Resurrection by inches

It’s been seven years since the washcloth incident, but my regret is still fresh. My mother moved in with us—my husband, son, and me—when her Parkin­son’s disease had made it impossible for her to live alone. We wanted her to stay with us as long as possible, so we managed to juggle our schedules with the needs of an aging parent, and when her health went downhill we were able to pay for help, thanks to the sale of her house. My mother knew who we were until her final night, and there was some comfort in that thought. But I, on the other hand, have not found comfort. I can’t forget that washcloth.

It was several months before her death, and the day had not begun well. I made the mistake of checking my e-mail before praying and thus began the morning with an angry message from someone who had been excluded from a church e-mail. Instead of drinking coffee, I was cleaning up spilled urine that would not have spilled if I had emptied the commode the previous night instead of letting it wait until the morning when liquid sloshed over the top. Finally I went to take a shower up on the third floor where our bedroom is.

At last I was refreshed and ready to start the day again. I was clean, the floor was clean, and the e-mail was sort of cleaned. But my mother was not. She asked me for a washcloth, which was back up on the third floor. Some people have to struggle to get an elderly parent to wash. Mine was reasonably asking for a washcloth. But she might as well have been telling me to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. I couldn’t do it. I was already late, and the fact that this additional task was expected of me made me suddenly furious. I knew that my fury was misplaced, but I was helpless before it. If I were anyone else, I would offer absolution. But it’s been seven years, and I cannot access the word of peace. The tears still sting and slosh over my pail of remorse.