As a teenager I remember a brilliant production of August Strindberg’s Dance of Death at the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester, England with Edward Fox.  The vicious, toxic marriage of Edgar and Alice struck a deep chord.

I am currently trapped in a lovely cottage in a small village in the north of England with my aging mother and her Belgian boyfriend.  Not only is every conversation mind numbing, but their relationship is a series of verbal potshots.

Conversation varies from recounting the other’s transgressions to the status of everyone’s bowels.  (Just popped headphones on to avoid actual soundscape.)

Every action is open for criticism or cruelty.  The Belgian’s fading mind leads him to ask where his towel is several times over.  My mother reacts with exasperation as though he were intentionally testing her and tells him one of their friends has asked if he’s going senile.

My mother can’t resist sharing stories of the Belgian’s failing with others to gain validation.  I try to stay out it, but after several days suggested she might keep her criticisms to the privacy of their home.

The only moment of union is against a common enemy.  A rare 20 minutes of solidarity is shared in a lively rant against a treacherous friend.  Now, I think they are probably justified about the friend, but the rant is like a feeding frenzy.

The other conversations are the circular, repetitive stories that I have heard countless times over many decades.  If I want to avoid a particular criticism of my father or a painful memory, I dive in with some question about the garden or the curtains or the weather.

Unfortunately the dance of death numbs me into paralysis, leaving me helpless to distract or entertain any of us.

All this makes me insane and full of self-loathing.  I live on a different continent.  My mother will soon be in her 70s and no one in her family has lived past that decade.  I truly want her to find contentment in the last years of her life and I want to be a caring daughter.

But, being old and fragile doesn’t change who we are.  She will always be an unfulfilled person who regrets her divorces, the absence of grandchildren, and the failure of the Prince Charming myth.  And I will always be overwhelmed by her intrusive personality and carry the baggage of many difficult pre-college years.

Hurry on, vacation.  Stay away, old age.