Senescence: A New Word in My Vocabulary, Not New in My Life

                Before I’d gotten the word that Mom was in the hospital, I’d started making the Nigerian stew from the Moosewood Cookbook to take over for her and Kathy, so after visiting Mom in the hospital, Suzy, Kathy, Javier and I went to the garage together and transferred the stew from Javier’s car to Kathy’s.  The next day the staff person from Aegis would come and interview Mom, and Kathy  and I wanted to be there.  Suzy had to work, but if things really moved as quickly as we hoped, we might be able—all of us including Suzy—to accompany Mom to Aegis Living on Wednesday. 
           I shared the sadness and the hope with a friend who responded to my written e-message:

          You are saying that she will leave her home and that there will be no return. The roads she now takes will be fraught with unknowns.  Those who have studied aging say that senescence is the only stage of life that we cannot look back on, assess, or reminisce about. My heart goes out to your mother--- 45 years. That is a lot of self to give up. Her house is, truly, her being and everything in it reminds her on a daily basis of who she is and why she is important and what her life means.
          I am sure your mother's grief will be immense, but you have mentioned that she is also suffering from dementia, so that will soften things a bit.
            The word “senescence” was not a word in my vocabulary, but it was a word in my life.  I knew that it meant growing old.  I knew it meant the final stage, a stage of loss and being lost.
            This was the saddest assessment of what it meant.  I felt that I wanted to go in with Mom and just stay with her.  Maybe hug her to death.