I feel like she’s been locked away. Like they used to lock away people in institutions for mental or emotional or physical handicaps. She seems so remote from me, and from everything she should be doing and experiencing right now. There is a depth of anger in me so deep – so deep that I might drown in it. I never knew it was possible to feel anger so deeply within my soul.
The reality is she is NOT locked away. She is where she needs to be for her own health and safety. But reality doesn’t mesh with my feelings about it. The fact is – I cannot take care of her. I was not trained for that. I cannot maintain any semblance of a “normal” relationship with her if I am cleaning her up after an accident or constantly re-directing her actions or helping her eat with a fork. My heart breaks enough just being with her and not being able to hold a conversation.
They call me, they do. At night when she’s so upset that she can’t breathe. I talk her down off the ledge time and time again. I tell her she’s loved – so much – and I tell her everything is alright and then I tell her stories about her granddaughter and the horses and whatever else I can think of that will make her heart smile. I wait on the phone while she takes her medicine she was refusing earlier. I wait until she can breathe again, I tell her I’m drinking wine and that she should be too. She laughs and says “that sounds good!” I make it a point to bring her a few beers the next time I come to see her. I tell the caregivers to be sure to open it and serve it to her over ice – she can’t do it herself.
They call me during the day with video conferencing. I am desperate not to miss these calls. I wish they were more consistent but I understand that they are busy and doing their best. I’m glad to see her face, if even for just a few moments. I’m glad to hear her voice. She still sounds the same as ever. I have an old voice mail she left for me a few years ago and the entire reason I have not gotten a new phone is that I don’t want to lose that voice mail.
She should be here. Enjoying this beautiful sunny day. Gardening, or cooking something new to try. She should be playing with Baby Girl and laughing and rolling her eyes with me at her sassiness. She should be sitting on the back porch and watching the squirrels and birds and appreciating life. She should be there when I go to see Dad. She isn’t.
Would it have been easier if she had died from cancer or such? From an accident? Something quick? I don’t know if it would have been because that isn’t the way it’s happening. Instead Grief hangs over us all, unrelenting because in a way it hasn’t really started yet. We are all just holding on. Waiting for the inevitable. For a future where we have to learn to live without her entirely. A future where Baby Girl gets married or has babies without her Grandma to witness it. Where she graduates high school or wins a champion ribbon in a horseshow. Maybe joins the swim team. There is no telling what Baby Girl will do – but it is absolute that her Granny won’t be here to bear witness to it.
That is what makes me the most sad of all. I know we can’t go back. Back to swinging in the hammock in the back yard in Tyler, chilling out drinking a beverage and shooting the breeze with Dad while Mom makes my favorite meal. Sitting at her table with her in the evening discussing everything from books we are reading to the mysteries of life. We can’t go back to the every day phone calls and the advice and love she gave me every day. It’s the future that we will miss most of all.
She’s not locked away, this I know. She’s safe, she’s healthy and I’ve got to believe the people there really care about her wellbeing. All the same, she’s “locked away” from my everyday life. And I find that impossible to bear. Sometimes I take my anger out on my husband, sometimes on Baby Girl. I try so hard not to – I know it isn’t fair. My husband understands. Baby Girl doesn’t – so I sigh and try to calm down and reevaluate the situation so that I can be fair with her. I hope someday she’ll understand that it was very difficult to have a Mommy with a constantly broken heart. I hope she’ll forgive me.
And I don’t want you to worry Mom. In all the important ways – I’m holding on tight to you.
