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.
Maybe a grief counseling group could help.