I’ve got to admit I’ve been feeling kind of low lately. There are some decent reasons—I’ve been away from home (my nest and comfort zone) taking care of my mother 24/7 for a couple of months, now; my Mom’s condition hasn’t improved; I miss my family and my wee beasties, PIB and Finny; my bursitis hips are a constant, often serious, discomfort; and my hands and wrists are always twingy, sore and achy. My next, uncertain chance for pain relief from the bursitis is weeks away, and of course, the rheuma pain will never really go.
Today I’m blue because the steroid injection Mom had a couple of days ago hasn’t relieved her sciatica pain. Yet. I emphasize “yet” because the doctor said (as mine did regarding the steroid injections I took for the bursitis a few months ago) that the drug could take a few days to work, and I’m still holding on to some vague hope. Still, I worry that it won’t have any effect on my Mom, just like it didn’t have any effect on me. What then?
And I’m worried about her. Her mental health is suffering along with her body. Being the strong, healthy woman she’s always been, this pain and disability just boggles and depresses her. She doesn’t understand it. She doesn’t know how to fight it.
My encouraging words sound like platitudes, even to me. “It will get better, Mom.” “This pain will go, soon.” Like her, I no longer really believe them.
I worry because for each day she spends laying down, not moving unless she must, she loses more physical strength. I worry about her non-existent appetite, and the tiny amounts of food I manage to get her to eat each day. I know it’s not enough to fuel her body and mind, and each day can only bring more weakness. I fear that I’m simply bearing witness to her gradual decline, helpless to stop it.
The only physical comfort she experiences is during that short stretch of time when the narcotic pain killer is at full effect, or when she sleeps. My presence here, keeping her company and helping her get through each day is a comfort to her, I know that. I’m glad and thankful that I’m able to.
I’m trying to turn all this glumness around into a more positive attitude. I’m looking for the bright side, because I know there always is one. But so far, the only bright side I can find is that being here with Mom day and night for weeks on end has brought us much closer and has given us both a certain joy that has always been absent in our relationship. For that I’m grateful, and I’m mindful that if Mom hadn’t been stricken with this sudden illness, we likely would have never found it. Perhaps that’s enough, eh?
I want to thank you all, my friends, for your patience and continuing support as I work through this difficult phase in my life. Your comments uplift me, make me smile, and help me feel less alone. I know that this rough patch is temporary, that it will pass just as rough patches always do. But it’s a comfort knowing that you care and that you’re rooting for me. Thank you.