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Sep. 20th, 2004 06:24 pmI'm afraid and that is probably one of the worst feelings in the world. It's time for me to leave work, time to head up to the nursing home. But I can't bring myself to actually get up and leave my office.
I hate this.
Saturday was so horrible. I spent the better part of an hour and a half being berated by my mother, or rather the illness which has taken over my mother. The things she said to me, half the time she thought I was her mother. I can't repeat them. I've told very few people what was actually said. Every time I recount that day to someone, another little ice-edged knife wiggles its way into my heart.
It hurt then, it still hurts now. What made it even worse was the fact that The Engineer was with me and witnessed it all. I was embarassed. Shamed. For myself. For my mother. For my family. No one else should have to see this mess. Hell, WE shouldn't even have to see it.
I can handle almost anything verbal thrown at me. One of my co-workers today said to me, "At least it's not religion." But, you know, I could deal with that. I could deal just fine. I could very easily handle the bible-thumping end-of-days fearspeech. Similar things have been said to me my entire life.
Shit, I had my father's aunt lay hands on me in the middle of Atlanta International airport for a rather loud prayer session. That was just two years ago. Incredibly uncomfortable, but I dealt with it (mostly by hollering at my father for being so doubled over with laughter at my predicament that he couldn't put a stop to her doing it).
But having things said to me, things that were already weighing on my newly fragile conscience?
That I can't quite cope with.
I know it's not actually her saying them. I know it's the cancer. I know she's incoherant. I know she's on heavy doses of morphine. But it doesn't make this any less painful.
I have a guilt complex that rivals an entire brigade of grandmothers. Catholic grandmothers. Catholic Jewish grandmothers. Thousands of them. They don't hold a candle to me. It's like my super power. The ability to feel ultimately responsible for everything in the entire world. That's me.
And the phone calls I have to make, the phone calls I receive. I consoled my mother's grade school friend over the line last night. She asked me how things were and I, in my bluntness, did not candy coat them. I was never much for sugaring information up to begin with, but this situation has made me even less eager to do so. I wasn't unkind, though. I just told her the truth of what's been going on.
She began to cry.
I knew the last time I visited that I would never see her again.
I hate this.
Saturday was so horrible. I spent the better part of an hour and a half being berated by my mother, or rather the illness which has taken over my mother. The things she said to me, half the time she thought I was her mother. I can't repeat them. I've told very few people what was actually said. Every time I recount that day to someone, another little ice-edged knife wiggles its way into my heart.
It hurt then, it still hurts now. What made it even worse was the fact that The Engineer was with me and witnessed it all. I was embarassed. Shamed. For myself. For my mother. For my family. No one else should have to see this mess. Hell, WE shouldn't even have to see it.
I can handle almost anything verbal thrown at me. One of my co-workers today said to me, "At least it's not religion." But, you know, I could deal with that. I could deal just fine. I could very easily handle the bible-thumping end-of-days fearspeech. Similar things have been said to me my entire life.
Shit, I had my father's aunt lay hands on me in the middle of Atlanta International airport for a rather loud prayer session. That was just two years ago. Incredibly uncomfortable, but I dealt with it (mostly by hollering at my father for being so doubled over with laughter at my predicament that he couldn't put a stop to her doing it).
But having things said to me, things that were already weighing on my newly fragile conscience?
That I can't quite cope with.
I know it's not actually her saying them. I know it's the cancer. I know she's incoherant. I know she's on heavy doses of morphine. But it doesn't make this any less painful.
I have a guilt complex that rivals an entire brigade of grandmothers. Catholic grandmothers. Catholic Jewish grandmothers. Thousands of them. They don't hold a candle to me. It's like my super power. The ability to feel ultimately responsible for everything in the entire world. That's me.
And the phone calls I have to make, the phone calls I receive. I consoled my mother's grade school friend over the line last night. She asked me how things were and I, in my bluntness, did not candy coat them. I was never much for sugaring information up to begin with, but this situation has made me even less eager to do so. I wasn't unkind, though. I just told her the truth of what's been going on.
She began to cry.
I knew the last time I visited that I would never see her again.
