A Reluctant Visitor | Blog | My Mothers' Caregiver
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A Reluctant Visitor



It is one of those days- we all have them. Today I am going to visit Mom.

I was going to go this morning, right around 10am when she'd be finished her breakfast so it wouldn't interfere with the exercise class she attends on her better days. But 10 o'clock came and went and now it is after 12 noon and I still haven't put my coat on.

A sense of sadness is hanging over me today. The last few weeks our visits haven't been good. There haven't been those little jewels of connection, those moments where I still can see the twinkle in her eye and know that she is still in there. Instead she has either been frantic and paranoid or distant and mumbling. I find myself throwing in that extra load of laundry, checking my email one last time, wrestling with the dread that has settled in my bones. 

"Today I don't want to visit my mom." 

What a horrible thing to say, to think, to write -but it is true. I swallow a little guilt. It doesn't mean I don't love my mom. It doesn't even mean I wont go - I will. But some days it is difficult to muster up the smile when all we see is sorrow.

We all have days like this and that is ok

On days like these I remember with clarity my mother's words a few years back as we stood in an antique shop down the street from her home. It was during one of those "If something ever happens to Dad" talks. We were chatting about the idea of Mom coming to live with us. "We all get along, you could help us and we could help you - it just makes sense." I said. With that prophetic-mother look in her eyes she said calmly, "You don't know what you are saying. As people get older they get less fun. I may not be the person I am today."

Those words are ringing inside me today. She knew. She had lived long enough, watched her parents and others long enough to know what I know today. Life is fragile. She also knew that every day was a sacred. She knew that there were no guarantees and that was ok with her. That day year's back, she wanted to enjoy my company, to window shop and laugh - not plan for future days that may never come.

So after I post this I will finish my lunch, get on my coat and share this sacred day with mom. Maybe, just maybe, I'll see the twinkle.

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