I don’t want to write this book. I do want to write this book.
My brain says write it. My heart says I can’t.
This book about Mom is something I feel like I was destined to do. That I must do it. That I need to. For me, for others facing the same situation. For her, and what was kept secret for far too long. And I want to, I really do. But when I get down into it, I feel anger and grief and resentment and all the things. I am putting myself right back into the timeframe of when everything was happening, and it’s HARD.
What did I expect? Oh, maybe just to throw my blog posts together with some of the texts between me and my Dad and wa la, you have a book. But that isn’t it at all. It’s a timeline, a history of what happened and a correlation between care-taking and being the one cared for. It’s recognizing when I was tired and emotional and maybe not the best parent to my Baby Girl. It’s regretting not listening to my Dad when he told me he wasn’t doing well. I see that I didn’t want to hear it. He HAD to be ok. I couldn’t bear him not to be.
It’s realizing that maybe this extreme exhaustion is a build up of years of intense emotions and frightening feelings. If I write it all out, won’t I feel better? Will I?
It’s making small Facebook posts about seeing my Mom and Dad everywhere in life – from old scraggly men buying fried chicken in Brookshires to well coiffed women in Walmart with their purses and shopping lists. To sitting in the school car line and feeling her there with me, watching over my shoulder as I play Words with Friends. I put my hand up to the roof of my car and touch the pins I have there – my Dad’s Ranger pin and an Alzheimer’s one for my Mom. They travel with me everywhere.
It’s about Baby Girl and what she went through as well. From pre-school to second grade when her beloved Grandpa died unexpectedly while she sat on his bed and fourth grade when her Granny died. These were people she adored and counted on and loved with all her tiny heart. No wonder she worries when I leave the house to go to a meeting at night, or when she doesn’t want to be left at overnight camp and has to talk to me every day when I’m gone on a vacation without her. This child has been through some trauma that everyone just expected her to be ok with. She has a memory book of my parents, and she still, to this day, sleeps with it under her pillow. She has an eagle stuffed animal to represent my Dad, and a cat for my Mom. She misses them terribly, too. I realize that I am her anchor, the only thing keeping her tethered to this crazy world she doesn’t understand.
It’s understanding that I couldn’t have done anything differently, every day was such a shit-show of just trying to survive and be there for everyone at all times. That I was strong – even when I felt like I was falling apart. In truth, I was falling apart and keeping it together all at the same time. Because that’s what it’s like with elderly parents, and especially one afflicted with Alzheimer’s. It’s a continuous downward spiral.
Trying to find my way back up from that rock-bottom – and remembering them without tears, slogging through the PTSD that has affected everyone of us. Writing this book is supposed to be cathartic.
Maybe it will be, but I know now it’s a process. I don’t know how long it will take, but I promise myself I will finish it. I have a goal of the end of next year. I have a habit of procrastinating on this project because it’s tough to feel like that, all over again. It’s not fun to re-live the nightmare. I’m procrastinating now… by writing this blog post!
Send out your big caring thoughts for me please. Good intentions and survival strategies. Prayers for strength and to finish what was started. Send good vibes. I’ll feel them. And I thank you.