Yesterday was the day of my long-awaited car appointment. I get so nervous when people come to the house, because I never know how my mom will behave, but she was in a blessedly good mood for most of the day and we got through the car appointment with little trouble.
I feel lucky it went so well, because today is another story. She has been pretty quiet all morning, hiding out in her room. About 45 minutes ago, I heard the door open and her call my name and scream “Get your ass in here,” to which I responded, “I am working and please don’t talk to me like that,” even though I know it’s just her brain misfiring and that she doesn’t really have any control when it does these things. Since then, there’s been intermittent door slamming and occasionally yelling of gibberish. I am bummed. I had hoped that once I was done recording the lesson for the Dark Queen course I am teaching, we could have a nice afternoon out in our newly fixed car. It’s only 11:45, so perhaps things will turn around, but at this moment friendly for public consumption is not looking too good. I’m not sure how people always realize how at the whim of our loved one’s moods we are.
I have (or maybe had — I haven’t heard from her in a while) a friend, who was constantly wanting to stop by and come over. I am pretty sure she didn’t get why I was maybe not as keen on the idea as she was. It’s nothing against her. In the old world, I loved entertaining and having people over, but in the new world, it’s honestly just too stressful sometimes, because it disrupts our routine and routine is everything. It’s also hard to plan things. I don’t go out much these days, but when I do, I end up cancelling plans a lot. Sometimes it’s easier and less disappointing to just not make them to begin with. It was hard for me to adjust to that and also to the idea that I can’t just take off and go on spur of the moment adventures anymore, but I don’t think other people always understand it.
The truth is that caregiving is a lonely job. Of course, not everyone does, but a lot of people just fade away, even people you thought you were close to. Some of that it them not feeling comfortable with death and not knowing what to say. Some of it is that they were only there for the good times anyway. And some of that is that this journey changes a person. I’m not the same person I was five years ago. It’s not easy to watch your friends doing things and having adventures when you used to be the one constantly on the go. It’s not easy to not be jealous when they do. It’s also not easy to care about the things they care about. I couldn’t give two fucks about my one friend’s retail therapy group where she posts pictures of things she wants to buy or about sales at Saks or anything like that. I care about time and paying bills with a reduced income and hating FTD and not losing myself and how to keep my mom from dying, even though I know she will no matter what I do.
I will not be the same person when my mom dies, and save for a few, who hung in for the duration, I won’t have the same friends either. A few die-hard lifers, sure, but not all of them. It’s just reality. How could I? It’s not like I can pick up where we left off with the the ones who bailed when the party was over.