Aging: D:

I spoke in this entry about how my mother told me she has a terminal illness. She told me she had anywhere from six months to five years left, anything beyond that being a bonus. Since hearing this information, I've started to look her condition differently, making more inferences than I ever have previously.

This has become evident in my observations of, the kidney infection, maxillary sinusitis and bronchitis she's had to deal with over the past week. She was bedridden for two days, unable to even keep food down on Monday. That was kinda spooky, but I think it was just a coincidence that she happened to get dreadfully sick just after I'd been told about her illness (this isn't the first kidney infection I've seen her have, not even this year). Hearing someone cough, splutter, and nearly throw up is horrible on its own; hearing it every five-to-ten minutes is disturbing as all hell. And this is just how I feel listening to it—the person who's actually sick has shit to deal with to which I cannot relate. At first, thinking this was the result of the illness I'd been told about, I feared us both having to live like this every day from then on; but she's better now, able to walk around and eat just fine, so it was just a phase. Thing is, I'm sure it's just the first of many phases, and there will be further episodes whose ramifications will worsen as time goes on.

One of the things I noticed with my mum's sickness is that she seemed to have become a lot older a lot faster—she was acting more like an old woman than like the mother I knew. She is fifty-nine, but she kept reminding me of my (dead) grandmother more than anyone else while she was bedridden. The walk she talked, the way she moved around—it was all weak and congested. She's talking more normally now, so, again, it was just temporary, but it was eerie to make the comparisons I was making there.

I've also noticed my own attitude to her changing. In some ways, I'm a rather ungrateful son—while I don't run around breaking things and causing havoc, I don't do chores as soon as I should (and I don't have many chores to do as it is). When she was sick, though, she asked for something, I had to drop everything and attend to her. I'm not gonna lie: it pissed me off, because I hate (and I mean hate :P) being interrupted even once, let alone multiple times in succession. But can I be mad at her? No, of course not. I can't complain when I've lived off her proverbial tit for nineteen years—getting a few towels and walking to the chemist to get some antibiotics isn't much to ask for :P

Speaking of walking to the chemist, I actually saw a van marked 'Patient Transport' heading in the same direction I was when I started to walk back to my house with the antibiotics. I was like "...oh, come on..." as I saw it turn down the same street I'd soon be walking down, fearing I'd left it too late to make the trip, my mother having had to call the hospital in my absence. Thankfully, the van stopped at a nearby tennis court where some old people were having a few games, so it was just another unfortunate coincidence. But am I gonna feel that way every time I see an ambulance now? Am I gonna worry about my mum when I'm not home, fearing she won't be there when I get back, or that I'll get a phone call telling me she's in casualty and won't be home for a few days? Only time will tell.

As weird as it sounds, part of me also thinks I should feel more worried about this whole thing. I'm not about to wish for grievance when there's nothing to grieve, but, in all seriousness, I'm not that concerned. Her health was never in peak condition; it's not surprising that a woman of my mother's history would have these health issues. But shouldn't I feel bad? Shouldn't I be concerned as to how I'm going to live when she's gone, how I'll make ends meet, how I'll cope with things? Because I seriously don't give that much of a fuck right now. I don't know whether it's because I'm an apathetic douchebag, or because there's nothing to actually worry about, but the fact of the matter is I could feel far more vulnerable than I do currently, even than I did earlier this week when she was really suffering. Am I an asshole for not being concerned? It's not like if my mum dropped dead in five minutes time, I'd be like "oh well" and go back to writing this entry, but I have no trouble sleeping, no concerns with her leaving the house to go somewhere without me—nothing of the sort. I dunno.

I guess I'll just see how things pan out.