More Than Enough

I need to write to remind myself of an important point, lest I drift backwards into self-doubt and depression: I am okay. I am doing my best, and on some days, I need to take comfort in the fact that my best is much better than those who do nothing but complain. And I'm giving myself this pep talk because I got flustered one evening last week in a true Charlie Foxtrot moment. By the end of the night, I had let a lot of that anxiety go, but I decided to write about it anyway so that I can have this to reread whenever I want to crawl back into a shell of self-loathing.

I am doing more than enough.

Instead of providing a turn-by-turn account of the events of the evening prior to that moment when I was running back and forth between answering the front door, helping my Mom in the bathroom, and giving my kid a bath...I will simply say there was a lot going on. And I was by myself with my 70 year old mother and my 2 year old daughter. Even if my choices at any given moment are questionable, at the end of the night I can at least say that I did something other than complain.

I hit the wall at the beginning of this year with my emotions, and I know that the stress of my mother's illness has been difficult for everyone. Chronic illness can devastate lives in so many ways. It ruins relationships and it can have reverberations for years. I have been stressed to the breaking point trying to manage caregiving and parenting, so much so that I essentially dropped out of a lot of activities and commitments. I don't lament the need to take such a drastic step, but I have been frustrated that it came to this point.

Attempts to address some of our issues as a family of caregivers unearthed a lot of resentment and unexpressed feelings. It also made things worse...but perhaps the only way to address an issue is to expose its ugliness. I am still open to the possibility of making peace, but I have accepted that it might not happen. Therefore, for anyone else who might be going through a similar situation or who might have to face the unforeseen chaos of chronic illness, here is a quick list of some of what I have learned these past eight years:

1. Communication is everything. Communication is everything. Communication is everything. And communication is not just about telling folks your positions or how you feel about the situation. It is also about how you listen. I spent a great deal of time communicating information that was not being processed or that was being ignored, or perhaps most importantly was not what folks wanted to know. I honestly do not have any tips about how to get others to listen, but if folks are not speaking to each other, listening to what is being said, or accepting the truth of what is being expressed, then you will have misunderstandings and chaos.

2. Caregiving is a 24-hour job and it involves everyone in the family. Everyone can contribute and no contribution is too small. However, if there is no contribution then that is a problem. When there is a need for an outside caregiver, it does not absolve anyone else of having to take part. It might diminish certain duties, but family care is still vital.

3. Offering criticism is not the same as offering assistance. As far as I am concerned, it is the same as doing nothing. Opinions are assholes...everybody has one.

4. Most non-immediate family and friends have no idea how to offer help or to even express support. So I don't hold that against them. I actually appreciate the benign gestures of just checking in because it helps to know that folks are thinking about us even when they can't do anything specific.

5. Caregivers often will not ask for help. Although that statement applies specifically to my family, I suspect it is true of most families. The vast majority of the time I will not tell outsiders what is really going on with my Mom, for any number of reasons. Thus, whenever people tell me to let them know if I need anything, I file that away with point #4 in mind. It isn't personal nor is it pride, but it is usually a case of not wanting to include too many people in our inner circle. Too many cooks spoil the broth. However, whenever we do ask for assistance, it is because we truly need something.

6. Caregivers have been thrust into an unexpected scenario, which ultimately becomes a perpetual series of unexpected scenarios. Thus, mistakes are bound to happen, and I have felt guilty about every single one. Yet, I rarely have time to lick my wounds, so yes, I am ultra-sensitive to criticism (#3) especially when I am the person who has to make the hard choices. If you would do the job better, then by all means...

7. Compromise. No caregiving situation is ideal. And when there are several people involved in the process, there are that many opinions and ways of doing things. Each person means well, and choosing not to take every suggestion is not personal--often it is a matter of feasibility. You do not lose if you don't get everything you want, but you get nothing if you walk away.

8. Children should not be shielded from the scenario. I decided that if my daughter was going to  know her only living grandparents, she will know them as they are at every stage of her life. She also needs to be prepared for the future. I was exposed to the illness of my grandparents and had to actively participate in their care, which I believe prepared me for dealing with this very situation. God forbid if my daughter has to care for me or her father, but at the very least she will have had a blueprint.

9. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Not just a song, but a reality, especially when dealing with your adult siblings, your even older parents and their siblings, and the outside paid caregivers. All of your family dynamics will be impacted by the illness, and all of your family issues will resurface as well. Respect is making the choice to put the needs of others above your need to be right.

