It’s dawn and she’s been up all night. Up and down all night. Her feet are swollen. They hurt, but she isn’t able to articulate the extent of her pain. Her vocalizing is mostly babble now, although she has occasional lucid moments when she says (often in Polish) that she’s afraid, that she wants to go home, that she wants me to take her with me. She often refuses to take even a Tylenol. Her hands are constantly reaching out, clutching, grabbing, holding on hard enough to hurt.
Sometime around 4 AM it all got worse. She is somewhere in her head — terrified. She resists all efforts to help. Tries to bite.
I wake my brother, eventually leave her with him so I can get some sleep. But I can’t sleep.
He doesn’t believe she has dementia. She’s just stubborn, he insists. Ornery. Always has been.
He’s in denial I say. Always has been
I am caught in the middle. Always have been.
The only happiness I ever have had since childhood has been away from them.
Yet, here I am, stuck in this demented dysfunctional day.