Month: July 2020

I am Grief

I like to use metaphors when I write. I think it helps the reader really see where I’m coming from and what something really feels like for me. Plus, I think in metaphors and similes. I am constantly comparing one thing to another, trying to find links. When I was young I told my mom that I see words in pictures – if someone was irritated I immediately saw them with red spots on their skin and angry eyes and scowling, or like they had ants crawling all over them – literally irritated.

I have been struggling hard lately with the situation with my mom. The question is – am I being spared or am I being robbed? Spared from watching her sink even further into decline, should I be grateful I don’t have to watch it or experience it every day? I don’t have to brush her teeth or clean her up. Should I simply be happy when I do get to see her? One thing I know is that SHE is not being spared. She is living this terrible reality every day and she doesn’t even have me or my dad there for comfort. And when I think of it like that I feel robbed. Because she’s being robbed of our company, our comfort. She’s being robbed in her final months, maybe a year or two of spending all her last moments with her family. If I had known Coronavirus was coming I would have thought twice about putting her in memory care. I would have hired a full time caregiver and kept her at home. So now I’m angry. I’m angry all the time.

I am not allowed to go in to her facility but if she goes to the ER I can come in and hold her hand and hug her and nobody says I can’t. So even though she fell again on Friday, I am grateful for those few moments I had with her physically. She saw me come in – she raised her head and reached for me before I even said a word. I’m here Mom, I’m here. I smooth her shirt, I tuck her hand into mine. I look into her eyes. We are both wearing masks but she yanks her off and I see her face – where her cheek is swollen to three times it’s normal size. Will she need surgery? My mom has never had surgery in her entire life.

I lay my head on her chest (facing away) and she tries so hard to talk to me. “I’m glad you’re here” she says. And it was enough. But now, in my house and with some perspective I am worrying about how much pain she must be in. For her, it wasn’t enough. For her, she doesn’t know where I went or when she will see me again. She only knows what is right in front of her. I hope and pray they are giving her the pain medicine every six hours. It’s the weekend so I can’t really check on her. None of the regular personnel are there. I will go in the morning. I will go even though they won’t let me in. I’ll make someone talk to me. Tell me how she is. Do all the memory care residents have someone to advocate for them? I hope they do. I’ve given the Director of Nursing this idea of having family members send in pictures and then they could be displayed on a screen and they could all see and talk about each other’s families. I think it would be so good for them. Many of those residents no longer have cell phones. My mom can’t just go check facebook or get a text from me. She has no outside contact if I can’t get in there. She doesn’t know if Baby Girl had a birthday party or rode a new pony. She doesn’t know how much Dad and I miss her.

This morning I woke up in a very bad, very angry mood. I should have known right then to just go back to bed. But there are too many responsibilities, you know. Horses to be fed and lessons to teach and my Dad to think of, not to mention Baby Girl’s needs. I know I let her down a lot. I will wish one day that I had all this time back.

And then I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I started to cry and in trying to explain to my husband exactly what was wrong I finally said it was like I just keep stepping backwards off a ledge and my mom is no longer there to catch me.

And there it is. It’s grief. Grief is my problem. Every day I step off that ledge. Every day I fall. I cannot seem to stop myself from stepping off. I can’t get a “new” grip on reality. Reality was my mom always being there. Always being my rock, my shield, my wingman and my back up singer. There was never a day in my life that I didn’t know she loved me, and while I know this is still true, I can’t just call her anymore. She can’t give me advice, or offer to take me shopping or to lunch. She can’t say hey I will come up this weekend to help out because you need a break. I can no longer go to their house in Tyler just to escape when things get tough. She is still here but she is not here for me.

This evening when we went to my Dad’s house to have dinner (which I cooked – damn I miss my mom cooking for all of us) I decided to take a bath in her bathtub. When I surround myself with her things her spirit comes to me and I can pretend that we are back in Tyler. That she is reading her book and that Dad and Tony are waiting for me to get out of the bath to play dominoes. That tomorrow we will make french toast for breakfast and then we will go shopping. That in this space, in this moment, she is here. She is here.

I ask God to let me dream about her, the way she used to be. But it doesn’t happen. Any dreams I have with her in them are always sad and frantic and anxiety ridden dreams full of grief. Grief that I have no idea how to process. How long will it go on? Will life ever be livable for me again? Will I allow myself to be happy? Will my Dad?