10. Caregivers need support. We need friends. We need family. We need breaks. We need someone to recognize when the situation has gotten too overwhelming and we're in too deep to notice. We need someone to make that benign statement about showing up whenever needed and actually doing so without being asked. We need someone else to remind us that we have to live as well because the last thing anyone needs is an additional chronic illness to manage.

Transparency

I had a really bad weekend.

I left the house last night with the alleged intention of going to the movies, but changed my mind when I thought that it might be too pathetic (but more importantly, unsafe). So I went to Target to return a $5 DVD in exchange for $100 worth of stuff.

The mundane details of today are unimportant, because there was nothing really bad that happened to make me so sad. It was more a series of events that have been unfolding since mid-week. Beginning with a phone call that jarred me concerning something that happened to someone else. I had a very emotional reaction, but then went into problem-solving mode, which helped me temporarily until Thursday. I went over to see my parents and that triggered this slide that has me back in the depths of inconsolable sadness.

Since January, the situation with my mother has been changing, and not for the best. It has been depressing and emotionally overwhelming to experience, and the background turmoil of family drama has made things pretty bad.

I have already alluded to some of my issues in previous posts, but I need to let down my guards somewhat because I feel that I have no other outlet. And while I'm convinced that no one reading this will be able to offer me anything, I just need to get a lot of this off my heart.

My Dad is falling apart because taking care of my Mom and watching her deteriorate is unbearable. He has been dealing with small, nagging health issues that I am convinced are stress-related. But he will not make any changes to his daily habits or routine to deal with things, so like yesterday, he comes home not feeling well and chugs down a glass of soda...I have no idea how to support him in a way that does not backfire and deepen my own misery and sense of total helplessness.

Watching this unfold and not being able to really get any relief is killing both of us softly. Which is part of the reason for my ire at other members of my family. I am still angry with myself for not properly defending my Dad against a sideswipe earlier this year, and when it redirected and came for me, I became and remain furious. And unwilling to forgive. That is totally uncharacteristic of me, and that only intensifies my emotions.

I am trapped in an unending cycle of bitterness and anger and sadness. I cannot break it by pretending that all is well. I cannot break it by focusing on others, not even by focusing on my daughter. Because after I have given every drop of emotional care and concern to others, nothing is left for me. Nothing.

And no one notices. My husband, who is just as unobservant and clueless as my Dad (who didn't notice what was going on with his wife of 35+ years) is incapable of offering me any form of emotional support. And after 20 years, I don't expect that to ever change. Like my Mom when she was well, he can offer the support that others need, but when it comes to his wife, he expects me to be able to shake it off and get over it. Ironic that I would marry my parents...

And my friends, y'all don't notice shit either. When you need me, you call and I am there. If I call, you are busy--out having fun, never inviting me to come along, and then wondering why I never talk about things. Perhaps that is unfair, but it is how I perceive things. I spent the entire weekend sad and alone and saw all the pics of places I could have gone but for the lack of inclusion.

Finally, it hurts beyond words to witness my mother's decline like this. It is incomparable to any other experience of losing one's parent. That doesn't mean that one death is worse than another, because anyone who has endured that loss feels it forever. But I am simply saying that Alzheimer's disease, in particular, is a horrible death to experience. Despite the miracle that some hope will occur, this is a very long and excruciating goodbye. My sense of loss became real the week that I insisted that she be hospitalized...and it is a daily dread.

I am not ready, but I am holding on to that mustard seed that tells me all will be well. It might not be the type of bold faith that believes in abundance and prosperity and dominion; it is a much quieter faith that believes in forgiveness, blessing others, and endurance until the end.

Better Intentions

I have been at this precise place so many times--regret that I didn't live up to the expectations I set for myself. Disappointment that I am always seemingly starting over from the same place, beginning again at the beginning.

This year is already a wash.

I had plans. I had intentions. I had goals. Yet here I am, with nothing to show for any of those lofty hopes and dreams. I am standing in the same sad spot and always for the same reason: My inability to put my needs above those of the members of my family.

Which family member? It never really matters. With the addition of a child, it would seem that I have an acceptable reason for never accomplishing much of anything, except that isn't the case. My daughter inspires my need to actually push myself to be more than just another frustrated, reluctant housewife turned obscure, undiscovered blogger. And as she has grown from sweet baby to this unruly, insane Toddlersaurus, I should have endless material from her daily antics. According to my blog journal (the notebook I carry to jot down blogging ideas) I could perpetually write about busy black motherhood and possibly *finally* garner a following.

