By Danielle Speakman
Yesterday my husband, my mom and I hiked up a mountain in the Rockies. It was only an eight-mile hike, but it was a moderate-to-difficult incline and a steady climb up, so by the time we made it to the top, we had an incredible view of the valley below, of the mountains and the snow-capped peaks. When we got to the top, we found rocks in the sun and we spread ourselves out over their warmth, shedding layers in the heat.
My mom, who is 67 now, weighs only 108 pounds. She eats small portions of salads and sips water from miniature half-sized water bottles. She is a beautiful tiny bird, her shoulder blades sharp like the lumps of growing chick wings. When you hug her, you can feel the pipe of her spine, bendable and brittle. The only thing soft about her touch is the love I feel behind it, and her hair, which she is wearing longer these days, which wisps at her neck like the down of a baby duck, which glows in the sunlight like dandelion fluff.
She looks older this visit. She confesses she is worried about her deteriorating brain and her lapsing memory. She spends every morning doing exercises on a minitrampoline to keep up her circulation and mobility, but I can see that she is more fragile now. For example, when she walks, her left knee swings more like a pendulum, which depends on gravity rather than muscle for its movement. Different parts of her move with more stiffness, like a puppet whose joints stick for a moment before springing into action.
I have hiked this mountain many times with my mother, but this time could be our last time. I suppose we never know when the last time happens until it doesn’t anymore.
As my mother grows older, I am making plans with my husband. We want to try to buy a house so we are trying to figure out what to do for a down payment. We are cutting down, trying to make our money go further. And we might have a child, even though I am very unsure about that since I feel complete with life as it is. I wonder what the compass is for making such a decision.
I feel like the squirrel I startled the other day while out on my run. It had been busily scurrying and planning for winter, rushing to stockpile supplies for the upcoming cold. Hearing me approach, it skittered away, an acorn in its mouth, looking pleased with itself. I wondered how it would fare once the snow fell, whether that acorn would be eaten, and whether there would be enough supply to last the freeze. I remember the squirrels outside my window at home in Boston spent the whole autumn preparing their winter hideaway— tucked in a hole in a tree— only to lose that tree when a large branch snapped unexpectedly from its trunk, crushing a car below. Our busyness and preparations can seem futile sometimes, and even if we do everything we know to do, it can all come apart.
It is strange preparing to build and settle a home when my mother stands at the other end of life. She talks of the possibility of one day moving closer to us, so that we can take care of her when she needs it. We discuss the lineage of Alzheimer’s in our family and the holes she feels growing in her mind, how she struggles to remember faces, how dementia sits like a seed in her head, germinating. She sees a doctor for the gaps in her brain, and with the doctor’s help, she is effectively staving off deterioration with a low-carb diet and brain exercises such as word puzzles and math riddles. As I watch her become lighter, ridding herself of excess possessions and body weight and even unwillingly shedding some of her memories, I fear she is fading away from me now. Or maybe it’s that she is appearing somewhere else, fading from here and reappearing, growing brighter from another vantage point, another doorway.
When we walk down the mountain, my mother sings and dances, playful in her hot pink sun visor and her matching pink backpack. Her body is shrinking, but her spirit is not. As I watch her, I am overcome by a rush of affection for her—for her vibrancy, her joyful spirit and her kindness. She is still so very much here, and I memorize the sound of her laughter, trying to bury this moment with her in a permanent cache inside me.
My husband asks us all to guess what time we’ll make it down the mountain. We make a bet on the minute we’ll reach the car. 3:32, I say. 3:39, he says. 3:51, says my mother. Have I gauged the earlier 3:32 time based on her younger speed and capacity, the speed at which we would usually rush down the mountain as it became colder ?
We skip down at a quick clip, our shoes turning dusty with red dirt. We are going so quickly that I think I may win the bet. The temperature is dropping, as there is no longer sun to warm us and we pass into the mountain’s shadow.
And then, there, in front of us, as we round a bend, we come upon four deer. They raise their heads from their grazing, blink at us, flick their ears back, but they don’t bother to leave. We stop to watch them, the red rocks steep and layered behind them, the grass turning pink from sunset. We are losing time, and I realize I will no longer win the bet.
I remember then how, a few days ago, my mother had asked me, “Danielle, when is a moment in your life when you felt time stand still?”
I hadn’t been able to recall a moment when she asked me, but here, I realize, here, now, here is one of those moments. Here, the deer grazing, unafraid, dipping their heads up and down with their mouthfuls of weeds, jaws churning. Here we are, three humans, one of us in her own sunset, the other two of us standing in a different season of life, making choices, carving out a path. But we are not thinking of that. We are not thinking at all. We are just animals looking at animals, standing outside beneath the rising moon.
Have you ever smelled the coming dark? The way the plants breathe out a musty sigh, a thick whispered greeting to the gathering quiet? The way the dirt is overtaken by shadow and it holds its moisture close, making fragrant its cold stone?
I take my husband’s hand in mine.
Suddenly, a mountain biker comes flying down the path, a plume of dirt cloud in his wake.
“Mom!” I warn, “Biker!”
She yelps and jumps out of the way, to the side of the path, near a shallow grove of gray spidery bushes. When she does, we are surprised when a fifth deer leaps out from that same grove, startling her with its appearance, like a lost spirit, like the one left behind, like the explorer who has wandered too far off on his own, like the one who is anxious to return to the tribe. He looks back at us, we catch eyes, and then he is off to find his other four.
Time ceases to stand still and instead it goes on. We head back down to the car. We make it back in time for our 3:51 arrival. We crown my mother the winner of our bet, embracing her in a big hug. Then we pile into our car for shelter and warmth, and drive off into the dark.