For just over eleven years now, there have been three of us in this house. Since my mother died, everything feels emptier — not just because she's gone, but because no one comes by anymore for coffee and conversation. My mother was an outgoing woman, full of life and joy. She never missed a chance to say to people: "Come have a coffee, come visit me!" And there was a small group who would come. If too much time passed, she'd pick up the phone and call the world.
She's gone now, and I can count on one hand the people who come to visit — or better, who come to see us and spend time with all three of us.
"Come have a coffee?" The coffee pot sits cold, and the pleasure of drinking it together, sitting down, is gone. Giorgio and Cristina don't drink coffee. Yes, I speak with them and say "let's have a coffee," but really it's just for me. In recent years, when Giorgio is dozing in the afternoon, I sometimes give him coffee through his PEG tube, hoping it will wake him up a bit.
Instead, I sometimes get invitations to eat at a couple of friends' homes, or to get pizza. But it's much rarer for someone to think of us and come to our house with pizza to share together — even though I've told them many times to come here, so we could all gather earlier and I could feel more at ease knowing my siblings are with me, not alone. This happened much more often when my mother was alive. And it wasn't just pizza — there were lunches and dinners too, because she loved to cook.
I miss this: drinking coffee together, eating something here at home. I miss the feeling that someone comes to visit the three of us, to spend time with us. I miss a phone call saying, "Are you home? I'm bringing pizza soon!" I shared this thought with a friend not long ago. "Yes, whenever I get invited out, it's always me who has to go to them, not the other way around. So to not refuse, I go — after I've done everything, put Giorgio and Cristina to bed, locked up the house. But I'm not happy about it."
This friend told me to look at the bright side — that I was invited and have the chance to go out (as if that's all I was waiting for). I agree, yes and no, because what I really want is for others to come and be with us, not just with me. When they come, they accept me, and in a way they also accept Giorgio and Cristina. They accept and share in our life. I feel lonely because the friends from years ago, the ones we shared so much with, aren't around anymore — even though they still live in the same town. Not even a phone call. Even my mother's friends rarely reach out, yet when she was alive, I was there too. Wherever she went, I went, because I was the one taking her. Though it's a painful way to put it, her death took away all those relationships.
For Giorgio and Cristina, for me, for us — there are always just those few I can count on my fingers. So almost every night around 9 p.m., the three of us are in bed, because we've already said everything to each other there is to say (they don't speak). Giorgio, who was the more active of the two, now falls asleep early and starts snoring in his wheelchair. I'm tired from the day, tired from my thoughts, my worries. I stop, I read, I write, I pray.
I know this isn't a discovery or anything new. Unfortunately, the world of disability carries so much loneliness, so much social isolation, because the rhythms of care in a family home are nothing like what the world outside offers. Today, at sixty, alone with two people to care for, I feel completely cut off. "Come have a coffee?" — it can also mean "come see us, find out how we're doing," "come, let's be together."
So which would you prefer — to be invited for coffee somewhere else, or to have someone arrive at your door with coffee in hand?