I don't remember the point where my mom started to grow old. It's been a gradual thing, I suppose. She became a mother in her thirties, so she's always seemed "old" to me, even when she wasn't. Lately she seems almost elderly.

I spent this afternoon at her house, going through some mail and helping her with some household tasks. Her bank recently merged with another one, and she received a new check card in the mail. She called me crying because she didn't understand what to do with it, so I drove the couple of miles over to her house to help her figure it all out. We opened up all the envelopes with the new bank information together, and I read it all aloud to her, trying to help her decipher the instructions. New card. New PIN. Call to activate. Sign the back. Destroy old card.

I activated the card, helped her write the new PIN in 4 different places and destroyed the old card for her. I showed her the back of the card, handed her a pen, and outlined with my finger the matte strip where she needed to sign. By the time she scrawled her name half on and half off of the designated area 10 minutes later, she was in tears. When I got in the car to drive back home, I was in tears.

It breaks my heart to see my mom at a place where simple tasks are overwhelming to her. I'm terrified at the thought that she won't be able to take care of herself for much longer, even though I'm a five minute drive from her home.

I cry over the fact that the woman who has been my only parent since I was ten is now more like a child to me. I selfishly resent the added responsibility of an aging parent, and I cry because I hate feeling so selfish. I cry knowing that my own mortality is inevitable, and drawing closer and more evident with every year that my mother ages. I cry at the thought of my own children feeling the way I do one day.

My sorrow is my own, and I'll keep it that way. I'll help with the simple things, do the big things so she won't have to think about them, and tell her I love her every day. I'll give her nothing but smiles and weep when I'm alone, sparing her as much of her pride as possible. It's what we do, as women, children, mothers. We protect.

I pray that when my own children see me as old, that they will do the same for me.