Having a wallow in Self Pity Street

The fight over Ma’s bed continues.  So far I’ve managed to convince her to sleep in her bed although it’s been a battle that I’m so tired of fighting.  Last night she was going to sleep in her electric recliner chair until she found it was ‘closed off’. Nothing was actually wrong with it… she just thought that it was.  Next thing we move into her bedroom so I can put her pants on and it’s all I can do to get her to hold onto the rail so I can put them on.

While I exit the room to clean up after her shower she decides she’ll sleep in the chair in her bedroom.  I come back to find she’s got her head on the window sill on a pillow and a rug over her knees.  This was after I promised her I’d sleep in her bed with her again.  I turn her television on in the hopes it will lure her out of the chair and start making conversation about what’s on and playing up to La la and Colonel (the cats).  Her show starts and I ask her whether she wants to watch it.  Finally she makes the transition to the bed and we watch her show together.  After I turn the television off she tells me she’s off to bed and starts to get up!    Aaargh!! I finally convince her to stay put and we settle down for the night… or try to.  It’s hot and it’s crowded and my back is aching and I’m seething with frustration.  I was sure it was going to be the longest night in the history of mankind.

This morning I couldn’t wait to get out of bed.  I’m so tired I feel like a zombie without the flesh eating part.  It’s all I can do to be civil to her.  She is cheerful and eats her breakfast which I serve in her bedroom!  She told me she’d stay in her bedroom if she had a smaller bed so I carry the single bed up from the garage a piece at a time.  Heaving the mattress up the stairs was interesting and I was sweating like a pig by the end of it all.  I finally lug it through the front door and Ma says to me, “can I help you with that?”  If I wasn’t so dratted down and out I’d cry.  The respite lady arrives at this stage and after washing the dust of me I leave for my hour out.

Some days I can’t wait for her to go into care so that I can breathe, so I can go out for two hours and not worry about whether she’ll be ok.  I’m tired of watching the clock every minute I’m out to make sure I don’t leave her alone for too long.  I’m tired of being called a liar and a thief when she enters physcho mode.  I’m tired of not being able to go to work and interact with people and have conversations and think about things other then bowel movements and medications.  I want to go to bed at night and sleep right through without getting up.  Then the guilt hits me.  I feel guilty for wanting to escape and wanting my life back and I feel guilty about giving up and placing her in care.

I miss friends I thought I had but didn’t and am grateful for the acquaintenances I had that are now friends.  I’m grateful I have this time with Ma and pity those who are missing out on this time with her.  I’m a lucky carer, my Ma knows me; her memory, although a wee bit dodgy at times, is still pretty good for 88 years of age.

Time I erected the bed in her new bedroom aka the lounge room….


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