Another evening in the garden. It’s very windy tonight and Not Cat is chasing unseasonably brown and fallen leaves instead of insects.
I’m not crying.
I’ve cried a lot today. Every time I’ve thought of Mother. Every time I’ve thought of the impossible choices to be made. Every time I’ve thought of the colleague who said “Well, she’s old. Her life is over. It’s the young ones I care about,” yet who described herself today as empathetic, a person who knows when someone is low and gives them a hug.
If she gives me a hug after saying that, I may not be responsible for my actions. She may not be responsible for anything.
Not that Mother is in any imminent danger, though I really want to know what the result of the weigh-in is tomorrow. She has managed to lose over a kilo in a week, despite fortified drinks, and extra calories in shots. Her weight last Saturday was 33.7kg. In old money, that’s less than five and a half stone.
The plan was to go East tomorrow and return on Sunday.
After my 99th soggy tissue, I have accepted what Aunt has been saying for days: I can’t keep this up. I have to have a break, the equivalent of putting my own oxygen mask on first in event of an air disaster. I am running on empty.
It’s advice I’ve often given, but it’s curiously difficult to accept. I was nearly there last night. Even told people I was, but by this morning I had already changed my mind.
The idea of leaving Mother unvisited tore at me. Nephew is working in Belgium this week, and Mother’s friend who would normally give Aunt a lift has family visiting.
I’m going to email another family friend and ask if he could see her.
Work and other commitments mean I may not be with Mother for two weeks. It seems an awfully long time. I hope by then my batteries will be recharged and I’ll have earned enough to pay the bills.