Yes, I have a blog journal. It was part of the elaborate plan that has yet to materialize thanks to that other unyielding demand that I am always trying to manage. That other familial obligation that I am trying desperately not to resent, because that would be selfish. And we all know that whenever I focus any attention to myself, for whatever reason...

Yet, this did not begin with the choice to focus on myself insomuch as it feels like it began with the intention to do so. My intention to devote more time to writing and live vlogging and starting a podcast and a few other projects...all on the back burner because at the beginning of the year, a new chapter began in my long-running family drama. Which has left me bitter and angry and depressed. And eating all the time. Or sleeping. Or intentionally missing certain social engagements. Or doing drastic shit like chopping off my hair and dyeing it different colors including platinum blonde. Or not sleeping.

(I actually plan to write about this situation in a more direct form, but now I need to vent without identifying or defaming anyone.)

So here I am. Angry. Bitter. Depressed. Hurt. And feeling all of the guilt that was intended for me to feel because somehow, I am the only person who has any responsibility...

For the record, in the interest of trying to move beyond the anger, bitterness, depression, hurt, and guilt I have been willing to continue to make the uncomfortable choices. To be the person in the line of fire. To be Atticus Finch and do those unpleasant jobs that no one else wants. And it hasn't meant anything. I am still standing in the same fucking spot.

So, I am going to write anyway to try to work through all of my feelings. I've decided that this situation is less about my better intentions than it is about adjusting my expectations. I will simply write to let go of things and maybe that will help.

Herding Cats

I'm angry, and in order to avoid saying in person what I want to say (go f*** yourself), I am here.

There was a lot I intended to say to someone, and earlier I thought that it would be therapeutic to write it all down in an email.  And I had every intention of it being one of those no holds barred emails--fueled by red wine or vodka that is so clear and direct and raw.  But those emails never have the desired effect since it is still Groundhog Day.

I am tired. I am spent. I am blown. I hate fucking dementia and the havoc it has wrought in my life.

For the past two years, I have been offered the "call me if you need me" kind of back up whenever people have learned of the situation, but that is bullshit and they all know it.  Because if you really want to offer me help, you would call up and tell me what you intend to do and wait for me to say yes or no.  You do not ask a drowning person if they need help.  You jump in or you throw out a life preserver.

I am fed up with the Monday morning quarterbacking that goes on when folks offer belated suggestions of what I should be doing.  I am beyond tired of the foot-dragging and delays that have prevented any movement forward on anything.  I am exhausted by playing multiple roles in this soap opera--the overbearing mother, bad wife, nagging big sister, attentive aunt and devoted daughter.  I am frustrated that I am failing and can't get a retest, a do-over or even a fucking break. I'm mad that every time I get to cry, I have to do it by myself while writing a weepy, overly sentimental blog because none of the a$$holes in my life want to deal with how I'm feeling.

But when I get angry, the sky sometimes opens and I get small reprieves. Today I made an appointment to meet with a professional.  As someone once told me, prayer is good but people are better.  So maybe if I keep praying, I'll get better people.

Sunshine and Rain

Earlier this summer, a local politician was featured in an article about his wife's early onset dementia. Yesterday, he gave a radio interview about her and the ordeal his family has gone through since 2010.

When I first read his story, I could not help but to think about the parallels.  The origin of my mother's odd behavior began sometime in 2009, and as it continued, we struggled to come up with answers.  I too had to trick her into going to a doctor, eventually tricking her into seeing a neurologist when nothing improved.  And just as was the case for Mr. Baker, within 15 minutes after we left the office with a preliminary diagnosis, my mother did not seem to acknowledge that he had just told her that she had dementia.

But unlike Mr. Baker, I have been hiding in plain sight when it comes to discussing my mother...only talking through the blog or to friends. Or not at all.  For a time I retreated from this when I felt that I was revealing too much.  We had an opportunity to be featured in another radio interview, but we arrived late and left early so that I could avoid an embarassing over-reaction. 

I am grateful to Mr. Baker for speaking out because people need to know the private hell it has been these past few years.  I came back to write about it because I need to tell others in my own way and on my terms.

I will try not to dwell so much on the negative, but at times, it will be impossible not to...I need a release.  It cannot be a release that is tied to physical exercise or drinking or staying busy.  I need to have a space where I can scream and cry and question God about this.  I need a place to turn after having the same argument with my husband for the 103rd time.  I need a refuge from biting my tongue and not telling my family that I am not Jesus yet, I am essentially putting my life on hold so that everyone else can live theirs with minimal inconvenience.  I need a space to bitch after someone has said something insensitive or mean to me so that I can resist the urge to tell them where to go.  I need a place to bury my disappointments and broken dreams.

