It's the Dementia talking...isn't it?

My aunt has been here from Ottawa for a couple of days, so I've had a bit of a break from daily visits with mom. I actually stayed home all day on Thursday for the first time since January 25. I visited Aunt Clairol, and then I actually took a nap...bliss.

Yesterday was my husband's birthday, and he hadn't seen my aunt yet, so we popped in after dinner for a little visit. I gave mom the option of saying no, but she said come ahead. We should have stayed home.

I took all the information over on Friday about Long Term Care facilities. My mom has been fighting what is increasingly a losing battle with Squamous Cell Carcinoma-that's skin cancer in plain terms. She's had a number of these things surgically removed from her right forehead, and went through 6 weeks of radiation. They've grown back and they're spreading. Since her return home from hospital, she hasn't felt well enough to make a trip to the doctor's office, but it is rapidly becoming a necessity. The case manager thinks that the cancer is the tipping point for whether mom needs a retirement home or a nursing home. It could also turn out to be palliative care, which by-passes both. The case manager also thinks we should only move mom once. Hurry up and wait until we know what stage the cancer is at.

Mom has been touring a bit with the walker. I call it Myrtle. My aunt calls it Sally, but either way, it's becoming a companion rather than an adversary. While she still won't use it in the apartment, mom is slowly coming to terms with using it when we leave the apartment. Baby steps in the right direction, but I'll take them. Mom was tired last night, and I knew from being there earlier that she was having a "fuzzy" day-she was more confused than usual.

My mother has always been "plain spoken." She doesn't believe in sugar-coating what she has to say. For example, when she phoned me in Toronto to tell me that my father died, the conversation went like this. My mother never called me at work, so I knew something was up.

"It's your mother."

"Mom? What's wrong?"

"It's your father."

"What's wrong?"

"Well, he's dead."

Mom is blunt, but she isn't usually mean. Lately, though, as the enormity of the changes in her life close in on her, she's been lashing out at the only person she can-me. I know that these circumstances have rocked her to the core. I know that she is scared and confused and uncertain, and mom doesn't do any of these emotions. She is reacting to the circumstance, and since I'm the one creating a lot of it, I'm taking the brunt of the reaction. .My brain understands all of these things. My heart is struggling with the vitriol.

See, I've been there, done that. My dad was a loving, gentle man who would have scoffed at being called a feminist, but instilled in his daughter the belief that she could do anything. While he never told me he was proud of me, he apparently told the world at large. Unfortunately, my father also battled alcoholism, and he was a nasty drunk who heaped emotional abuse on me. He wouldn't remember the next morning what had been said, but I didn't have that luxury.

Maturity brings wisdom and understanding. The teenager didn't have the life experience to understand that the alcoholic dad and sober dad were too different beings. I've been able to forgive, although I still struggle with self-esteem and when I'm discouraged, it's hard to ignore the voice in my head telling me I'm a  fat, stupid, ugly, lazy slut who will never amount to anything, even though I am none of those things. (Okay, I have to own fat and I'm not sure about ugly these days.)

Mom couldn't remember what she said last night when I talked to her this morning, which tells me it was the dementia talking. It still hurts. I have to acknowledge the emotion, but attribute the source.  There's more to come, I suspect, so I'd better invest in some kevlar. It's going to be a bumpy ride.