July 21, 2020

Today I found myself in the odd position of reminding mom of our family’s past.
We don’t have many family stories or heirlooms, but there is a table. It has sat in front of the window in the living room since grandma died in 1992. It was a wedding gift to my mother’s parents from my grandmother’s parents. Mom knew there was something about it, but didn’t remember the part about it being a wedding gift or that her grandparents gave it to her parents.
There are a lot of those moments. We were watching a home renovations show on TV the other day and I made a comment about how the children should share a room; after all, I shared a room and I turned out fine.
“You did? Who did you share a room with?”
Wow. Most of my childhood it was just us three: mom, my sister and I. Who else would I share a room with?
Is her brain just not making the connection quick enough to remember? Does she think I’m someone other than who I am? Is she so selfish that she forgets that I had a childhood, too; that I am a person, too?
Does it matter?
Mom’s clothes are getting small on her. Too much ice cream and too many cookies. I don’t deny her. She’s a grown woman and I’m not her mother. Also, she’s dying more quickly than she used to be. Why deny her what makes her happy, especially when she’s cooped up in this house or restricted to car drives for entertainment? On the other hand, I wonder if I’m doing her a disservice to allow her to indulge in sweets. Would I prolong her life by a few months or a year if I kept her on a strict veggies and fruits diet only? Should I?

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