The Train from Phoenix

My mother, 92, is the oldest of 5. Leo Cutler, the next in line and the oldest son of Israel and Libby Mishkovsky, died last week at the age of 91. I flew with my mom to Leo's funeral in California. She did very well on the trip, and her sisters and remaining brother and their spouses were surprised at how alert and engaged she was. They last saw her a year ago, at a family reunion, and she was a bit overwhelmed by the crowds and noise, which makes her withdraw.  At the funeral-related functions, there were individuals to talk to, and Mom stayed in the moment and talked to anybody who would start a conversation with her.

On the way home, we changed planes in Phoenix. It was getting late, at least on Eastern time, and Mom was more and more disoriented, but cooperative, as always.  She looked out the bank of airplane windows as the rest of the passengers were boarding, and talked to me about the excitement of riding the train from her home in Indiana to Chicago when she was a girl.

Our plane spent a long time taxiing into position for take-off, and I closed my eyes. I had been "Mom" on this trip, handling the reservations of airplanes, hotel, and car rental for me, mom and my sister, figuring out navigation and meals, and doing all the driving. I was tired.

An anxious voice from the next seat woke me. "What if you sleep through our stop?" asked Mom. "What if we don't get off at the right place?"  I looked out the window. We were still taxiing, and I had to admit, it did look like the view from a train window. "There's only one stop," I said. "And everybody will have to get off, so you don't need to worry about that."

Of course, she did worry about that, and about the metal basket from her walker, which we were carrying. She asked me about 50 times what it was and whether we needed to take it with us when we left. She should have worried about USAirways losing the rest of her walker, which they did. She should have worried about me shaking the baggage agent into unconsciousness, which I wanted to.

"I didn't forget like this when I was younger," said Mom, about two hours into our flight. "I guess I'm getting old." She smiled, and I smiled back. "You're doing really well, actually," I said. I'm not sure she heard me.

"I'm 92," she continued. "I guess I am old."

She was still smiling, and so was I.