Moving forward....

The first time I told my mum Sampson had died suddenly, she was upset as she could be but she really worked hard to comfort me. She patted my back and told me to turn the tears into joy. And to say a prayer for Sampson and she told us that he was a really good dog. She was genuinely moved by his death. I was amazed at her sensitivity. She was actually comforting me! Since her dementia, it's always me that is doing the actual caretaking and comforting. It's about her needs 24/7. Ah, the insight to motherhood!


I had to tell her a friend of hers was dead and she said, "Oh, no!" Thoughtful silence. " So where are we going?" and that was about it. She doesn't really cry at that kind of news. I don't know if it's the dementia or the drugs she's on. (I wonder if she'd share some of that stuff. "Hey, you didn't get that part you really wanted - again." "Oh, no! So what's for dinner?") We saw her again on the weekend and she seemed to forget that he had died but then remembered on her own. It was one of the few times that her and I can actually sensibly converse with one another and I'm actually getting something out of it.


Hung out with Mum last week. Had to explain to her AGAIN that the dog had died. The worst part is that she is genuinely surprised and I have to go through the whole thing again with her. Sigh. It would be funny actually if I hadn't been so depressed. We walked around and then hung out on the Starbuck's patio. We made our usual stabs at conversation and then I read the paper while she people watched. When I dropped her off back at the home, I just let her out the elevator and took it immediately back down. I don't usually do that, but I was on edge and I had to get away. I hate it when I get like that.

Hubby came home early that day and immediately set out to go biking in the Endowment Lands. It's about 10 km away and once you get over the bridge, it's all uphill. And I do mean uphill. Not one of his best ideas, but you can't tell a guy that. He survived and evidently made a stop at his buddies before returning home. I had biked a few km myself over to a district chant and by the time I got home, he was on the couch and a bit stoned. To his credit, he did BBQ some excellent steak (ala the Incredible Hulk - You wouldn't like me when I'm hungry). It always makes me feel so alone when he does that. Yeah, I know, his dog died. Can't say I blame him. I drank every day last week. Fortunately, the stagette broke my habit.

I had a stab of panic that the same thing would happen to us - that he would retreat into his world and I would retreat into mine to deal with the grief. And separately we worry about one another. Yeah, I know, communication is the key. In my efforts to keep moving forward and keep frantically busy, I need to keep in mind that just because we don't have our dog, we don't have a child, we're still a family and we need one another. Compassion is the driving force behind perseverance. Okay, gotta keep that in mind.

Handwriting on the wall....

I had my mum over last night for dinner. She's carrying a lot more weight these days, not sure why, but it's really stressing her back out. She seems older, frailer than her 73 years. I need to get her hair done. Heck, I've been wearing my braids for months, I'm not sure why. Anyways, after dinner, she was up to writing her grandson a letter. I dictated the letter to her. I noticed her handwriting was smaller, more scrawly, not as sure as it was a year ago. It's harder for her to write down her own thoughts. I took a closer look at it and I could barely read some of the words. This was not good. I think even she knew, but I encouraged her. And I had a glass of wine. We both like our booze.

I didn't want her to see my emotion play over my face, so we carried on another attempt. Not any better, but it was better than nothing. I tried to get her to print, but she wasn't taking that information in. Seeing the letters will make my sister sad. For years, I'd keep certain things about my mum to myself. Can't do that anymore. I used to, but then the sadness would fill me up. When I took her home, she wanted me to stay until she had changed into her pyjamas. Sometimes I can't wait to get out of there. You have to get a staff member to key the elevator so you can leave and if there's no one about, you have to go looking for them which means you have to go down the long hallway and have your mum trailing behind you. And then I have to leave her again, the elevator doors closing on her face. Again. I had to fight my irritation and help her put her pyjamas on. I resent her growing frailty. I resent it when she can't put on her shoes and zip up her coat. It scares me. Any decline in her status quo reminds me that I am that one step closer to losing her. Pretty soon she'll have a walker and going for a walk will be that much more difficult. I haven't made funeral arrangements. Which one do I use? Which one would be nicer?

As grateful as I am to have her still with me, I am increasingly aware that I am weary of being in charge of her. What a great mum I'll be, eh? Hey, sweetie, can you pour mummy's little helper into a plastic tumbler?

I know I will have to take care of both her and a little one. At least she's given me some practice. I'm going to have a kid one day and I just want to be able to ask for her help. I can't. The only problem with being a strong, black woman is that there are days you don't want to be strong. And yes, I know, that when that day comes, I will just dig deeper and find the strength that is there. I know it's there because my mother put it in me.