I had a terrible visit with my Mom. Things had been going so well and while I was saddened by her decline and inability to remember me, she has been pleasant to me for several months. It made me wonder, was it me, was it her, or a little of both?
She was happy to see me, but started to get contentious over the ice cubes, her laundry, the trash can liner. When I told her I started a load of laundry when she was finishing up her BINGO game, she challenged that I would be so “presumptuous” as to take her laundry and put it in the washing machine. When I told her it was in the laundry basket, she backed down. When she wanted ice cubes and there weren’t any in the freezer, she wanted to know why I took all of the ice cubes. When she saw trash in the garbage can without a liner, she wanted to know why I put trash in the can without a liner. I hadn’t done any of those things, but had simply arrived and started a load of knowing we could finish doing it together.
I recognize how frustrating this disease must be to the sufferer. My Mom has always been independent and resourceful and now she needs help. She doesn’t like it — I know I might not do so well under the same circumstances.
I marvel at her ability to easily and succinctly chide me for a perceived wrong and then be unable to finish a sentence when we are chatting about the family.
As I was leaving, I wondered if somehow, she could feel my frustration today. I thought I left my worries at the door, but did I somehow move too fast or rush her through a task that just made her mad. I remember something Bob DeMarco wrote about his mother Dotty who would say “No Push, Push” when the pace of activity was too rapid for her to process. Had I moved too fast today?
Lurking in the back of my mind, I wonder if she forgets I’m her daughter and just thinks I’m messing in business that isn’t mine to manage. Contemplated.