I woke up to doors slamming and drawers banging and for a moment wanted to roll over, close my eyes, and pretend I wasnt here. It was a self-preservation instinct I had to ignore. I get up to Little Mama mad at me, bawling, in a poor pitiful me mood that is soul-sucking and little I could do to change it. What was wrong you ask? Well, according to her, EVERYTHING she had is gone. It was all she had in the world that was hers and now that it was gone, she had nothing left to take home. I didnt touch her. I could see that was not an option because every time I glanced at her she took a step back. Yes... like someone was going to attack her. Damn dementia to effing hell and back, I am so angry at life right now I can hardly breathe. I ask her what she was looking for and said I would help her find it. She announced that her underwear was gone. It was just symbolic and I knew it because shed already forgotten WHY she was mad. She just knew that she was. But, I walked down the hall to her room with her right behind me. I went straight to her dresser and opened all three drawers where her underwear was, still in the little folded piles like she left them, and with the paper towels on top of them because thats what she does these days. Everything is either laying on a paper towel or covered with a paper towel. I said, here they are Mother, okay? She glared, still crying and said yes, those were hers, but then she shifted into more pity mode and said, at least whats left of them. I dont have anything to take home. I turned around and looked her square in the eyes and said, You sold your house over eight years ago when you moved in with me. This is home. Come take your pills and eat your cereal. She followed me back to the kitchen, banged shit while taking pills and banged more shit while putting sugar on her cereal. I didnt look at her. I didnt talk. She has to get through this dream hangover on her own, or not. I cant make it go away. Learned that the hard way. So the weatherman predicted storms for this afternoon. Hes off about six hours. Its already storming at my house, with no end in sight. It will pass. She will smile and calm will return, but I will still be on guard. Last November marked the beginning of nine years on our war with dementia. Nine years is a long time. I dread the day when what she says and how she acts begins to make sense. I fear it is inevitable. Nine years is a long time. That is three thousand, two hundred and eighty-five days of madness. Nine years is a long time. It is seventy-eight thousand, nine hundred and forty hours of being bombarded with unraveling sanity. It is a very long time.
Posted on: Wed, 02 Apr 2014 14:15:38 +0000
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