The hospice nurses have been here (two for the price of one this morning). They did a thorough exam, actually persuaded Mom to take a Percoset, and ordered a hospital bed because they don't want her sleeping on the sofa. (She says the eye hurts worse when she lies down.) Not sure when it will come, but my cousin Skippy is coming over later to get the other bed out of the bedroom. I've already stripped it. He can chunk the darn thing if I have anything to say about it (but it will probably land up in the cellar or the attic). I used to sleep in it and always hated it. It creaked and squealed and squeaked and because the mattress didn't fit into the frame properly the bedrails always fell out. I never felt it was my bed anyway. My bed had a bookcase headboard and I kept cracking my head against it when I was little so they bought this one and gave my bed to my cousin.

Mom is napping now and I am sitting here resisting the urge to scream, get in the car, and just go. I take my hat off to anyone who is a longtime caregiver like my cousins or folks like Brenda on alt.recovery.clutter: you are the bravest people in the world. I have been here for a week and I want to be here to take care of Mom but I feel like I'm in the world's biggest rat trap. I've had all my props kicked from under me and sometimes I just can't cope without going off and crying. I don't have James, I don't have Pidge, I don't have Willow, I don't have my books, I'm stuck listening to suck-ass broadcast television (I swear if I see one more reality show promo I am going to heave one of the end tables through the screen; I haven't seen anything more mind-numbingly stupid in my life—it makes me long for wretched twaddle like My Mother the Car and It's About Time), I'm hot and sweaty and tired of eating oatmeal and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but don't know what I want to eat, and here as I'm sitting in the chair in the living room I just killed an ant. It probably came in on the newspapers the nurses brought in but it's just one more tiny annoyance—I can't seem to escape the damn little buggers no matter where I go. I'd probably attract ants in Antarctica.

And now I've thoroughly bored everyone out there with my damn whining. Serves me right.

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. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 12:12:00 PM

Comments:

Linda, you're NOT whining. You're going through an extremely bad time. I would be surprised if you WEREN'T upset. What's going on with your mom is scary and frustrating for both of you, and for James and the pets, too.

I wish I could help you more. At least you don't have human kids. My mom was taking care of her mother when I was very young, but she had to choose between taking care of her mother and two very small children...and ultimately chose her children, though it broke her heart. Grandma moved to a nursing home in Ohio, but Mom's never really felt that she did the right thing. At least you can help your mom a little...even if it's driving you crazy right now.

# posted by  Emma : 7:12:00 PM

 

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