Glad, Then Guilty

That's how I feel when I hear someone talking about dementia and/or Alzheimer's.

Obviously not glad for them, but glad that I, and more importantly my mother, don't have to deal with it anymore.

You know how sometimes complete strangers start talking to you, telling you personal things?
It happened to me a few months back with the owner of a cute little establishment in Hillsborough. It was just the two of us in the store at the time and she actually remembered Mom, Anon CP, and me trying on hats several years back, laughing ourselves silly.
I mentioned something about Mom having dementia and her pain came tumbling out. Her father has the hateful disease and her mother is refusing to put him in a facility. She was tired from trips to Wisconsin and taking care of her own family; broken-hearted about her daddy; worried that her mama will wear herself out being so fierce about taking care of him. We both cried some and hugged some. Bless her heart.

OSD choked up Friday when he told me that one of his friends of thirty years has it. I wanted to lay my head on the desk and cry because of what's in store for those folks. No matter how you spin it, there isn't any good news here. Bless their hearts.

I see women shopping with their fragile mothers and can spot the surprise at not recognizing a fucking thing - in both their eyes. My heart breaks for it.

Mom was lucky because she had [some] money and family who cared about her. She was able to live in a nice place about three miles from me. My siblings did what they could to help.

Here's the guilty part: I didn't have to quit my job to take care of her at home because she had money. And the whole ordeal was over in a fairly short period of time - three and a half years. I sometimes feel as if I got away with something, escaping relatively unscathed. And now wait for the other shoe to drop.
Damn my superstitious Irishness.

That's what been on my mind the past few days. Sorry it isn't more cheery.

Bless all our hearts. Please.