The Heartbreak kid

Have you ever noticed how, when things get really bad, sometimes it’s not the blows that knock you down? Sometimes you get hit, and hit, and hit, and stay standing, right up until someone asks if you’re ok – and then BAM! You’re down for the count.

This morning I got a package from a dear friend in Queensland. I shared a pattern on Facebook ages ago for crocheted sandals made out of thongs, and she had made me some. It made me a little teary. I’m very lucky in my friends. I had a visit to Mum planned, so I resolved to hug the thought of those sandals to me, to remind me to smile.

I knew when I called Mum this morning that it was a bad day. She couldn’t hold a thought even for a moment. Meaning eluded her. She wasn’t sure who I was, or what was happening. Her conversation, usually fragmented, was in a lot more pieces than usual.

I think I’ve already lost you
I think you’re already gone
I think I’m finally scared now
You think I’m weak
I think you’re wrong

“If you’re gone” Matchbox Twenty

When we left her house Mum pointed at the possum box in the tree and asked me if I knew who had put it there. “It was my Dad,” she said proudly. “It was a long time ago but he must have been quite old when he did it.”

Her dad died twenty years before Mum and Dad moved into that house. I’m pretty sure he never installed a possum box in his life, and he certainly didn’t install that one. On the way to the cafe she pointed to a bench that she keeps telling me her Dad used to sit on, but this time she had an elaborate story about how he helped them move in and then sat on that bench. It’s as though she’s papering over the holes in her memory with stories that never happened.

We had lunch. I ordered something I thought she would like, because she couldn’t make sense of the menu. Chris and Bruce, the cafe owners, know what she has anyway. They treat her like royalty – which is nothing unusual, it’s the way they treat all their customers. She kept fretting about whether she had enough money to pay for lunch. I showed her some photos and she remembered some people but not others. She must have told me 15 times over a half hour period that she had a dog called Toby when she was little. I smiled, nodded, died a little inside, and kept it together.

Then, when I went to pay, Chris quietly told me that Mum has been coming in every Sunday for some weeks now, looking to buy a paper and some chocolate. Chris was so sweet about it, he said he just takes her next door, to the general store, and makes sure she’s ok, but he and Bruce wanted me to know. We talked for a bit about how Mum is deteriorating, but because she won’t see a doctor or let anyone into the house there’s nothing we can do. Bruce said “as long as she’s happy and not distressed.” But of course she is distressed quite a lot of the time. I think she only ventures out of the house when she’s in a positive frame of mind.

And then Bruce said “and as long as she’s not causing you girls distress” and it broke me. It absolutely broke me. I joked that that was a much longer conversation that would need something stronger than tea, but when I got back to the table I had tears rolling down my cheeks.

Where do I even start? How can I tell him about the hysterical phone calls demanding to know where Dad is? How can I tell him about the tears when she is looking for her parents? How can I tell him about the way my heart shatters when she doesn’t know me? Or about the times she gets angry over things I can’t understand? How can I explain how desperately we want to get her help? How helpless and alone we feel, unable to access any support services, because we can’t even get her assessed? (We really can’t. Believe me. We have exhausted every avenue. Don’t even go there.)

Things with Mum are so hard. Others only see a fraction of the story, but there are so many people who look out for her, and for us. There is so much kindness woven through our trauma. So many hands waiting to catch us each time we stumble. But here and now, today, I’m not sure I can keep doing this. How many pieces can get torn out of your heart before it stops beating?

I’ll be over here, clinging to my slippers.

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5 thoughts on “The Heartbreak kid

  1. Amber Richardson

    Hi Linda
    I read your blog the other day as I was searching the Internet on dementia. I once had a similar situation to you but with my Dad. Sadly my Dad passed last year. Your comments really hit a nerve with me.
    Your Mum is so lucky to have a daughter like you – so caring and involved in her daily welfare. It is so hard for sure but I am sure with your support and the fact you are there for her is all that matters. I am so glad I was able to help my Dad and while it was definitely frustrating – taking him shopping every week, helping with the washing, the cooking and the cleaning – as he didn’t want any outside help – but I am so glad I did what I did. I have no regrets – and that counts for something. I am sure you are juggling so many balls in your life but keep your chin up. My Dad caused me a lot of distress and the repetition was hard work and I often had to deal with situations exactly as you are now. Stay strong Linda – you are doing an amazing job. Your Mum might not always say it but she is appreciative of all your help and support. Your Mum is always your Mum. Amber R.

    1. lindamciver

      thanks Amber. I am lucky to have sisters to share the load, but it is still a tough road to travel! Sorry to hear you’ve traveled it before us, but comforted to know we’re not alone!

  2. Amber R

    You are so lucky to have sisters who you can share the load with. Teamwork is the way to go when dealing with such a demanding and stressful situation like this.
    Sadly being a carer is one of the most undervalued jobs in the country.
    I look forward to reading more of your blogs.

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