Friday, May 23, 2014 

Had to help out at market yesterday. Before I left, I looked longingly at one of my plants—a glorious azalea-like orange flower with a scent that never ends. Short-lived flower, but what a life. I wanted to take a photo to send to my uncle but thought I had time. Off to market. Photos tomorrow. 

The market building has a flat roof. I would swear it was tin. When it rains, it’s quite the experience. But yesterday, we had two hail storms, resulting in cracked windshields, destroyed car bodies, flash floods, downed trees, and damaged plants. I turned my head up to the heavens and said, “My garden! Oh Lord, not my garden.” But of course, my garden was the least of it all. It survived, rosebuds and all. Quite the mess out there, of course, but the flowers will return. I wait a year for the show and to miss it is more than I can bear. How many more years do I have on earth to watch the spring unfolding. Will I have 20 shows, 25 more shows? If I reach my mother’s age in 30 more years, will I even know there is a show? Will I understand what a flower is? Will I ask that the vase of flowers be thrown away—something my mother does regularly. She always thought flowers were dirty and messy. We rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything. She still screams when bugs or flies get into the house. She demands their immediate demise. Rob and I carry them out to safety and away from her murderous hands and weapon of choice.

Mom has been to the bathroom twice this morning for serious work. She had taken up her sister Rose’s chant: I can’t go. Help me. Get me out of here? I ask her what could possibly be so wrong. I tell her to sit there. Relax. Read a book. Stop complaining. But she doesn’t understand what’s going on. She doesn’t understand bodily processes any more. She doesn’t know that she has only sat for 2 or 3 minutes. To her, it is a lifetime. To her, she is abandoned and will never find her way back to her room, wherever that is. 

I change the topic and tell her that today she will have her hair done, but she is not happy. Nothing can change the mode of the moment. She is on the toilet and worried. She tells me that she doesn’t want to go today, but I know she will change her mind later. I hope she will.

 Later—

Mom has had her hair done, but that didn’t stop her from asking Rob when I was going to take her to get her hair done. But there she was in her room, straightening her clothing, hanging her jacket in the closet, folding her slacks. Ever the neat woman. 

Just now, she insisted again that I go to the bank in Jersey City to get her money to pay for her haircut. I argued. It’s what I do best. I said, Mom, (1) there is no bank account in Jersey City; (2) Jersey City is 2.5 hours away; (3) I write checks when I need cash. But then, it hit me: What am I doing? She has no clue. So I calmed down and said, I’ll be right back. I’m going to bank right now to get the money. She was delighted: Oh will you. I feel so much better.

So, I am off to market. I will pretend that I went to the bank and withdrew her money. I will assure her that I reimbursed myself for her haircut. I must get it into my head that I cannot teach her. I cannot retrain her. I cannot help her focus her mind on anything. It will be so much easier if I continue to do this for her—and for me. Pretending and reassuring.