Perspective

I’m 40 years old and live with my mother. That’s almost on par with being a 40-year-old virgin, right? Except nobody accuses me of that, since my 47-year-old boyfriend lives with us too.

If you’re thinking, “what losers,” I don’t blame you.

Except, here’s the thing: I’m lucky. I’m lucky my mom is still here. I’m lucky to have a mother I can live with. Our relationship is by no means perfect, but she’s not going to be here forever. When I look back, I know I’ll be grateful for this time I have with her. How it shows, once again, her support of me and the weird and unconventional choices I make in my life. The inconveniences; her insistence on using “our” bathroom, the cluttered home (which I’ve been helping her with), all of that pales in comparison because I have a mother who loves and joyfully welcomes us. Allows us to cram into her home these last three months after selling ours, before we quit our jobs and hit the road. Our adventure is right around the corner.

Perspective is important. It’s powerful. Life is complex, and situations are not all black and white. When you take a deeper look, a lot of the expectations laid out by society are shallow and empty. We are told certain things are signs of failure, such as living with a parent after the “acceptable” age. But when that parent passes, what do we wish for? Time. More time.

My writing is interrupted by a phone call.

“Your mom tripped and fell… she’s bleeding pretty badly.”

The call is from an unknown number. I almost dismissed it, but instead answer in a cold bitchy tone, my intent to let any telemarketer or scammer know I’m not worth it.

“I’ll be right there.”

I pull into the parking lot, eyes darting around looking for my mom. I see her lying on her side in a parking spot. A man is crouched over her, resting his hand gently on her shoulder. I park, and leap out. Her knees are bent, pant leg lifted revealing socks that are too big and so part of the heel is hanging outside the shoe. Her bags of notebooks and papers are scattered around. As I get closer, I see her mouth is bloody.

“Mom, I think you need medics!”

“We already called 911,” says the man.

“What happened?”

“I tripped on that curb and fell…I get dizzy when I try and sit up.”

She’s got blood stains on her light brown jacket. There’s bright blood coagulating on the blacktop. Her tooth looks chipped. I wish she could get up. Wish she could tell me everything is fine. She’s not supposed to be this frail; so easily taken down.

I maintain my composure. The medics arrive and start taking her vitals. She answers them calmly. Tells them her wrist hurts, and offers it up to them to inspect from her place on the ground.

They gently lift her onto a gurney and wheel it into the ambulance. I scoop up her papers, her bags, and her red metal water bottle, scratched and dimpled with dents. I thank the bystanders for taking care of her, staying with her after calling 911.

I tail the ambulance to the ER but am not allowed in. Due to Covid, I have to wait somewhere else.

Five hours later, she’s bandaged and stitched. X-Rays reveal her wrist is fractured, and her top lip is stitched up and swollen like a character from The Simpson’s. But thankfully all that will heal.

Yes, I’m 40 years old and live with my mother. And right now, I can’t think of a better place to live.