Mother's day approaches
I was cleaning the kitchen last night while someone else was on the phone with their mother. The TV had been muted for once, so all I heard was "inanity . . .inanity . . . Trump . . . inanity," while over it was this one-sided conversation with what has become a very familiar pattern.
"Oh, she's fine, working hard in school and working full time, so we rarely see her . . .Oh, he's doing great, he's up in Sacramento right now seeing his favorite band perform. . . . no . . . no . . . yes . . . Oh, she's fine, working hard in school. Working full time. We rarely see her . . . . No, he's not here right now, he's in Sacramento. Yes, that's right, Sacramento. His favorite band is playing . . .So, we'll see you Sunday, right? I'll call before we come over. No, she won't be there. She's working full time and going to school full time. . . ."
Each repetition slightly wound higher, betraying reined patience, and as I watched my hands wringing out the sponge and tightened my guts against the pain in my joints, I thought about when that didn't hurt, which caused me to look back down the years to my impatient small hands being guided in wiping down the horrible fifties linoleum in our kitchen. And I remembered the repeated lessons, no, you wring out the sponge first, or water will splash all over, and then you have more wiping to do.
I was not a patient listener, I whose mind resented the tedium of kitchen labor, which was never finished, unlike a story. In my head I wanted to be an adventurer, and adventurers don't have to wash dishes. Nevertheless I was given those years of guidance, which included repeated lessons, and so I'm thinking, now it's our turn. Every conversation with someone with dementia means that the same question will be asked repeatedly, because the asker really wants to know. Really wants to connect, as much as they can, in spite of bewildering shifts between then and all the possible nows.
So here's payback time for all that patience in those early days: each time the question is answered should sound like the first time.
And of course because real life is that way, I went out this morning to clean off the car that was parked for a single night on the visitor parking pads due to street sweeping. All down one side of the car was what looked like a squadron of birds with serious digestive issue had worked hard all night to carpet-bomb that car. With intent. It took half an hour last night to make the first pass (because it's illegal to wash cars with the water left running, not to mention wasteful), and forty-minutes an hour ago, until my hands gave out.
There's still some work left to go. Thanks, birds.
This entry was originally posted at https://sartorias.dreamwidth.org/979304.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
"Oh, she's fine, working hard in school and working full time, so we rarely see her . . .Oh, he's doing great, he's up in Sacramento right now seeing his favorite band perform. . . . no . . . no . . . yes . . . Oh, she's fine, working hard in school. Working full time. We rarely see her . . . . No, he's not here right now, he's in Sacramento. Yes, that's right, Sacramento. His favorite band is playing . . .So, we'll see you Sunday, right? I'll call before we come over. No, she won't be there. She's working full time and going to school full time. . . ."
Each repetition slightly wound higher, betraying reined patience, and as I watched my hands wringing out the sponge and tightened my guts against the pain in my joints, I thought about when that didn't hurt, which caused me to look back down the years to my impatient small hands being guided in wiping down the horrible fifties linoleum in our kitchen. And I remembered the repeated lessons, no, you wring out the sponge first, or water will splash all over, and then you have more wiping to do.
I was not a patient listener, I whose mind resented the tedium of kitchen labor, which was never finished, unlike a story. In my head I wanted to be an adventurer, and adventurers don't have to wash dishes. Nevertheless I was given those years of guidance, which included repeated lessons, and so I'm thinking, now it's our turn. Every conversation with someone with dementia means that the same question will be asked repeatedly, because the asker really wants to know. Really wants to connect, as much as they can, in spite of bewildering shifts between then and all the possible nows.
So here's payback time for all that patience in those early days: each time the question is answered should sound like the first time.
And of course because real life is that way, I went out this morning to clean off the car that was parked for a single night on the visitor parking pads due to street sweeping. All down one side of the car was what looked like a squadron of birds with serious digestive issue had worked hard all night to carpet-bomb that car. With intent. It took half an hour last night to make the first pass (because it's illegal to wash cars with the water left running, not to mention wasteful), and forty-minutes an hour ago, until my hands gave out.
There's still some work left to go. Thanks, birds.
This entry was originally posted at https://sartorias.dreamwidth.org/979304.html. Please comment there using OpenID.