Look, I don’t mean to make fun of my mother with dementia. She was eccentric long before she lost her memory.
When I left the house yesterday after the squirrel incident (see Traumatized post) mom was upset that the bed was unmade (the mattress needed to air out) and that I had thrown her robe (unrelated, just old and filthy) and the bedding in the trash bin, along with dead squirrel.
Suddenly she cared that the room looked in order?
I knew that when I returned in the morning, items would have been retrieved from the trash and that the bed would be made with the new bedding that still needed to be unwrapped and washed. I wasn’t wrong. The putrid smelling mattress cover was for some reason draped over my nephew’s car in her garage, and the robe was back in her bathroom.
Frenzied and angry, I put the robe and the bedding into a garbage bag and drove up the street to a dumpster, out of reach of my mother. I tried to explain that the mattress would forever smell like squirrel carcass, but she didn’t understand. Even when I said I’d never be able to sleep there again. So we’re done. I can’t do any more.
I calmed down, and when she asked for the millionth time when I was leaving, I told her Tuesday and said that she’d be relieved that I wouldn’t be there to make changes to her house. She said, “you can do whatever you want to my house. You’re my daughter!”
Touching as that was, I really don’t want to have to spend my visits cleaning the house of carcass odor. Since she doesn’t remember when I’m leaving, I’ve decided to come home early. The whole state of Massachusetts wreaks of roadkill.
Told you I was traumatized.
I don’t think your making fun of your mom. I use satire all the time in stressful situations. Hence the story on good Ole vine. We all cope differently.
Oh geeze jean big hugs. My dad says the same thing. Upset when I clean and then tells me he fully trusts me.