I’ve been very cerebral since September started. While Fall is my favorite season, it also brings with it the promise of change, and, in a way, of death. I was unaware of how profound that feeling would be this year.

As I start my planning for this year’s “on-demand” (from the matriarch) Rosh Hashanah dinner, I decided that I was so grateful for my chosen family that I wanted to show my appreciation in a tangible way. So, I created a little gift bag for everyone in attendance to take home with them. In that bag, I placed, among other things, some symbols of the Jewish New Year – namely honey and apples. Additionally, I created little papers that explained the symbolism behind these objects. I personalized thank you cards for each guest.

I felt inspired to do this after spending a previous evening with a dear old friend from elementary school. My realization that the people we choose to surround ourselves with on a regular basis are whose who have, somehow, taken up residence in our hearts. People by their own choosing, who share a piece of us within their hearts. And, I thought it was high time I started to express that gratefulness to these people. Little did I know how that would be the prelude to a lot more.

On Monday morning, I woke up early to begin the prep for dinner. I left a message on my mother’s voicemail around 10:30am to remind her that I would pick her up around 4pm. When she hadn’t called by 1:00pm to confirm, I called back and left another message.

And another at 3:00pm.

Fearing the worst (well, we rarely fear the best), I left my house at 3:30pm with her house keys in hand. I spent the 15-minute drive to her house talking myself through the procedure. If I should find her lying on the floor: 911 first, then Chris, after the paramedics arrive. Make sure the side door is open, and that they have a “clear” path to where she is lying. Try not to focus on the state of the house. Focus on her.

Then I thought: but, what if I get there and her car isn’t in the driveway? What if she got into an accident somewhere, and I can’t find her? More lists: tell Chris to host the party, don’t let on how panicked you are, keep your cool. It then occurred to me that I don’t even know my mother’s license place number, or the make and model of her car (I know it’s a grey four door sedan. Go me!). I also don’t know the name of her doctor, or what medications she is on.

It was with some (temporary) relief that I found her car was parked in her driveway. I called her again while sitting in her driveway, and again the call went to voicemail. However, I could see movement on the other side of the curtains in her living room, so I knew she was at least mobile. I walked up to the side door (her front door hasn’t worked for years, and she’s made no attempt to fix it, or call anyone to fix it – but neither have I) and as the ire raises in my mind, she opened the door and looked at me, her right eye full of broken blood vessels. Not just bloodshot, but the kind of gore you expect to see in horror films.

I ask her, “what happened?!” and she replied, “WHAT?”. So, I point to her eye and she tells me that she has been having problems with her hearing (since July 4th, I later learn) and she decided to blow her nose as hard as she could. Her grotesque right eye was the result of that attempt. I actually believe her, because I did something similar myself (albeit not to that extreme, and not due to hearing issues).

I then shout, “I’ve tried calling you four times!” to which she replied, “WHAT?!”. So, I make a gesture of a phone with my hand and hold up four fingers with my other hand.

“I think my phone is on silent, can you check?” and thrusts her phone at me. With her phone in one hand, I dial the number with my phone in the other, and the earth shattering ringing from her phone makes me step back. I hold the blaringly loud ringing cell phone up to her ear, and she shrugs and shakes her head.

The rest of the evening was a dysfunctional combination of charades and pad and pen communication between myself, my guests and my mother. One of these “literary exchanges” was when I asked her if she wanted me to go to the doctor with her the next day. She looked at me in disgust and said, “I can drive myself”. So, I wrote a list for her, as follows:

1. Call me every day to tell me how you are doing, until this issue is addressed. It doesn’t matter if you can hear me, I need to hear you.
2. Call me tomorrow when you get back from the doctor with his findings.
3. If you need me to come with you, ask me!
4. Here are the dates I was planning to be in Maine…

The evening for me was one long anxiety attack.

I wanted to run away.

I wanted to fix everything.

I wanted to cry.

The ride home with her was in complete silence. That has never happened. To say it was eerie would have been an understatement. The ride back alone to my house was even stranger. I wanted to cry, but at the same time I was utterly numb.

I suspect this isn’t going to be a “L’Shana Tovah” for either of us.

Stay tuned for part 2, coming out shortly.