I started to write this piece as I looked at my mom, trying to sleep in spite of her feeling sick. The weather doesn’t help because it’s stormy and too warm. All she wants is for me to let her go to bed, and I can’t let her go to bed. I end up giving in, though I know I’ll be constantly interrupted for at least a couple of hours, if not all night. I might even have to spend the night in her room to keep her from choking if she vomits, because she might not remember to roll on her side or move her head at least.
Just another day in the life of a care giver for someone with dementia.
I write because it is the only thing that can help me focus when life gets too frustrating and the little stolen moments of peace with my computer are treasures comparable to fairground prizes that are not going to solve your life, but will definitely make you smile with their tinkling sound and help you recall that you, too, are a person and not just a necessary appendix to someone’s life.
I cannot find the ‘blessing’ in watching my once strong, energetic, and bossy mother disappear before my eyes daily and know that there were will come a time when she will not know me as her daughter. I must be a selfish person.
I write because I need to collect my thoughts and find my own voice. I write with the hope of one day being able to actually make a difference, however small, towards understanding what this life we live is about.
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