Today there is rain. Tomorrow there may be sunshine. I'll try to take each day as I find it.

Circles

We were doing very well for a time, but then there was Friday...

And after listening to the most deluded monologue of ostrich-head-in-the-sand-because-the-truth-is-just-too-unpleasant-to-accept craziness, I am now wracked with doubt.  Maybe I am the deluded one?

A moment to review the last few weeks...we started a new medication and despite a few bumps things seemed very promising.  We were stablizing, and though I have to admit that a part of me had begun to experience the could-it-be euphoria that almost always means that things are too good to be true, it felt great to get a lot done last week without any major hiccups.

Then it was time for a refill and the decision was made to consolidate two doses into one.  And another decision was made to administer those doses in the morning.

On Friday, my mother walked home from the hair salon after waiting 15 minutes for me to come get her.  She denounced me as her daughter.  I left my brother's car running on Minnesota Avenue.  I think the guy who stopped to offer to help us probably was a cop who was trying to justify his gut instinct to have me arrested for assault. 

Then I took my niece to the museum to see the dinosaurs.  Today I took Mom to see a Monet.

This is taking a toll.  I gave up cursing for Lent, so that has meant more alcohol.  I refilled my anxiety prescription and have been using it.  I worry about my blood pressure and what would happen if I dropped dead--what in the world would I wear to my grave?

I have no other way of expressing how this is making me feel except for off-beat and inappropriate humor.  I have to carry on because no one is all that interested in feeling my pain.  Not even the folks who are supposed to be enduring this same nightmare.  Which is why I am questioning whether I am actually caught up in the Matrix...or in the Adjustment Bureau.

Here is the thing--I've been having my doubts about whether I am forcing acceptance of something that might not be as severe as I have imagined.  But every time I get through one phase, I get some independent confimation that no, I am not just some masochist who hates her mother and wants her to be sick so that everyone in the family can depend on me to make up for the fact that I probably will not have anything else going on in my life for the foreseeable future.  This is really not about me, is it?

But I swear, every single time I think we've turned a corner...we have, but it is a wall, just like in a maze. 

Better yet, I feel like a dog that keeps chasing its tail.  I see it, I can almost bite it, but I fail.  Of course, if I actually succeeded, I'd be biting myself in the a$$.

For the Record

Today was a good day until it was not a good day.  Then it became a lousy day.

This morning my aunt called to warn me that my mother was in a bad mood, so I decided to take my time getting ready to leave.  I drank three cups of coffee.  I watched music videos, then a few minutes of Lethal Weapon II.  I put away a lot of my clothes and I packed my things.  I decided to dress nicely, so I took my time to apply some makeup as well.  And then, when it because clear that I was stalling, I hurried out of the house.

It would have been SOOO much better if I had just stayed put. 

For Lent I have decided to give up cursing, which is really hard when dealing with a difficult person who suffers with dementia.  Everything was fine when I walked into the house, but once I got out of the bathroom, all heck broke loose.  (See how hard it is not to curse?)

I have suggested that members of my family are selfish and stupid and while I might edit those statements for posterity, I am not going to edit the sentiment here...Yes, members of my family are absolutely selfish.  And I am the stupid one.

For the record, I just want to say that I am really trying to be a good daughter.  But I feel like that daughter from the Joy Luck Club who sacrificed her flesh for her dying mother and still her family disowned her.  My family probably will not disown me, but at times it seems that the sacrifices that I make are just all in my head.

And can I also just say for the record that I am not thin-skinned.  There are callouses all over my body from the wounds inflicted over the years.  And just because I get upset every now and then, that does not mean that I do not deserve any empathy!

So at the beginning of this Lenten season when I really want to curse, especially at God, I will hold my tongue. 

Where to Begin

I watched the Alzheimer's special about Glen Campbell today and just visited Maria Shriver's website.  I wish I had not done this.

All of the stories about Alz patients end the exact same way.  Loved ones die.  People who were intelligent, vibrant, and engaging become forgetful, withdrawn, and paranoid.  They become helpless.  And they die.

I cannot wrap my head around this eventuality.  I am going to lose my mother to this horrible disease.

Of course, I do not know this yet because we do not have a definitive diagnosis.  And as long as some members of my family bask in the luxury and carelessness of their wanton igorance, I just have to try to stay calm.  I just need to pray.

