Saturday, March 19, 2005
Mom just went down for a nap.
While we were in the bathroom checking and adding to her paper underwear padding she asked if someone was hiding in the house. Strange question.
I wondered if this might be an indication of further dementia. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Are you hiding a man in the house?"
Her tone wasn't indignant so I joked. I walked to the bathroom door, opened it and said in a stage whisper, "She's on her way to bed, you can come out in a minute."
We both laughed. Then, I asked her why she thought I might be hiding someone.
"I've heard you talking when I've been napping, lately."
I realized that I have been talking a lot, lately, when she's been napping: First on the phone, sorting through possible Handymen in response to my ad (although the Mr. Everything who appeared yesterday came through the recommendation of an acquaintance, not through my ad), and second, talking out loud to myself. Anxiety, I guess, in part about taxes and how I am, again, this year, having trouble controlling my anxiety in this area, which surprises me (I hope this is the last year this happens) and just general talking out loud, mostly to imaginary people about my journey with my mother.
I mentioned all this to her. She said, "Well, if you ever want to invite any men over, you don't have to hide them."
I laughed. "Mom, I don't think you have to worry about that. Male companionship would be way too much trouble for me right now. I don't need yet another person who'd be expecting me to care for them. I'm pretty much maxed out in that area, right now. Nothing appeals to me less than the possibility of having yet another being hanging around who's expecting caregiving from me."
"I know what you mean," she said.
After she settled down I thought about why I'd been talking out loud to myself so much lately and realized that it's because I haven't been writing much in this journal, so, I guess I'd better get started again, or my mother will spend needless moments of her precious Up Time searching through the house for men I might be hiding.
I wondered if this might be an indication of further dementia. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Are you hiding a man in the house?"
Her tone wasn't indignant so I joked. I walked to the bathroom door, opened it and said in a stage whisper, "She's on her way to bed, you can come out in a minute."
We both laughed. Then, I asked her why she thought I might be hiding someone.
"I've heard you talking when I've been napping, lately."
I realized that I have been talking a lot, lately, when she's been napping: First on the phone, sorting through possible Handymen in response to my ad (although the Mr. Everything who appeared yesterday came through the recommendation of an acquaintance, not through my ad), and second, talking out loud to myself. Anxiety, I guess, in part about taxes and how I am, again, this year, having trouble controlling my anxiety in this area, which surprises me (I hope this is the last year this happens) and just general talking out loud, mostly to imaginary people about my journey with my mother.
I mentioned all this to her. She said, "Well, if you ever want to invite any men over, you don't have to hide them."
I laughed. "Mom, I don't think you have to worry about that. Male companionship would be way too much trouble for me right now. I don't need yet another person who'd be expecting me to care for them. I'm pretty much maxed out in that area, right now. Nothing appeals to me less than the possibility of having yet another being hanging around who's expecting caregiving from me."
"I know what you mean," she said.
After she settled down I thought about why I'd been talking out loud to myself so much lately and realized that it's because I haven't been writing much in this journal, so, I guess I'd better get started again, or my mother will spend needless moments of her precious Up Time searching through the house for men I might be hiding.
