Emotionalism

It's Father's Day and I'm sitting a Craft Brewed and sipping a Bearded Iris "Homestyle IPA" before I to pick up a pizza from Mafiozza's for dinner.

I spent an alternately relaxing and stressful afternoon at my mom's place.  So many times, I find myself unwinding with a beer after I see her.  Not several beers mind you, just one beer and some solitude.  I think taking a few minutes for myself helps me process my emotions and get them under control before I get home and interact with the boys and Jude.  I need that, at least right now, I do.

When I arrived about 2:30 p.m., my mom and I almost bumped into each other as I exited the elevator on the second floor at Maristone.  She was up and using her walker with the intention of going downstairs to eat lunch.  The problem, of course, is that she ate lunch at noon like she always does but couldn't remember it.  I suggested she let me make her a peanut butter and banana sandwich in her apartment and she readily agreed.

We talked for a bit while she was eating her second lunch of the day.  I changed the channel to the U.S. Open golf championship.  I don't play golf at all but my law partners and I always bet with each other on the outcome, so it was fun to talk to her about who she needed to root for in order for me to win money from Mark and Chas.  By now, I'm used to her asking me repeatedly - and I mean repeatedly - where they're playing, who a particular golfer is, etc.  I'm used to it but it still makes me so sad because, somehow, that's the saddest thing of all - that such a huge sports fan can no longer follow a sporting event on television.

So many times over the years, we talked on the telephone on weekends and discussed in detail the sporting event of the moment.  Wimbledon, the PGA Championship, the NBA playoffs, the Predators,  the Titans, the British Open, the Olympics . . . the list goes on and on and on.  If it involved sports and was on television, she would watch it.  The more drama involved, the better.  And we talked about it.  Sports was the currency that we traded in for so many years.  It was out native tongue, our common language.

I fell asleep for on the couch while we watched golf and when I woke up, she wasn't sitting in her chair.  I could hear her in the bathroom, so I wasn't worried, particularly since she had remembered to use her walker.  My heart sank when she walked out of her bedroom and was surprised to see me.  She didn't believe that I had been there or that I had been napping on the couch.  She also didn't believe that I had made her a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  In short, she was confused and agitate, which is hard for me to deal with.

She argued with me about whether it was time to go down for dinner.  Finally, I convinced her it was, and I got her in her wheelchair and wheeled her down to the dining hall.  15 minutes later, she had wheeled herself back upstairs because she didn't like what was for dinner and the servers were mean to her, which is complete bullshit.  William in the dining hall is my guy and he looks out for her.

I gave her a sandwich Tracy had made and left in her refrigerator and she settled down, as we continued to watch the U.S. Open.  I left after she finished eating.

It's just so hard and exhausting and I feel emotionally spent.  I know that we're not unique and that many -  hell, most - people go through this with their parents at some point.  Knowing that doesn't make it any easier for me to got through it now.  Most importantly, I hate it for her.  That's what kills me.  This strong, independent, outspoken, intelligent women has been reduced by this terrible disease to what she is now.  It's unfair to her and she deserved so much better.