I am she of little faith...

The website invites caregivers to share their stories, and I was tempted, but for what purpose?  To know that one day someone will be desperate for answers and may stumble across my ramblings and discover that they too are going through Hell?  Yes, this is hell, even on days when we only have a minor meltdown.

By minor meltdown, I mean on a day when there is only one slammed door or perhaps one indignant declaration that she is in charge and that it is her house and whatever else she decides someone has not appropriately acknowledged.  On those days when the meltdowns are more like thermal nuclear reactions, well...

And this is what I do not see in the stories of others--how to deal with someone who is determined to be angry about any little thing.  Someone who has become so self-centered and totally unaware of the tumult she causes with her anger, especially when the target of her ire can barely reason herself.  How are we supposed to diffuse those atom bombs?  I guess the answer is to take cover.

Thieves in the Temple

My mother insists that people are stealing her things even though she is constantly moving things around.  She has lost her drivers' license, credit cards, hats, scarves, pajamas, purses and many other items of clothing because 'strangers' are roaming through HER house.

There are no strangers in the house.  Nothing has been stolen.  Items that were lost are miraculously found days, weeks and even months later.  But none of that matters because in her mind, she is not losing anything.

Especially not her mind.

When she lost her ids back in Novemer, I spent several hours looking through her drawers, which are now all filled with useless, rubber-banded together pay stubs, letters and other assorted crap dating back to 2008.  I had determined that it was time to call the DMV the very day that she claims her items were returned.  My useless brother claims that she found everything because he chose not to affix her patch that morning.

No, she is not losing her mind at all.  I am.

More Drama from My Mama

I ruined my mother's birthday dinner by refusing to attend after an especially ridiculous episode wherein she walked up to the bank...again.

My mother and I spoke yesterday morning around 10 or 11am, can't remember, but it doesn't matter because at no point during that conversation did she mention that she needed to go to the bank.  Once a week now, she goes to the bank to withdraw money that she doesn't spend because I spend my husband's money and my aunt spends her unemployment whenever we go out.  When I spoke to my mother, I told her to expect me that afternoon since I was at home with the plumber.  She told me that she and my aunt had plans to go out, so I called my aunt to tell her that the entire family had dinner plans that night and to invite her to tag along.

Fast forward two hours after I left messages for my aunt, my mother and my father.  I got a call from my aunt informing me that my mother was not at home and that she had been outside waiting for a while and had to use the bathroom.  I stopped what I was doing, made a quick pit stop, grabbed my keys and headed over to my parents' house.  I suspected that my mother had walked up to the bank again, but I drove like a bat out of hell anyway because of this lingering fear that one day, she might have another destination in mind...

I get a call when I am about to reach my exit from my aunt, and of course the connection is bad.  I presume that all is well but since I am now on their side of town, I have to go by the house.  I call my aunt again and she tells me that my mother is at home, so when I arrive at the house, I let myself in and am greeted by my aunt and my mother's angry face from the kitchen.

I guess she thought I was over-reacting because she was just fine and in the kitchen cooking dinner even though we just spoke about the dinner plans for the evening a few hours earlier.  Actually, she does not say anything about the fact that I am out of breath, stinky from not having taken a shower yet, but she does snap that she knows where her cell phone is when I ask.  My aunt plays interference and it occurs to me that I am far from calm even though I am trying to maintain my cool.  After a few more snarky responses to my questions, I decide to leave (although I did make it clear that I was leaving to avoid having an aneurysm).  Once I am back in my car, I call the husband and declare that I will not attend my mother's birthday dinner that evening.

And that is how I ruined her birthday. 

Holiday Blues

I hate the holidays.  It was not always like this, but for the past few years, I have come to detest this time of year.

Yesterday I took my mother shopping, and for the first hour and a half, it was a relatively drama-free experience.  That was, until she got impatient with the cashier in Williams Sonoma because she did not hear the amount correctly.  And then she got annoyed with me in Macy’s for telling her how to pay for an item.  Then she got short with me during lunch.  Then she was rude to a woman in the Nordstrom bathroom.  Then she yelled at me and insisted that we had not just spent the last two hours at the mall doing any of her Christmas shopping.

How am I supposed to handle these situations? 

