There is a fierce mother nature that surfaces even now with mom.
Most days She is looking for a fight. Yesterday I said "mom, did you notice how I said, let's take it slowly instead of let's take it slow? I thought you'd be proud because usually you have to correct my grammar."
(Julie's so used to it now, she just thanks mom in advance.... )
sour sour face
mom: "I NEVER correct you. What are you talking about?"
me: "Mom, that's a good thing. It makes me think before I speak. I LOVE it that you keep me on my toes."
mom: "I do NOT."
me: "It's a good thing mom. I'm happy that you help me with my adverbs."
(the glasses holder always ends up in interesting places, and she won't give up the hat turtleneck and three vests even in a heatwave)
Somehow we redirected. My brother's letter, her poem that should be published soon. But usually that doesn't last too long. Her default conversation is about pain. And that is so hard. Because as much as I know in my bones that she is way more comfortable than before surgery, she is still in pain. And there's no way to explain that to her. It's also impossible to get her to take even advil consistently. One minute she'll ask for ten more, "these aren't big enough!" the next she'll yell that "those pills don't do a damn thing."
I really didn't expect it at all. But this morning, she was looking for a fight again, and got something very different:
At first, round and round we went. The usual. Pain Pain Pain, those stupid pills...And then she said, "do you KNOW what surgery IS?" this is usually to make the point of her ordeal more dramatic.
me: "Yes, mom, I do. I have had surgery too."
About face. Silence, as she slowly contorted in to anguished tears.
mom: "When? Why didn't you TELL me?"
me: "I DID tell you mom. It was a long time ago, and you DID know and you were great comfort."
mom: "Why didn't you tell me? Where?"
me: "I did tell you, it was in New York."
mom: "Why didn't I know? Where on your body."
me: "Mom, you did know, it was a long long time ago. They fixed something and gave me lots of ice cream and I went home."
mom, more tears: "I would have helped you, why didn"t you tell me?"
me: "It doesn't matter now. Everything is fine. Let's not worry about the past."
mom: But why? I feel terrible. I wish you would have told me!"
me: "Oh mom, it's ok. I'm fine. All is well right here and now and that's all that matters."
Luckily the loud door buzzer rang, and I had to go deal with the Verizon guy. And by the time she started her daily round of phone calls, she had forgotten, and was asking when she could see me, as it had been so long