It can always get worse

Last night I was "toileting" Mom, a nice way of saying that I now help her stand up off the toilet and wipe her. It was a funny feeling, like she used to do that for me, and now I do the same for her. It has been a difficult few weeks since Mom was in severe pain a week ago and had a reaction to her pain meds and then developed a bladder infection. She was actually weakened and confused enough that for the first time ever, her nurse suggested that I call my brother and sister and put them on "alert". However, once the pain med patch was removed and her antibiotics started working on the infection, she once again made a rebound.

It is strange that for most of my adult life I have complained and whined about the difficulty of being me and living my life. At each junction in the last 10 years I became more and more aware of how ridiculous my complaints were. If God truly has a sense of humor, heaven must be lol-ing and rofl-ing at this time!

Two years ago (or it will be 2 years at the end of October) I went to a caregiver support group, I think I only got there once. Each time I tried to go again, Mom had some issue that by the time it was addressed, I was too late. I remember how I felt depressed and trapped THEN. How little did I know.

The sad part is that I am sure my Mom is not pleased with having her daughter dress her, help her from a chair back into a wheelchair to go to the bathroom, where I pull her pants down and then wipe her. I finish off with special cream because she is so bony and her skin so delicate that just sitting causes her skin to be irritated and frequently to break open. It is harder for her than for me I realize. It is hard for both of us. Yet every time we hit one of the really bad patches, I am scared to death of losing her.