Well, for the second time in a matter of days, I let her have it.  I asked her why she had to get mad about everything, even after having a good time.  Then she responded with a litany from her bag of tricks: her stomach hurt so she was in no mood to talk; I am such a know-it-all; she just wanted to be left alone; just take her home; etc.  And I decided to pull out a few rabbits of my own: were you sick before or after we ate lunch; how am I being a know-it-all; what did I say that made you mad; and do you plan to lock me out of the house and claim not to recognize me like you did before; etc.

She yelled louder and flashed her rage face, and after taking the Lord’s name in vain a few times, I calmed down and told her that since she was trapped in my car she did not have to talk, but she did have to listen.  And then I gave her the I-love-you-no-matter-what-you-do-or-say speech.  It worked for the next hour.

And while none of this has anything to do with Christmas because this scenario just as likely to reoccur in April or August, I first became acquainted with that rage face at our ruined Christmas Eve dinner from last year when she baited me into an unnecessary argument.  At issue then was her offense that I had taken over things while she had been out all day shopping.  How dare I provide the family with a meal without her approval!

Perhaps Christmas has become the embodiment of what I hate about this entire situation—no matter what I do, it will never make her happy...or better.  My mother will still be unpredictable from hour to hour and I am the person whose existence she loathes the most.  I could devise a way to make Christmas perfect and she would find a way to hate me.  I take her shopping and she finds a reason to hate me.  She hates how I drive.  She always finds a way to call me fat.  She criticizes my breathing. 

She will find a way to make me feel like that six-year old who never wanted anything more than to be loved but no matter what I did, there was always some negative response.  Her dementia is just another way for her to torment me.

And so I hate Christmas.  More accurately, I hate my mother at Christmas. 

Of course I don’t really feel this way, but my mother could be cruel without the excuse of a debilitating mind-altering illness.  But now that I have turned to blogging as therapy, I need to be honest.  I need to say it all, even if it does nothing to relieve the guilt I carry around for even harboring these awful feelings.  She is my mother.  And in spite of this current ring of hell she is currently putting me through, I would rather endure her daily unnecessary tantrums than mourn day when she is no longer here.

Revelations

Over at the Busy Black Woman blog, I wrote a couple of pieces about how certain recent changes in my personal life had kept me from keeping up with the blog.  And I promised that I would talk more openly and candidly about those changes here...

But first I need to mention that I just had a birthday, and I attribute some of these changes to the reality of getting older.  For the record (so that there is no doubt), I am ok with aging.  Not only do I prefer it to the alternative, but I appreciate the fact that if I live long enough, I might might actually become that fabulous person of my daydreams.

So here goes: the other changes in my life are due to my mother's recent diagnosis of dementia.  She is 64 years old, which puts her in the category of early-onset.  And since the fateful day when her diagnosis was confirmed, she has been driving me crazy.  Correction: this situation has been driving me crazy!  Between her daily drama, my family, my past-due student loan bills, and all of my Busy Black Woman ways, I have been dancing on the head of a pin.

Since her diagnosis, my life has not only changed, but it feels as if it came to a screeching halt.  I am not so sure how true that is for everyone else in my family...and though I am not suggesting that they are unphased or unaffected, I would say that I have made things easier for them (but that is a rant for another day). 

In the meantime, I have more pressing concerns.  Because we have an incomplete diagnosis, I am unsure if my Mom has Alzheimer's or some other specific form of dementia.  And so that means that we are in a holding pattern of sorts wherein nothing is certain except that she is not the person she was when this all started back in 2009 after an argument over a cake.

Yes, a stupid cake.  And that story will also have to wait for another day to be fully told. 

I have so many stories, and that is why I decided that my saving grace will be blogging.  I have few other options for expressing myself short of taking up some really self-destructive bad habit like smoking crack.  And I mean that because there are days such as the other day when she got mad at me over something trivial and I was tempted to put her out of my car.

This has been the hardest challenge of my life, replacing law school by light years.  If I were in law school right now, I might still be as clueless as I was at the end of that first semester so many years ago, but at least I knew that there was a point to my misery. 

Unfortunately, I do not see any point in this.  If this is God's way of testing me for something great, then I've already failed.  I am angry, frustrated, depressed, exhausted, and just about defeated by this.  But then I remind myself that I survived law school, I survived working for those bosses from hell, and I have survived most of the other challenges I've had to face. 

So a periodic series in this blog will be the Dementia Diaries.  In these posts, I hope to offer some perspective on the disease that has been taking my mother away from me.  I will express my frustrations, my fears, my anxieties and everything else that has become a part of my life since September.  I promise not to make that the sole focus of this blog, but it will become a key feature as I come to grips with my new reality.