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.

How In the World

Has it been almost a month since I last posted?! Guess I don't have much to say, unless, of course, you want to hear about DNA results.

Without my mother's antics, I fear I am very dull indeed.

Speaking of Mom, the year anniversary is really an amazing thing; I'm much less prone to spontaneous waterworks. Yesterday I did get a bit teary driving past all the redbuds in bloom along 15/501. She would have said they were pretty about nine hundred times. 

We are having our two days of spring here in NC as evidenced by this:

And this:

The weather this weekend has been perfect - cool in the morning (mid 40's - 50's), 70's in the afternoon. 

The air smells crisp and fresh - sun dried sheets and grass. Yes, lawn mowing season is upon us already. 

Yesterday afternoon, several of us went to funky Ninth Street for a look at Zola Craft Gallery, popped into Vaguely Reminiscent (pink sunglasses!), then walked a few blocks down Iredell Street, (people waving from their cute Craftsmen porches), to a photography exhibit opening at Craven Allen. 

It was crowded and hot in there, but what I saw of the exhibit was great. We sauntered down a few storefronts to The Palace International for some African food. Sat outside, people watching, enjoying great food. 

On the building next door was this bit of graffiti:

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

More of the Same

A dear friend mentioned recently that she wished I was writing more blog posts.

Well, here goes.

As the calendar speeds closer and closer to the one year anniversary of my mother's death, I become both more agitated and more quiet inside.
I shall confess here to a little magical thinking - when the year is up... POOF! I will be able to take off my figurative "widow weeds" and move on.

The difference in the grieving process between my parents is so...well, different. Silly me for thinking they would be the same.

The edge of grief that is my father's death is dull and rarely causes pain anymore. Could it be because his, though sudden, was expected? He had an incurable cancer, there was no question it would kill him. Maybe it's because it's been 13 years.
Just yesterday, the song "Addicted to Love" came over the airwaves while I was shopping and it made me smile - because my dad knew and liked that song from his late nights watching VH1.

My mother's march to death was sad and slow and destroyed every bit of the person she used to be.
This grief regularly dropkicks me.
At the costume jewelry section in Kohl's, at restaurants where we used to eat, sometimes passing neighborhoods we used to drive through looking at houses.
Boston Terriers. Beaded Christmas ornaments. Cookie books. The smell of coconut custard. Jello salad. Barbie dolls. Old school script handwriting. Fabric stores. Tea with milk. When I'm driving (Your father would have gone then.).
Everywhere. Every day.

Rudderless

That's how I feel.

A rudderless, pall covered, grumpy, sad, orphan.

Sigh.

It occurred to me yesterday that this birthday coming up is the first since becoming an orphan. (Funny how I think of orphans as being young, but the term applies to anyone without parents.) It never entered my head until yesterday that this would have the potential for extra sadness.

But now that it has, it doesn't surprise me. The person who gave birth to me, who loved me when I was sick, healthy, mean, kind, stupid, or stunningly brilliant, is gone. It doesn't matter that she was gone before she moved up here.

The cord is truly cut now.

Mother's Day

This is a "Hallmark Holiday". Another made up holiday for what should be everyday, or at the very least, every month. Because, frankly, we're worth it. (Unless you have a "Komodo Dragon" for a mom, as a friend of a friend called hers. Yikes!)

Still, I changed my cover photo on Facebook to this:

I was going to use this one:

but my mother looks too sad. (And a bit like Keely Smith.)

A Couple of CB Stories

I'm not sure if I should post this here or over at http://whatthehellsgoingonherekp.blogspot.com/.

Well, I'm here now.

In a place like CB, if the door to your room is not locked, there is a stream of visitors, mostly unexpected.

During the days Mom was dying, because it was so hot in there, we had the window cracked and left her door open to create a vague cross draft.
Residents felt free to waft in and out, use the bathroom, check out something in the closet, or inform me of some thing or another. It didn't bother her and it only bothered me when they turned the lights on. That was jarring.

One night "Myrtle" (see The Supper Club) came in to discuss some concern. I needed a break so when she asked me to go for a walk, we strolled over to her wing. When we arrived at her room, she invited me in to look at her clothes.
I said her room was lovely. She agreed.
We then examined every sweater in her possession.
"All quality, no crap here", she assured me. We talked about the pattern and the color of each sweater and the hanger it was on.
There was something about boyfriends in there. Something coy and playful and a bit sad.
She complained a little about the puppy Avery's room being very close to hers.
I wish I'd written this earlier because she had some hilarious observations about a few of the other residents that I can't remember now (a month later).
At any rate it was a nice break for me and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing her wardrobe. 
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You know the saying "it takes a village [to raise a child]"? That can apply to aging parents too.
I can enjoy Ms. Myrtle because I have no history with her, there's no emotional bomb waiting to go off.
Same with my mom - others could just think she was a hoot and be completely unfazed that she was wearing three dirty tee-shirts.

******************************************************************

Friday night after Mom had died, when CP and I came back from our massive prime rib feast to finish loading up the car with crap Mom's stuff, we ran into "Dorothy" (aka The Hummer - see The Supper Club again).
"Hello darlin'", she said, and held her hand out to me.
To the aide, "Are we having supper tonight? Where is everyone? I need to eat somethin'!"
When the aide reminded her that they had already eaten, Dorothy replied rather briskly that she had most certainly had NOT eaten and she needed some food right now.
She was promised some yogurt.
Still holding my hand, Dorothy asked if I would join her. I had to decline on account of moving boxes and
wanting to be done and go home and sleep.
I wish I'd taken five minutes.

I need to go back there a few more times at least. Just to see how some of my peeps are doing.