The last week and a bit has been a bit kak in some ways, and hard to write about or think about much.
Your granny had a fall a week and a half ago, which is “normal” for her stage of brain atrophy, and is likely to happen regularly, says her doctor.
I was called to the emergency ward, and filled out forms, answered a lot of questions and had to go through a lot of admin before she was treated. And thus it began again – my “parenting” of my own mom. It’s not a new thing, but its still a hard thing being a “parent” to her when I still have so much of my own growing to do, and when I’m still feeling a bit mixed up about the situation, and how we got to this place.
I don’t write about it a lot, and when you’re older I’ll tell you all about Granny’s headaches, brain operation, treatments, medication, sadness and “decline”. How we placed her in a great care facility when I was pregnant with you, and how she isn’t able to do a lot without assistance these days.
I am angry and sad we are here. I am cross that she’s not okay or fully functional, I’m cross that I’m playing the role of “mom” to her when I so badly crave her to be my mom, and I’m cross that she’s in pain at the moment in hospital, not really knowing what’s happening to her.
I’m upset too – for her decline, and for her own sadness that I don’t think she ever resolved. And I miss her so much. Though she was never always a functioning mom like other moms, she always told me she loved me, could make the best cup of tea, and was always just there with that cup of tea after a crap day at work, or when I was sick, or after a bad blind date.
And how she loves you. She brightens up when she sees you, and when I saw her straight after surgery, the first thing she said to me was “where’s Max?”. I have taken you to see her almost every day, and you’ve been so great about it. We all know hospitals aren’t the happiest places, and I know how hard and disconcerting it is to see people sick and immobile.
But each time you go, you make Granny’s day by being there, and through your gentleness. You also offer Granny a plaster for her hip every time, and ask her if she’s better. At times like these you teach me how to move past the fear and the resentment, and accept what is, and what isn’t.
You’re a wonderful grandson,
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