My Mother Keeps Saying Goodbye By Debra Rich Gettleman

A soft knock at the door of my childhood bedroom as I wrangle my clothes into a much too small carry-on bag for my early morning flight. My mom pokes her head in hesitantly. She is wearing that same violet colored velour robe I remember from 50 years ago. It can’t be the same robe, right? She keeps replacing it. Of course she does. Come back to the moment, Debra.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” my beautiful 90-year-old mother says, with a look of loss almost too painful to bear. “I just hate it when you leave. I want you to know how much I loved having you here.”

“I know, mommy,” I say. “I hate it too. But I’ll be back before you know it.” She’s not fully buying it. While I try consistently to fly halfway across the country every other month, I know it is never often enough. When time has lost its meaning and days flow into months, however long I’m gone feels like an eternity. “I’m sorry, mom,” I offer trying to smile and not steer this ship into a typhoon of sadness.

“Will you call me when you land?” She asks. “Or maybe even wake me up before you leave in the morning. Can I make you something to take on the plane?” 

“No, mom. I’m good.” I tell her.  “And I’m leaving really early so I’ll say goodnight right now. I don’t want to wake you at the crack of dawn.”

The thought of my cosmopolitan mother, who never stepped foot in a kitchen my entire childhood, asking to pack me a plane snack, amuses me greatly. It’s endearing in a way that breaks my heart because I know the woman she is now is not the same one from my past. She is softer now, more frightened, less angry.

She comes over and hugs me fiercely. “I love you so much,” she says in whisper of pain.

She turns and leaves. She glances back at me from the doorway. I smile. She steps out of the room and pulls the door closed.

I begin to sob. That ever-present question, the one I seem to ask myself when leaving any loved one these days pervades my psyche. “Will this be the last time I see her alive?” 

A soft knock at the door. “Come in,” I say gently. “I hate it when you leave,” my mom says. “I just wanted to tell you how much I loved having you here. Will you call me when you land? Or maybe even wake me up before you leave in the morning? Can I make you something to take on the plane?”

My sadness overwhelms me. I’m trying to hold back the dam of tears pushing hard behind my eyes. Is this pain punishment for parental failures? I want to shout at G-d. “I’m over the past. I forgive her. She was always doing the best she could. Stop torturing her. Please.”

She walks over and holds me tightly. “I love you so much,” she says. The repetition feels like a sharp stab to the gut.  

“I love you too, mom, so much,” I squeak out.

Again, and again, and again this scene replays like an old vinyl record caught on a cracked groove.

The worst thing about Alzheimer’s is the never-ending cycle of reliving every painful moment.

anecdōtes:

Welcome to anecdōtes, our weekly writing prompt for those of us taking care of aging loved ones while simultaneously googling "am I having a midlife crisis or is this just Tuesday?" 

dōt.age exists because we're all navigating the uncharted territory of caring for aging parents, and we need to share our stories. 

This isn't about being a writer—it's about being human and sharing the messy, unfiltered truths of eldercare. Each week, we'll drop a prompt. You write for five minutes. No polish, no pressure—just permission to be gloriously imperfect. If you want to share what you wrote, send it our way and we'll share it on our Substack so we can all feel a little less alone in this wild Mix Tape that is our lives. 

SEND TO:  LNahmie@gmail.com 

This Week’s Writing Prompt:

If memory had a texture, what would it feel like?