Daughterly Duties

So I'm running all over Asheville for my poor bedridden Mama, who has recovered sufficiently to make detailed lists and acerbic comments about how pleasantly surprised she has been to discover that I am in fact relatively organized and reliable. Oh joy. She's in the skilled nursing wing at Deerfield - she left the hospital yesterday. The skilled nursing section of Deerfield is a little freaky. I have never been to what is popularly referred to as an "old folks' home" before, and it's wigging me out a little. There are old people sitting in wheelchairs, staring into space; there are old people with walkers, brows furrowed in concentration, moving gently down the hallway; there are old people wandering randomly about. There are harried looking minimum wage workers and a couple of actual nurses or nurse simulacrums. There is a lot of weird equipment in the halls and beeping noises which never stop. The air smells a bit - I do not wish to analyze the fragrance. There is a lady dressed all in purple who wandered into my mom's room and stood there looking out the window and waxing effusive about the view, which showcases a storage shed, some scrubby edge woods and a few weeds. At least she was cheerful.

Of course, when I get old, I will never be able to afford anything like Deerfield. Yesterday I had my usual revelation: this scary place is what happens to the very fortunate old in our society. So, as usual, when I left Deerfield I lit up a cigarette and thought, Keep smoking, girl, keep smoking. Don't live too long and end up in the low rent version of here. I don't even want to think about what happens to feckless Americans like me who outlive their welcome, although I know what I want: would a perpetual nightclub blasting the Dead Milkmen be too much to ask, you think? Maybe with large abstract collage paintings covered with broken glass and the occasional poetry slam? Draft PBR, blacklights in the bathroom and a nice thick haze of smoke, just to make me feel at home. Probably this will not be provided, and my kids will attempt to dump me into whatever hell cursed trailer park old folks' home they can find. I will have to return to my original retirement plan of a shopping cart full of cats, a healthy heroin habit and the dumpster behind Krispy Kreme, where I will eat well, I know, since M managed to liberate about 300 doughnuts there on Saturday.