I Have A Candle to Light The Darkness--But No Match
My mother needs to go to the podiatrist. Her feet look like she could snatch a salmon out of a river. But I'm sick of having to deal with this, on top of all the other things I deal with--the doctor appointments, the recreational trips to the ER, the bill-paying and calendar-keeping, the pill organizers, etc.
To say nothing of trying to survive the complaining, the bitterness and negativity, her mostly dead memory.
Today's example: the slippers that are too small (Size XLarge) must therefore be defective, even though my mother has lymph-edema in both legs (her vascular system is compromised because at 89, she's been smoking at least a pack a day for 70 years). One leg is much worse.
Her accusation--and it is an accusation--is that the slippers I bought her are all factory rejects because a normal pair doesn't fit her deformed, outsize foot.
After three tries at this, I decided to modify the ones I'd already bought, turning regular scuffs into adjustable scuffs with eyelets, elastic shoestrings, and sewing.
"Why the hell do they put out such goofy merchandise?" I reminded her that I'd spent three hours on the project, trying to accommodate her. (I don't have time for this! I'm 65 and still working.) I didn't buy them that way. "They're too big."
"They're adjustable now."
Grump. "I guess."
Unlike many here who post these heartbreaking, nerve-wracking laments from the edge of insanity and despair, I'm an only child. I don't even have useless siblings. I have no one to complain to except my friends (and don't they hate to see me coming these days!) and you all.
I can't get help because I'm the only existing family member, and my mother will not for one minute entertain the idea of having Meals-on-Wheels or county assistance. It's me or no one.