Tuesday, January 11, 2017

Sometimes I think I should stop writing. There is nothing new to say. And when I think I have mastered my emotions over this entire mess, I prove myself wrong.

Every diaper change has been a challenge, but I had remained ahead of the game by anticipating mom’s trips to the toilet, where I could clean her myself. Last night, I lost. Valentino had me up at 0220 to romp in the yard. Mom’s hours have disconcerted him, too. And when I finally heard mom call, I ran downstairs to find her asleep. This often happens, but only moments later, she will arise and walk to the bathroom. She did this morning around 0400. Alone.

When I arose two hours later to take Val for his real walk, I had to first clean the bathroom. No need to describe the scene. I examined mom in her bed. No diaper, of course. So I lifted her little body and put one of those tabbed affairs on her to prevent the dried poop from flaking off onto the floors. I let mom sleep for a while then marched her to the shower. Just as I was drying her down, she pooped in the tub.

Now, I think I reacted pretty much the way any mother would whose child did the same. I put her on the toilet and said, “Now, sit there until you poop in the toilet. All week I have been cleaning you up and pitching soiled diapers. Sit there until you poop and you’re not getting up until you do!” After 5 days of cleaning filled diapers, she did. Finally!

Mom is now in the kitchen. She is temporarily clean and smells good. It won’t last. I will pull her diaper back throughout the day to check it. Too often, it will require changing. This is the child I never had with one huge exception. She will never grow up. She will grow worse and then she will die.

Don’t ask me what the lesson is. Not today. I don’t care. Not tomorrow. I won’t care then either. If I live long enough, I might figure something out in 10 or 20 years. Who knows? Mom is my “sewa,” my mission, my responsibility. I accept it. I do it because I must. That’s all. There is no reward for this and there will never be—until it is over. The lingering “reward” might be a guilty conscience for the times I lost my temper or a yearning to redo a moment more sweetly. But the truth is, this is life. It’s fluid. It’s tough. It’s fraught with complications. It doesn’t get easier. And it won’t be any easier when her life has ended. Cleaner, perhaps. But not easier.