Trying to get my head around my mom's recovery, if you want to call it that. Recovery would be an optimistic word. Trying to get my head around her maintenance is more like it. She had a walker delivered today, and the paperwork I read that the delivery guy left had me marked as a live-in caregiver. Ouch. It's not my job description, but it is as it appears, I reckon.
Hard to not make her life MY life. To put things in perspective is difficult. To be a juggler extraordinaire.
I read blogs about folks doing neat stuff. I wonder to myself, "How in the world do they make that happen?" Not finding life very neat just now. It's pretty stinky.
Talked to one of my mom's neighbors today, and she asked how she was, etc. I jokingly asked her to fill me in on what to do if she had any bright ideas. She said simply that she'd never had to do anything like we're doing. Just that. Honesty. I like that. No advice that's not asked for, no smart remarks, but just truth. She seemed sort of baffled. Join the club.
One of our friends in the neighborhood shakes her head when our son (who she works with) talks about my mom's situation. As does my dear friend, Tina. They have a realistic view of expectations, and what is really do-able and what's not. What puts the caregiver at risk. They say things I need to hear, but others seem to gloss over.
I really don't mean to sound like a droopy drawers, but this is requiring such a constant digging into myself for strength and endurance. Just sitting at my mom's kitchen table and talking (glad she can speak well) for long stretches is exhausting. I'm not social, she is. Oh pooh. Please ignore me. I just needed to talk.
