Almost 9 O'Clock: Being Mom to my Mom

My first day with a driver's license, I was an hour late getting home.  Mom was sitting up in the den.  She turned so that I could see her tears, and then she climbed the stairs to bed.

I got the point.  She'd been waiting for the phone to ring, the hospital or policeman on the other end.

42 years later:  Mother fell last Wednesday and bruised her arms, and fell the next night so that I had to rush away from dinner in Atlanta to stand beside her in the Emergency Room. She phoned around 6:45 Monday night, her voice strained, telling me to "come up here and solve all my problems for me." By 7, I was with her, and we were laughing because she had no idea what she'd had in mind when she called.

Part of the problem is that little bottle of wine that she likes to ease her into the evening.  She finishes it off, throws away the bottle, rinses the glass, wanders into the living room, and thinks, "Ah, it's time for my nightly glass of wine."  That can go on to three or four bottles. 

Tonight, I've worked two hours on this blog with single-minded concentration, forgetting even to drink water.  I'm thirsty, my head hurts, and my neck is stiff. But I'm happy: My phone hasn't vibrated even once, and it's 8:58 pm.  Every time I check the clock and haven't heard bad news about Mom, I think, we've made it for another night.

Waiting at the doctor's office for removal of staples from the bad fall she took last week [see photo], she wanted to know, "Why are we here?"  I ran through the list of our recent adventures. She laughed, "Having me is just like having a teenage boy, isn't it?  Serves you right!"

Earlier reflections on life with dementia:
Moving Mom: Worrying, You Suffer Twice  .
Does "Unfiltered" Mean True?
Photo with Mom: Safety Deposit for Emotions.

See other entries in my "Dementia Diary."