Two old ladies

In which my mom is getting up there, and so too am I

My mother Eve is a pretty together 88 year-old. She takes her dog for at least two vigorous walks a day, and has a weekly poker game and a monthly reading group. She takes good care of herself, she still drives (though we wish she wouldn’t) still travels, and has a more vigorous social life than I do. By a lot.

But because she is indeed 88, and also can’t hear too well even with the help of her high-powered hearing aids (and also because it’s hard for anyone to retain everything the doctor says), one of us will always accompany her to medical appointments now. Eve likes to get the earliest time slot of the day possible, so sometimes I awake at dawn in order to get to the Upper East Side—home not only to Eve, but also to probably 85% of all of the doctors in Manhattan—in order to accompany her.

I was driving up the FDR to go meet Eve on a recent morning, for just such an appointment. I was thinking about a pendant I knew she’d be wearing. Eve used to collect antique jewelry, and while she has winnowed down her once-large collection over the years, there is a chunky ivory fist grasping a snake that I know she’ll never part with. She wears it whenever something has her scared, and she feels like she needs strength.

Eve was having a symptom that spooked her, and this was the purpose of the doctor’s visit. We had agreed to meet in the lobby of the vast, new, and modern medical building on York Avenue where her doctor’s office is. I got there first, as I always do, and sure enough, when she came in she was wearing the pendant. Once we got through security and into an elevator, I asked her:

“Do you want to take that with you after you die?”

“Such an interesting question,” she replied without missing a beat. “Why do you ask?

“I just wondered if you’d want it wherever you’re going.”