flightless hag

A chronicle of the adventures of birdwoman: a lonely, talentless freak who wanders the internet in search of entertainment.

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Location: Philly

I'm a 40-something married white female, survivor of weight watchers, avid reader of pulp. Dogs (not cats), extreme right (handed, not politics), ENTJ, alto, wanna-be knitter.

May 16, 2017

Happy Mothers' Day

So my mom. She's a shell of who she used to be. She's in a home - and I thank God for them all the time. The folks there are amazing and taking great care of her.

I spent a few hours with her, talking at her some, wheeling her around the place. Of course, it rained, so we couldn't go outside. I asked her about her childhood - that seems to be the clearest these days. I asked if they had pigs, and she answered yes. Asked about horses when we saw pictures of them. "Yes, we had two. One was a big black horse."

"Did your horses have names? Or were they just the horses?"

"We called the big black one Nigger."

Whoops. Shouldn't have asked that question. It was a different time, of course, but darn. I'm still cringing at that one.

All in all, it was a pretty good day.

But.

She wanted ANYTHING but this. Anything. She can't really talk. She can read but can't comprehend, really. I went up to see her this weekend - on Mother's Day. I took a bluetooth speaker and played all the old favorites. She had her hands tapping and strumming with Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. She sang along with Roger Miller, Elton Brit, and Tennessee Ernie Ford. I could almost see her in there.

And then Big Rock Candy Mountain came on. And she started to sing along. And her eyes cleared. And she realized where she was. And she started to cry. Just a little. Took off her glasses and wiped her eyes then stopped singing and stared out the window.

She's a prisoner in her own body.

 She does have some control - won't take her meds if she can help it. Doesn't eat much. They think it's because she's "distracted". I think it's because she's trying to get away in the only way she can now. Course, I've always been Debbie Downer.

If I had my druthers, I'd go like my Dad. 59 years old. Good life, all in all (as John Denver said). Done in a flash, and it was nobody's fault. It was hard at the time - and it scarred some of my family members for a really long time. But people remember him as he was, and no one had to watch him suffer. No one had to feel guilty for allowing him to suffer.

Crap.

I know it's not about me. I know it isn't. But darn it, I wish I could do something. Anything. And I can't.

Happy mothers day.

1 Comments:

Blogger Big Sis said...

Ditto. <3

May 27, 2017 3:02 PM  

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