My Mother's hands

My mother's hands once made a cake,

Once rode a bike,

Once ironed a shirt.

My Mother's hands could sew a dress,

Could steer a car,

Could pet a cat.

My Mother's hands would knead bread dough,

Would wash the dishes,

Would address an envelope.

My Mother's hands wrote a newspaper column,

Typed quite fast,

Sent Christmas letters.

My Mother's hands would shuffle cards,

Would turn sheet music,

Would play the piano.

But now my Mother's hands have no more words,

Have no more music,

Have no purpose.

My Mother's hands are quiet now. 

dine and dash

My mom is sick, sick as in go towards the light sick. It’s been a long emotional week full of ups and downs and downs and downs. Lots of downs. That tummy bug we all had turned into a uti for my mom. One that has her hovering on the edge of here and heaven. For the last eleven days I have been sitting here watching her fade and wondering what we should be praying for. Alive, she’s here, I can see her and sit with her. But it’s not really her, it’s a frantic small person who screams until she’s hoarse and repeats a word or phrase over and over again until she falls asleep, exhausted from her confusion. She doesn’t eat, she barely drinks, this isn’t life. And then I head home at the end of the day, exhausted myself from doing nothing g myself. Nothing but watching and cajoling. Nothing but crying and praying. Praying for nothing, praying for something, praying for everything. Before bed I call and check on her. I go to sleep but not to rest. And then in the morning I return, hoping for  a miracle, expecting none. But she is better every morning. Little steps. Tiny changes and I smile with relief. Short lived relief. Maybe she turned the corner, maybe this is good. But my hopes are dashed, the progress is so small. One step forward, two steps back. And this is my new world, praying for something, hoping for everything, expecting nothing.

flu, you, who?

After all of us surviving a terrible stomach virus (two for some of us), I return again to write.

And I returned to a very confused Mother. Cantankerous is one of my favorite words and in this case it sums her up nicely. My Mother is a cranky two year old whose responses to everything are petulant and snappish. I try not to laugh when she announces that no one let her have breakfast and that should be illegal.. I smile instead as I pick the chunks of scrambled eggs off her shirt and wipe the oatmeal from her face. I tell her calmly that if she is in her wheelchair then, yes someone did get her out of bed today. I giggle inside my head when she informs the wonderful man from therapy that he reminds her of someone she hates. I remind myself to not get angry when she accuses me of hiding her things.
 But I cry in the hallway after she tells me I am not Tia but am instead a member of the staff pretending to be me to get her to do what she doesn't want to do. If it is hard on me to deal with her, imagine the inside of her head. I have a feeling she's got a UTI again and it's playing footsie with her already fragile brain cells.

I have an older brother, we were raised in the same home but by what seemed like different parents. He is the golden child, he can do no wrong. Me.. I am the opposite and I'm okay with that. So when she gets so upset we can't calm her, I dial my brother for her and he tells her everything I've already said three times and slowly she calms down. And things are good again for a few minutes. It's hard to be my Mother's child. Harder now at fifty than it was when I was twenty. Harder yesterday then it was a month ago. It's difficult to separate old emotions from compassion and not react with pent up anger. Hard to give kindness where none was ever found. Hard to have a conversation that makes no sense and never will and hard to find the right thing to say to reassure and appease her troubled mind. Hard to find the answer to a conversation that goes like this:
Mom: I lost my shoes
Me: you're wearing them see ..taps on her shoes
Mom: they aren't mine you put them there
Me: they are your's, they have you special laces
Mom: fine! If that's what you want to think then you won't listen to me.
Me: <nothing to say to that>
Mom: no one gives me food
Me: it's lunchtime in five minutes, you must be hungry
Mom: I ate three cars
Me: I wonder what's for lunch
Mom: who are you?
Me: it's Tia Mom
Me: I'm your daughter
Mom: I have a daughter???



Yes Mom, you have a daughter.

it ain't easy being green

calling a TO for a week, mom had the flu and now we've got it too. be back next week when the yakking stops.