I step back, I stumble and I fall. Mom please be there, please pick me up again. How do I go on living without you? How do I go forward when all I want to do is go back? No matter how strong I am, how strong everyone thinks I am – I am nothing without her. I am Grief. And that’s all I can be for awhile.

 

I’m NOT Tired

Baby Girl lies to me daily. With emphasis. She insists that she is NOT tired, not at all, not even just a tiny little bit. Then why are you crying? I ask. “NOT because I’m tiredddddddd” she moans.

Girl you were born tired. You haven’t slept right in six years. Neither have I. I KNOW tiredness. You, my child, are the epitome of tired. You almost have me beat in the tiredness game but not quite. I’m more tired than you because I’m in more pain than you. Because I’m old. Because I was old when you were born.

Baby Girl also has severe FOMO. Fear Of Missing Out. She can hardly stand to make decisions because she can’t decide which route will lead to the better time. The more fun experience. Does she come with me to run errands – which I can assure you is never fun – or does she stay and hang out with Dylan in the barn? She wants to be with me – she wants to be sure I don’t do something fun without her. Buuuuuttttttt she knows the girls at the barn are always accommodating to her. She is the princess of the paddock y’all. Everyone accommodates her. She’s cute and she loves hanging out with people. Possibly everyone is really accommodating ME by keeping her out of my hair…. hmmm. If that’s the case then I’m grateful. Supremely.

At any rate, Baby Girl has red eyes and a quick temper – every minute of her life. She certainly looks tired. And 80% of the time she acts tired. She yawns a lot. She falls asleep in the car but she won’t take a nap. The other day I bribed her with “movie night” in my bed if she would just lay down with me in my bed at 1 pm. I watched YouTube Kids with her for twenty minutes as part of the bribe (heaven help me). We took a “sleepy pill” (melatonin). We listened to Alan Jackson. She finally did fall asleep and slept for almost two hours. Of course, then I was unable to get her to sleep that night until 10 pm. You can’t win for losing.

Each night she starts to spin in a downward spiral of exhaustion. We have our routine down pretty well but it doesn’t slow the spin. After I finally get her out of the bath it starts in earnest (many times it starts while still in the bath.) She starts out with whining that she is cold, her hair is dripping down her back, she needs me to help her get dressed.  Somehow she’ll manage to hurt herself – stub her toe or scratch something. Then… it’s the giggles. She laughs while I try to put her pj’s on. She shows me her booty. She farts and is hysterical. She makes me crazy, and let’s acknowledge it – pissed off. So I finally lose it and yell at her. Her eyes fill with tears and she runs off to hide.

Now, I ask you, if she knows this is what will happen why does she do it? When we finally get past that, I have to tell her twelve times to brush her teeth. To pick out her stories. She likes to have stories on the computer lately. But if anything, and I mean anything, is not to her liking, total meltdown ensues. And again, I get frustrated. I would like to have a few minutes of sweet snuggling with my Baby Girl, not tears and rage from this wee monster child. I’m tired too so we feed off each other, I’m sure.

Maybe I would be able to handle all that if it weren’t for… the fact that she also GETS UP at 6 am every day. EVERY DAY. Even now that I have her sleeping in her own bed, in her own room. If she hears me make a move she’s up like a shot. I’ve even moved the cat into the back room at night so that he won’t start yowling and wake either of us up. It helps. A little. I want to get up to go to the gym by myself. I much prefer going by myself – it’s that “me time” everyone talks about so much that I hardly ever get. Well Baby Girl does not want me to go by myself. I get my cup of ice water ready the night before, my clothes are laid out, my shoes by the door. So I can sneak out silently before she hears me. (Insert eye roll here). I make it to the gym maybe twice a week, and at least one of those times she’s with me. Y’all it just isn’t as much fun when I have to keep looking over and checking on her.

And even if I don’t aim to get up early and go she wakes up anyway. It’s just hardwired in her. Her brain just knows there’s got to be something more interesting to do than sleep. 9 times out of 10 she wakes me up, too. Wait, no. 10 times out of 10. Who am I kidding?

So here we are, mother and child. Both exhausted, all the time. I’m so tired I’ve almost given up drinking.

Almost.

Plus, she is so cute when she’s asleep.

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