As The Stomach Turns…
Previously on awesomesauciness….
My devoted reader was subjected to my whining over my mother’s verbal abuse. Yay for mother-fecking-hood, amiright?
That’s where our story resumes…
The next day Mom called and after trying to claim she didn’t remember even talking to me the night before, and me calling shenanigans on her, she apologized.
So, we’re good there. For now.
My stepfather is now home from the hospital and on hospice care for dementia and congestive heart failure. I tried to warn my mother that it would be near-impossible for her (no spring chicken herself) to attend to his physical needs at home and much as I detest nursing homes, well sometimes that’s what you have to do.
Less than 24 hours after he got home, Mom called 9-1-1 again. This time it was because Dad had gotten out of bed in the middle of the night and proceeded to wander about the house before curling up on the floor in the fetal position refusing to move. Mom got the paramedics to get him up and into bed.
One day home, one night with little sleep for Mom.
Guess who she called the next evening? Me. To tell me how “hard this is”, and how “tiring it all is” even though she refuses to allow nurses or attendants at the house in the evening.
Guess why. No, just guess.
Okay, you’ll never guess because you don’t know her.
But I do.
She starts hittin’ the bottle about 4:00 p.m., and no nurse, aide, or attendant will stand for that kind of behavior.
I just don’t have anything to offer her at this point. He’s dying, but in the meantime he’s living and he needs way more care than she can provide.
And, my give-a-damn, while not busted, is seriously bent.