Dirty little secret

People have been commenting on how patient I am with my mother.

Guess I have you all fooled.

I have been told it it rather common for people with dementia to fixate on something until it becomes an obsession. My sisters and I have noticed this is true with our mother. When we see a fixation coming we do whatever we can to get her mind on something else. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

Today was a day when it did not work.

When Mom moved in with us, we brought some of her living room furniture with her. She and my father purchased their sofa when they moved into their apartment, I'm guessing it was about eight years ago. Although the sofa looks nice, it has not worn well internally and kinda sags in the middle. There is nothing like sinking down into a sofa and hitting your chin with your knees.

Now, when Mom lived with my sister, they placed a board under the cushions to help bolster the springs. We did the same thing. But for some reason Mom insisted there had never been a board there before. In fact, she started obsessing about it. It has been building for a couple of days. It started with her mentioning it. Then it proceeded to her shifting the cushions. Then she flipped the cushions. Now, mind you, this is a process of a few days, but it grew from there.

Today she was in tears about the stupid board under her cushions. So I told her as soon as King finished his lunch he would remove it. Didn't matter. She fretted, she wrung her hands, she paced. She moved cushions. She did everything a toddler would to to get what she wanted.

Both King and I dug our heels in. He ate slowly and I pretended not to notice. But in the end I lost it. I went outside to cool down. I watered the flowers. I toured the gardens. I yelled at the rooster. He flapped his wings at me. I threw sticks at him.

I went back in the house. One look at Mom and I was mad all over again. By this time King had given in and pulled the stupid board out from under the cushions. I grabbed it and walked out the door with King admonishing me not to pitch it in the river.

When I came back inside Mom looked at me and said, "You're mad at me."

Oh and then comes the Piece de resistance, "Yes Mother. I am."

I could have said anything. I could have taken the high road. I could have done any number of things. But I didn't. I told her I was mad . . . at her.

Mom disappeared into her bedroom and when I calmed down some I followed. I found her on her knees praying. Talk about guilt. Even with her dementia she's good at it . . . and I don't think she was trying. But the killer, the real killer was when she said, "Don't be mad at me, you're my best friend."

Are you kidding me? How do you respond to that? What can one say to make the hurt go away? There is no going back. There is no turning back the clock. One can only apologize and move on from there.

Sometimes life really sucks.