Twisted

We woke up this morning to a drastic change in the weather conditions. This past week, the nights have been in the 50s and a bit chilly outside, but tolerable for stepping outside to smoke, talk on the phone, and peek at the stars. This morning, however, the temperature was still in the 50s but with drizzling rain, a slight breeze, and higher humidity that drove the chill deeper.  I stood outside to taste a few puffs of smoke with arms hugging my torso underneath my breasts, legs smushed together to hold in body heat, and ready to dash back inside to my waiting coffee.

This morning, I was able to shower, dry my hair, and even eat a bowl of cereal before my father announced it was time to wake Mom, see if she was wet and needed a change of clothes and/or change of sheets, and try to get her to take her morning meds and eat something. It is very unusual for me to have anywhere near that amount of time or even be able to eat anything before he launches us into the "taking care of Mom" tasks. Perhaps he has come to dread those tasks as much as I have. If she would just cooperate with us, tending to her would not be so hard.

Mom woke up much more gently and sweetly than usual, so I should have known something was not right. She usually seems more like herself in the mornings and drifts off into increased mental confusion as the day wears onward. Today she awoke in her own little world rather than our world, and seemed to stay there most of the day, snapping back briefly and sharply like a rubber band popping against the skin. As much as it pains me to see Mom slipping away to her alternate reality so often, she is more docile, pleasant, and cooperative when she is that way — her other persona lately is argumentative, resentful, and uncooperative. Or is it the other way around...?  Sometimes I can't tell which is which.



Twisted, like this whole affair.  




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