I tried talking to my mom. I don't usually, I do all her stuff like I'm her body getting her food and drink and keeping her in the sun or out of it or blanketed or not, but I usually sit over there, juuuuust far enough away where dementia can't get me but I can view it and I can say hey I'm right here every now and then. Cause if you're not in her eyeline I'm not sure she knows I'm there and I don't want her to feel abandoned on a raft like Wilssssssonnnn. In Castaway.
Yesterday I sat in front of her and angled her chair around til I caught her eye and let her talk to me. I'm not a good Alice in Wonderland, it is hard for me to listen to words that are not leading anywhere, words are the chocolate milk of my life, words are bows and arrows slung well aimed. These words were nonsense and out of one of the primary mouths in my life. But I didn't leave, I sat and asked questions. I stopped listening for meaning in the words, I let the words wring out and sit soggy like a soaked washed cloth next to us. Even though I don't like to abandon words, I left them alone landing there like wet money. Instead I looked at her face and her eyes that have known me and loved me all my life. I watched her mannerisms still there, the pauses and the laughs, and the focus on her face when she's making a point even though the words are latelifesicklanguage. Somewhere in her she is still a flowery field and she's sharing all she has. So I have to wade through bent flowers to sit in front of her and listen to her stories. When you sit in front of your ailing mom as the kid, you are shrunken to your bare core child. This is why it is hard to cross the room. You just want her to love you and never leave you, even broken. You want her to say good job. You want her to notice you.
I'm wondering who's crazy er. Then. My needs expectations which are unfulfillable but still there. And my mom who is still there using words that don't match up.
So we unknowingly build this swirl of unmet needs, confusion mixed with the dance of daily care and it becomes a meaty emotional sundae and that's anger.
But then I read this morning that if you sit long enough with anger you can find its true name.
Grief.
I am going to poke a stick in grief. Take it on the trail and make friends with it, because I am in there too. I did not walk in there, it washed over me like a Halloween horror maze but I am in there with friends. We are all in there for something.
Today I decided I better sit with grief and stroke its fingers. Because I am in there so it must be a good place. Love got me there.
