Mary Frances Takes a Shower

     If you haven't met my 87 year old mom, let me tell you about her. She is gently rounded, slightly stooped and moves carefully. She has an apple doll face topped by snow white curls. She has a charming smile, a quick wit and a passion for the News and Observer, mystery novels, chocolate, and the Methodist Church. She could talk to the President or to a murderer on death row and find good things to say about each. She disdains  wearing slacks as real women only wear skirts and dresses. She lives with me most of the time now as forgetfulness and limited mobility slow her down a bit, but she is a vibrant, alive and a joy.

Except. Tonight. Mama needed a shower.

I feel sure if researchers tackling the human genome took a gander at her curly stands of DNA they would be surprised. Somewhere within the double helix that makes Mama Mama, they would find  a section that is decidedly mule.

I time my invitation perfectly. Fifteen minutes before Antique Roadshow I say casually "Mom, let me help you get a bath before Antiques Roadshow comes on. We'll be done in no time".

Why, she asks.
I don't need a bath, she says.
I bathe off everyday.
I'm not dirty.
He-haw.

Yes, Mama, I say.
Sister will give me a fit if you go to Seaboard to stay with her and you haven't had a bath.
It's quick, I say.
No problem, I say.

How about tomorrow, she says.
Tomorrow is plenty of time, she says.
He-haw she says.

No, Mama, You must Mama. I'll help you Mama. It will be fast. Mama.

Okay, she grumbles. He-haw.

We gather what is needed and head to my bathroom with the shower stall.

She looks at the garden tub.
How am I going to get in that??! she asks. I can't get in that! HE-HAW!

No, Mom, the shower.

I've never noticed it, she says.

She undresses. She looks at the shower.
Too high to step in she says. I can't do it. She says. He-haw, she says.

The lip to the stall is 2 inches high.

You can do it Mom, I say.
It's not high, I say.
I will help you. I say.

This is hard, she says.
I don't like it, she says.
I don't want to do it, she says.
He-haw.

She sits down on the built in seat. I take the shower wand and start the water.

COLD! she says.

Wait, I say.

No washcloth! she says.

I hand her one.

No soap! she says. He-haw!

I point out the Dove soap touching her leg.

Oh, she says.

The water warms up and she soaps and lathers, grumbling and groaning. I man the shower wand and rinse and rinse again.

We are done!

I hope I don't fall down and break my neck in the shower before I can get out of here, she says. HE-HAW! HE-HAW!

Don't joke! I beg. Come on, I urge.

At last, she steps back over the edge, and grasps her faithful cane. We get on nightgown and glasses. Bedroom shoes and bathrobe, back to the couch. I can hear the lead-in to Antiques Roadshow. She sits.

I must admit, she says in a small voice, it does feel good to be clean.

She settles in to watch her favorite show.

 I don't have my ears, she says. He-haw.

I bring her the hearing aids.

I am going now. To take a bath in my garden tub. With a big glass of water to drink which I will pretend is wine. And Epson Salts I will pretend is the finest bubble bath money can buy. With a book, that I can't wait to read. And I may not come out. Ever. Or at least until the end of Antiques Roadshow. (He-haw! I say. The apple doll's daughter  doesn't fall far from the tree!)