Pleading

 

            I was doing okay until my brother told me about his visit with Mom today.

            Perhaps it is predictable, but I did not predict it.  Mom pleaded with John to take her back home.  In 24 hours, she has rallied—walking and moving better than she has in a long time—in order to prove she is strong enough to be home.  What she does not know is that it is as much her dementia as her weakness that prompted this removal to residential care.  In the meantime, says Wendy (the coordinator) Mom is isolating herself in her room.  Maybe we made it too welcoming.

            Knowledge of her distress unnerves me.  I can hardly stand to think of her so upset.  Worse, I can hardly stand the prospect of hearing her pleas when I visit day after tomorrow.  I am one guilt-ridden coward.

            I hate having been the one who ran out of steam.  I hate being responsible for moving her.  Why couldn’t I bear more?  Why did I run dry before her memory completely ran out?  Why can’t I be super-daughter?  How can I feel so relieved to be here in her home alone, making it my own?  How do I deal with the guilt over my relief and the ache over her anxiety?

            Mistakenly, naively, I thought the worse was behind us once we made it through yesterday’s move.  This morning at our church’s prayer retreat, I vowed to use my new solitude at home to draw closer to Christ.  So here I am, Jesus, and I’m a mess.  Please bring peace to Mom’s soul and help John and me to help her through this terrible transition.