… if I don’t return from France. I will be hiding there, of course. I might seek out David Sedaris and we can be best friends forever. I shall visit a myriad of restaurants and be treated poorly by waiters at all of them. Yes, all this and other fun things to write on my “To Do” list. The reason I am running away (or at the very least, contemplating it) is that I cannot take one more minute of complaining. I cannot do it. The mother’s meds must be low or crapped out or something but I can no longer listen to phone call after phone call of complaints.
I think we are all agreed that life in a nursing home isn’t the best fantasy we can conjure up, right? (All in favor say AYE) I try to acknowledge that fact often to let her know that I truly and deeply understand how it sucks to have to live there. What more can I do? I cannot care for her myself. I don’t have the room, the skills or enough LSD to make that a viable alternative. So, I do what I can. I visit every week, try to bring her things that would make her life nicer, call every day, spend time looking at other nursing homes for her, hold her when she’s crying, call management when she says she’s being ignored. I can’t do any more than I am doing.
It just feels so futile, all my efforts and energy, when she calls and announces that since no one ever visits or calls her, that she hates having to share a room with someone, that life isn’t worth living since she cannot get up and go as she used to, her most fervent wish is to get into her car and drive it right into the Inner Harbor. I’d laugh if I just didn’t feel so …. what? What’s the word? Ineffectual? (sigh) I just listened because it felt like the only right thing to do at the time. Then she starts harping on me and how I don’t do enough for her. (double sigh). By the end of the conversation, I felt like a dishrag.
(Venting here. Sorry. If you’re looking for a happier place, I’d suggest shuffling over to GOL’s blog. She’s usually cheerful.)
So, if you don’t see me ever again in person, just know that I will be out there somewhere in France, eating escargot and oogling French men by the Eiffel Tower.