Drama, drama drama… This has been  the sub-text of my life recently.  I am here to tell you, a quiet and solitary life is vastly under-rated. Really, it is.

As the mother of a teen, I don’t want to compromise his privacy, but let me say,  I have become very concerned about my son. My husband and I are trying hard to stay rational, but this is easier in concept than practice.  As a parent, it can become difficult to separate the issues… how much is strong-will and teen- dramatics? How much is hidden control issues? What is emotional? What is mental? Where do I draw lines, do I draw lines, and  if I don’t draw lines, do I risk being held hostage in my own home, in my own life? How much of this issue is, shall I say, geographic?  Small Bible-thumping towns have their own rules, beyond those posted in the county by- laws and ordinances…I am pretty sure, there is a written rule that says , “No heretics or freaks allowed here.” If I lived in New York City, or even Charlotte, for heaven’s sake, would that make a difference?

 
Between  Teen  Drama #1 and Drama #2 today, I go to the nursing home to see my 83 year old mom. She suffers from Alzheimers Disease , which has become rapidly worse the past six months, and made more complicated by extenuating medical conditions.  A more recent problem is that her heart is not working very well, and she is retaining a lot of fluid around her heart and extremities. I go into her room, where she is sitting in her wheelchair, in the sideways slumped position that has become her posture. She doesn’t know my name, anymore, and can barely speak, but there is enough of a subtle shift in the slump to know that she knows I am someone important. I see the slightest  glimmer in her eyes.
 
I try to be bright. “Hey!” I say, “How are you today?“ I cannot quite discern the response. So, I give her a hug. Hugs are the universal language. Uh-oh… I feel the beginning of a tear in the corner of my eye. I sit down on the bed beside her, take her swollen hand in mine, and prepare for this difficult part of the visit… Conversation. 
 
“Oh,” I say, inspecting the puffy extremity at the end of her arm, and giving it a little massage. “Your hand looks really swollen today. Does it hurt?” She mumbles incoherently. I explain that I don’t have long, that my husband had gone out briefly  with my son, and that I would need to get home very soon. The tear is still hanging around, but has spread to a thin, watery film in both eyes.
 
I blurt it out… “Mom, ” I say. “I am so worried about Bren.” This time, I am able to make out the words from her nearly paralyzed lips.  “Hon-ey-wha-atz-wro-ong?”, she asks slowly and evenly. Her right hand, more like a stiff snow mitten than a silken  glove, raises slowly and instinctively towards my face. It is a great effort. The tears begin to fall…
 
What was said here was not important… It’s the universal story of mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, husbands and wives, youth and old age.  My husband is in the kitchen now, cooking dinner so I can write. My son, angry, is upstairs feeling like a  hostage in his own home. I am not sure what to do about the ransom.
 
The lines are blurred and fuzzy…trying to figure out, when to hang on tightly, and when to let go.