I don't know if my mother is regretting her decision not to go to a rehab hospital yet. Anyone who calls or stops by and asks how she is doing gets the same reply--"Oh, honey. . . I'm not doing well at all." She sits in a chair or wanders a few feet with the walker. She moans. She can no longer remember what meds she is taking. Her blood pressure remains way too high. She barely eats. I sit with her, but there is nothing I can do except go down with her.
And I am.
Yesterday I had to leave to work at my house. First, however, I went to the gym. I didn't feel well at all, and the least exertion had me sweating bullets. Sick sweat. People were friendly and stopped to chat. They always asked about my mother. I kept working and sweating and chatting, and by the end of a what took longer than normal workout, I was feeling better. I had a bottle of water in the car and drank it down. I went to the house to paint.
It was hard painting in that little cubby of a pantry. I had to squat with bad knees, bend with a bad back, twist and reach with a terribly broken thorax. Thorax?!
Whatever.
Several times I thought about stopping before I finished. And then I didn't, and then it was done. I felt a hundred times better. I drank more water. I had been feeling so badly, I hadn't eaten all day. It was o.k. I washed out the brush and the roller, two things I usually don't do. Rather, I'll stick them in a bucket of water and let them sit there forever. But no, I cleaned them well and will reuse them today.
I showered. I washed my hair, gave it good conditioning, brushed my teeth with my power brusher, creamed my face with my beauty unguents, conditioned my skin. . . you know, things one can do at home.
It seemed the sickness had left me. I went to my computer and looked at a folder I put together what seems a lifetime ago for my proposed website. It was the NYC folder. "Fabulous," I thought. Would anyone else? There are so very many good ones. . . I need to work on it.
Then it was time to do a grocery run and get back to my mother's house. It would be a vegetarian meal with tofu. I had brought my big Dutch Oven from my house so that I could actually cook well. My mother's cookware is not to be recommended.
When I got to her house, she was sitting in a chair with the heating vibrator pad she has spent most of the last year on. I made the several trips from the car to the house carrying the goods. I sat down to talk with her, but she couldn't hear me. I tipped one of her light beers and put the brown jasmine rice to cooking. Then I began chopping the vegetables--carrots, broccoli, potatoes, mushrooms, onion, pablamo pepper. . . .
I dried the feta and cut it into slices and put it into a pan on medium heat to sear a bit. Teriyaki. Then I added garbanzo beans. In a bit, after seasoning, I dropped in the vegetables. The rice cooker popped. I put spinach into the vegetable mix. Holy smokes, the colors were beautiful.
I'd made too much, as usual. When I dished it for my mother, she said she couldn't eat all of it.
There was a knock at the door. The neighbor lady came to visit. She sat at the table while we ate.
My mother complained. Her head hung down. The neighbor looked at me with meaningful eyes. Yea, yea. . . what can I do.
"If you need anything. . . ."
And of course, "You need to take care of yourself, too."
When the neighbor left and dinner was finished, it was 6:30. We watched the Evening News.
My mother needed something from the drugstore. It was seven and not near dark. I haven't been out at seven for. . . ? It felt liberating. I just wanted to keep driving. Go to a cafe. Drink with pretty women. Anything.
Back home, I cleaned the kitchen and sat down with a glass. I searched Amazon Prime for "South Park." I pulled up the latest episode, the now infamous tiny dick Trump episode. It was on Paramount. Somehow, I was able to watch it. Do I have a subscription? I must.
"What in the world is that?" my mother asked. She'd never seen anything like this before.
Even for me, the episode was shocking. Those boys have big cojones, I think. But they nailed it, nailed the whole State of the Union. We are a nation of bullied cowards now. Everyone looks over their shoulder. Everyone thinks twice.
Google's got their eyes on me. I wonder who else?
I need to make that website, but I have so much to do. Today the carpenter will be back to finish up his work, I think. Then mine begins. I will see if he wants to do more.
It's only money 😧.
My mother moves around slowly, moaning, not speaking now. I don't know what she thinks she is accomplishing by sitting in her home suffering. She will have to sit alone all day again today until I get back sometime this afternoon. For all the good that yesterday did, I feel I am back in the same place. The sickness returns.
But the veggie meal was good and cleansing, and there is enough left over that I can heat it up and cook a bit of cod or haddock to go with it tonight.
And so, my blog continues to spiral into the void. It can't be helped. There is nothing to do about it.
I think I REALLY need a massage. No. . . a spa day. I need to be pampered for awhile.
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