Today my joy of yesterday collapsed around me and I desperately wanted to be at home with my family, with my husband and daughters, my grandchildren and soon to be (19 days!) son-in-law. I wanted to be there for the blueberry pancakes my husband cooked, to welcome our grandchildren into their day, to talk 'wedding stuff' over a hot cup of tea and Tony's donuts.
My mother did not want to go to my house today. She wanted to stay at home. Her home. I insisted. She insisted back. I insisted more and since I'm the one in charge, we went. I am not in charge, I'm simply more selfish than she is, so I won. I took her to my house where my grandchildren were delighted to see their great-grandmother. That helped alleviate some of my guilt, but not enough. Not enough for me to forgive myself, to erase the sound of my raised voice when I 'insisted'. This day will haunt me. It haunts me already.
Tomorrow after work I will go home. I will enjoy dinner with my husband, our daughter and our grandchildren. Tomorrow night I will enjoy the evening at home, go to bed in my bed and start the next day in my home surrounded by my family and the comfort of the familiarity of that and move one day closer to our daughter's wedding. Tomorrow my mother will move one day closer to leaving her home. Her home of more than forty years. The home I forced her to leave today.
When my mother got into bed tonight she thanked me. Thanked me for helping her. After the way I acted toward her today, she thanked me. Eventually I will understand that it is the disease I am angry at, that it is the dementia that makes me weary and angry and sad and so very lonely. But I am not at that point yet. I am a day closer to it, but I am not there yet.
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