Time Marches On
Yesterday was five months from the day I found my grandmother dead. Today it feels like it was yesterday, not months ago.
Her dementia had progressed to the point she confused me with other people., ones who didn't hold her in high regard. She turned from loving me as her granddaughter and caregiver to hating me. I know she wasn't in her right mind, but that didn't stop the hurt. The things she said to me and about me were never true, many times the furthest thing from the truth. I had to keep reminding myself, "She has dementia." She had such anger toward me. Most of the time she saw me as her enemy.
These were the hard time. These were the times I would come home and cry because it hurt so bad. It hurt to she think she actually believed those things about me. It hurt that she couldn't remember all the times that I slept on the floor by her bed when she was having blood pressure problems. It hurt that she couldn't remember that I fixed every meal for her. It hurt that she couldn't remember that I only got a few hours of sleep. It hurt...
And yet, today I find myself yearning for her to be mad at me. I yearn for her to call me and be annoyed that I haven't been to her house in over a month although I had just been there that morning of the evening before. I am yearning to be able to make her dinner and then her think someone else did it for her. I yearn for her to tell my dad I hadn't seen her in a long time. I yearn to be able to have these moments with her again...because that would mean she is here. I could still hug her, I could still hold her hand. I could still help here get in and out of the car. I could still...
I find myself in a difficult spot. Long before the dementia progressed, she told me and also wrote in her Will she would like me to live in her home. Now I find myself having to make the decision to do so. In one moment, I can't wait. It would mean having a dedicated quilting room. It would mean I have more space, even a finished basement. It would mean I am fulfilling her wishes. It would mean I am accepting her gift of living in her house as a thanks for taking care of her. It would mean so much to her.
This is truly raw emotion being put down on paper. This is what my real journal looks like today. I am struggling, I am emotional. I am crying like a baby. I am hurting. I am missing her like I never could have imagined I could. I need to move on, but it hurts.