A very merry 142nd birthday to my home and native land!
9:15 a.m.
When I asked her if she knew where she was, she said, “In jail.” I think the worst part of growing old and infirm is the loss of independence. My mother has gone from being the person who did everything for everyone to the one being done for, and she hates it. She hates that she feels she has to sneak out of the building to go for walks, when in fact, the staff follow at a discrete distance, although I think she gets a bit of pleasure at the thought that she is outwitting them.
Yesterday she asked me if I had any of the family stuff that had been in her old house, and I told her I had some photographs. She asked me if I had any pictures of my father, because she’d like one, and I reminded her that she has one on the headboard of her bed, as well as a pencil drawing my brother made on top of her china cabinet. At this point, she came the closest to breaking down I have ever heard her, telling me how much she misses my father.
We chatted a bit longer, mostly me reminding her of things she has forgotten. When I told her that I live in Quebec and I can’t rush over and help her every time she has a problem, she said, “I know, but you’re the easiest one to talk to.”
Almost immediately after I hung up, Hubby wanted to discuss the estimates we had received for reshingling the roof, and I couldn’t talk about it. I had to have him hold me so I could weep on his shoulder. I don’t know what’s worse: losing a person all at once or in dribs and drabs.
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