back!!!” She looked at my panicked face and said, “But Dear…I was finished. Are you okay? You look a little flushed.”

I took a few deep breaths and through gritted teeth explained to my mother the consequences of her actions. I had just terrorized some poor soul by shouting through the bathroom door for the last ten minutes — who was clearly too frightened of the screaming lunatic to step foot outside the bathroom. (Eventually it must have been abundantly clear that I was not going away, so she took her chances and made a break for it.) My mother stared at me in horror, then started to laugh. I glared at her. She kept laughing.

My mom tried to make it up to me by suggesting we go to Friendly’s for ice cream sundaes to settle my nerves. As the waitress set down our ice cream, she asked if everything was OK. My mom looked up at her, nodded, and cracked up all over again. I shot her a look and sullenly dug into my ice cream. The disease may have taken my mother’s balance, but it did not diminish her enjoyment of her daughter’s embarrassment one little bit.