We were running late this morning, and as I was finishing up getting ready, I had the passing thought of how different my Sunday mornings will be when my mom goes back home to her house. In three weeks time. Already I do the altar flowers as soon as we get there, followed up by helping in the younger childrens' Sunday school class. I even told one of our boys that I dislike having to hurry to do the flowers in order to do the next thing. Would rather take my time and not feel rushed. Of course, if we'd get there a tad earlier, that'd not be a problem. And as it is, even running late is okay. In perspective, it's very much okay.
In a related stream of consciousness----I'm reading Anna Quindlen's One True Thing on the heels of her newest book called Still Life with Bread Crumbs, which I enjoyed very much. Anyway, not so sure One True Thing is a wise read for me, that is, unless I'm reaching for raw honesty. In it the main character goes back home to care for her mother who's suffering from cancer. My mom doesn't have cancer, but her stroke could be put into a similar pot. Hard. Hard. Hard.
The young daughter in Quindlen's book kicks and screams (in her head) about caring for her mom---going into painful detail about their relationship. Nothing outstanding, but misunderstandings. Not getting one another, which, pretty much, sizes up my relationship with my own mom.
Now I'm listening to Claire de Lune, my favorite song of all time, given to me by my mom. When I was a child, she'd get out old 78s (the thick ones...remember?) and play them on the turntable. She'd never play classical music when my dad was home (he favored country), but would crank it up when he left for work. Her all-time delight was in Claire de Lune, and she's asked the organist/pianist at her church if he'd play it when she goes back to church for the first time.
Everything will change in 3 weeks. She'll be at her house needing 24 hour care. A quote in Quindlen's book rang out to me as I read it:
"This is not Peter Pan," she said. "Your brothers are not the Lost Boys. They can learn how to run a microwave. Your father can learn where the ******* dry cleaner is. But no one," she ended, and her eyes filled, "can help your mother with the **** she'll be going through but you."
And so it goes. Sundays will never be the same. They (and every other day) will begin much earlier and end much later. Not to sound like a drama queen, but I don't have faith in myself or those around me to be able to get the swing of this. Having her in Rehab has been a blessing. I get the idea of having parents in nursing homes. I'm not a fan, but I get it. I want my life to stay the way it is now. I'm selfish. And I'm scared.
And I'm not asking anyone to sooth me or tell me it'll all be okay. It really won't. I cringe when I think of it, and feel mean for feeling that way. I scold myself for being honest, and Gary will ask me why this wrenches me so. And know what? I can't answer that, because really, I don't know.
