Thursday, December 13, 2012
It was a listening night last night and it was a beautiful night of music and I was so glad I went. I got sparkled up and velveted up and we had a nice supper and I saw old friends and it was just good. How strange to go out on a Wednesday night, but how nice to kiss and hug and be kissed and hugged, how fine to feel filled up with the music, Lis's voice, the sweetness of it all.
And it's still gray today and tonight's the night we're supposed to go to the big holiday dinner at the assisted living where Mother lives but I just talked to her and she sounds awful. She's nauseated, has been for three days, she says, and so I'm going up there now. She's going to see the doctor around noon and I need to be there. She sounds awful, just awful and I hate that. I hate that she feels so bad. She told me that no one had brought her anything to eat or drink but of course they have. I've spoken to the nurse and to the aid and she has bananas and crackers and ginger ale but she feels so alone and in a way, she is and so I need to go up there.
I have always felt helpless in the face of my mother's needs. From the time I was a small child. And here I am again, and again, I feel like a small child dressing up as an adult, trying to fix something unfixable, my hands empty, my heart tiny and shrunken, compressed by the knowledge that I cannot really do anything at all, this life-long sense of failure dragging behind me like a stone, so dense that science alone cannot explain it.
Or perhaps I am just being dramatic and self-centered and that would not surprise me and all I really need to do is listen.