This is the sun setting in front of my mother's house and it is pretty much the view from her bedroom. That is why she would rather live at home. Instead she is with us, curled up on her side, dreading every movement, unable to do much at all. She still manages to be picky about her toast and coffee, to laugh at Jesse, to smile at me, to apologize about the indignities, and to not get too upset with Nancy Pelosi (she does say the narcotics help with that).
Somehow this mom thing has been so much harder than I expected. Its not the laundry, or the running and fetching, or trying to get hold of the doctor -I expected that. It's the grief. I do not burst into tears at everything but I want to. When I do occasionally burst I have to do so away from my mom. I'm not my usual stoic self (if you don't know me the whooshing sound was my friends and loved ones running for cover). My mom has never cried much. Nor has she approved of crying much, or whining, or cutting your spaghetti. So when she said whe wanted to die this morning- as matter of factly as possible she didn't appreciate my tears or my vehemence in telling her it was not acceptable at this time. If her lungs, or heart were going, if she had cancer, -alright. But this she is just going to have to get over. Jesse isn't old enough to understand. I am not old enough to understand. Well, writing has helped -I know what to make for dinner -we'll have spaghetti.