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carose59"The Only Reason They Don't Give This Job To The Service Robots Is They've Got A Better Union Than Us."*
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I have to take my mother to the doctor. Several doctors, actually—well, two doctors and Coumadin clinic. They're all separate appointments, each one a trip unto itself.
And I hate it.
I hate her going out of the house. I hate watching her walk down the front steps and down to the car. I can't watch her, it makes me sick to my stomach with anxiety. I see her falling, I see Pat falling, and there's nothing I can do. She won't let me help her.
I cannot deal with it.
I have no choice.
And we get there, and I get her out of the car, into a wheelchair which I park in the lobby, the car sitting blocking traffic; I run back to the car, park, hurry back, wheel her wherever she needs to go. Talk to the receptionist, relay information, park my mother, take a seat. Wait.
Wait.
Wheel her back, make polite conversation, wish I was dead. It's like I'm not really there. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I wasn't.
Then everything in reverse until finally I can go home and sit and cry.
I wish I knew what was going on in her head. She doesn't seem to like me anymore. She doesn't seem to care if she sees me or not. I tell myself it's just how she is now, but maybe it's my fault because I'm acting different. I don't know how not to act different. I can't talk to her anymore. I mean that literally—there's no point to it, she can't hear what I say and she's not interested anyway.
I feel like I've spent half my life trying to hold back the tide with my bare hands. Sometimes Meg is the only one I love, because Meg is uncomplicated. Meg just loves me, and even when I don't give him what he wants, I'm not a disappointment.
I'm a disappointment to me.
The one thing I know isn't my fault is the voices my mother hears. I'm not talking about hallucinations; she hears voices because of how deaf she is. Apparently when you go deaf, you brain gets bored and gives you things to hear. She's been hearing me talking and singing for years now—when I'm not there. Of course, when I am there, she can't hear me. Of course.
But lately it's become my responsibility, the things I say when I'm not there. It's like her telling me how when she dreams about Daddy, he's always just the same. It's like it's not coming out of her mind, it's how things really are. I've tried pointing this out, but she's not interested.
*Dave Lister
-:- -:- -:- -:-
I have to take my mother to the doctor. Several doctors, actually—well, two doctors and Coumadin clinic. They're all separate appointments, each one a trip unto itself.
And I hate it.
I hate her going out of the house. I hate watching her walk down the front steps and down to the car. I can't watch her, it makes me sick to my stomach with anxiety. I see her falling, I see Pat falling, and there's nothing I can do. She won't let me help her.
I cannot deal with it.
I have no choice.
And we get there, and I get her out of the car, into a wheelchair which I park in the lobby, the car sitting blocking traffic; I run back to the car, park, hurry back, wheel her wherever she needs to go. Talk to the receptionist, relay information, park my mother, take a seat. Wait.
Wait.
Wheel her back, make polite conversation, wish I was dead. It's like I'm not really there. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I wasn't.
Then everything in reverse until finally I can go home and sit and cry.
I wish I knew what was going on in her head. She doesn't seem to like me anymore. She doesn't seem to care if she sees me or not. I tell myself it's just how she is now, but maybe it's my fault because I'm acting different. I don't know how not to act different. I can't talk to her anymore. I mean that literally—there's no point to it, she can't hear what I say and she's not interested anyway.
I feel like I've spent half my life trying to hold back the tide with my bare hands. Sometimes Meg is the only one I love, because Meg is uncomplicated. Meg just loves me, and even when I don't give him what he wants, I'm not a disappointment.
I'm a disappointment to me.
The one thing I know isn't my fault is the voices my mother hears. I'm not talking about hallucinations; she hears voices because of how deaf she is. Apparently when you go deaf, you brain gets bored and gives you things to hear. She's been hearing me talking and singing for years now—when I'm not there. Of course, when I am there, she can't hear me. Of course.
But lately it's become my responsibility, the things I say when I'm not there. It's like her telling me how when she dreams about Daddy, he's always just the same. It's like it's not coming out of her mind, it's how things really are. I've tried pointing this out, but she's not interested.
*Dave Lister