Bad Memory Day

It was a bad memory day at Atria.  I had new pictures of Brianna and Lacie that I had framed for her.  She was  thrilled with them and said "oh...what cute little girls" but then said "who are they?"  I pointed out that they were her great-grandchildren and she said she didn't remember ever seeing them before (though she sits across the room from several photos of them and tells me every day how cute they are).  She then suggested that I write their names on the back of the frame to help her remember.

I'm afraid I was not in a good mood today.  My cousin Niecie was there and my mother made that disgusted sound when she said "what do you think about her hair?" and then when we went into the dining room to sit with Margaret, she rolled her eyes and turned to Margaret and asked "what do you think of her hair?"  I'm getting tired with her disgust over my shaved head.

Her back pain is getting worse and as I watched her wince while getting out of her chair, I suggested that maybe we should go see the doctor again.  "NO!" she shouted at me.  She won't take pain medication, and she won't try using a walker, though she tells me "you don't know what I dol"  No.  I just know that she tells me nearly every day that if she ever has to use a walker, I should just shoot her.

I was glad Niece was there.  Niece is perpetually upbeat and only sees the good and positive in her visits with my mother, but then she only sees her every month and a half or so.  I'm afraid that today I could not share her joy in being there.

It's not her fault.  Of course it's not her fault and I'm a bad person for being upset about it, but some days my tolerance is just a little bit lower than other days.  I should always keep my father in mind.  As his father got more and more feeble, my father's anger at him got worse and worse.  He hated that he had to help his father walk.  He hated when it took him a long time to do anything.  When he was in his last hour in the hospital, my father went out to get a haircut for the funeral and my grandfather died in my mother's arms, while my father was not there.

After the funeral there were copious tears and stories about what a great guy his father had been.  Just not when his body began to fail him (though he didn't add that).  My mother has been my hero most of my life.  I should think of that on days like today, and not the things that frustrate me.