Want to Know Why I am Overweight?
by Daughter is Trying
Because I'm scared, confused, overwhelmed, sad, upset, tired, sick, broke, hopeless, lonely, bedraggled, driving a 200,000 mile car, bank account on empty, no break in sight. I keep a brave and even cheerful front up. I am polite and respectful to nurses, doctors, aides. I am endlessly patient with my Alzheimer's mother, dressing and caring for her day in day out, year after year, through hospitalizations, good days, bad days.
I never know what I'm going to find: find – Mom in her chair with no underwear, and then the slip covers need to be washed, or Mom inexplicably conked out sleeping no matter what time of day it is, or Mom acting quite normal, watching TV.
I carry on with the taxes, paperwork, chores, bills, and try to make some kind of time for myself, but I am squashed like a bug in all of this.
I have become an invisible by product of the machine that involves keeping an Alzheimer's mother going. Since she cannot fend for herself, I am her brain, and I must watch out for her constantly.
I keep getting sick from these facilities where I go to visit her. Months of bronchitis, the same deep cough echoing among the nursing staff.
Late at night, I worry for my own life, Who is there to help me? I am alone in this mess that has become my life.
I moved to take care of her, and now I am starting over at age 60, in a new community, and it seems too late
for me. I am a cog in the wheel, that will rust out soon.
Each day I make my way to where she is, and pass rows of elderly in various states of undoing, I valiantly smile and try to bring warmth and joy. And I see my dear Mother enshrouded in the walls of an artificial home. I go back to the apartment I inhabit, my belongings in boxes piled up, will I ever unpack and have a home again myself?
I am drained, and if I scratch the surface of my stalwart armor, there is a scared sadness, a tired, overwhelm, a swollen gland throat, not enough money to pay bills.
I stop at the food store, and with the little energy I have left, search for something to eat.
Knowing I need to be healthy, but barely able to make it back to the car, and into the house, to collapse, and sit stunned, by yet another day, of the sad grief and bravado, and I shove some cookies in my face, because the only thing that can begin to touch the wound I feel, is the band-aid of sugar, and I eat my sandwich, and wait till I must check on her again shortly.
You see, as bad as my life is, hers is worse. Wet adult underwear, unbrushed teeth and hair, trouble walking, hearing.
I just try to make this unbearable process just a little better for her. And I hope that God and whatever angels there may be, will take care of me.