Member-only story
Eunice
Letting Go of Your Mother
“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
“How are you?” I asked.
“Oh, fine, fine,” she said. Then: “Old. Old and brittle. Too old,” grimacing.
Though a screen cannot compare to personal contact, I could tell something had changed. There was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A quiet despair. Just for a moment, then it was gone.
I recognized my mother again, with her — often inappropriate — flippant way.
“Well, it comes to us all, right?” she shrugged, “What can you do?”
I nodded, unsure what to say when she added: “I want to talk to you about euthanasia.”
For a moment, I felt winded.
Outside, the wind picked up.
I like to think I listened. Nodded at the right moments. Registered the message. Took it seriously. And felt relief when she said: “Not yet.”
“You will tell me, right?” I asked, “When you feel the time has come? You know I’ll be there.”
“And sit at my bedside for two weeks watching me die?” she scoffed. “You really don’t have to.”