Attack of Tears
Visiting Rosemarie is increasingly a game or Russian Roulette. She may greet me with smiles of happiness and chat unintelligibly for minutes at a time. She may go quietly and peacefully to her room after supper and lie there happily watching the ballet on the DVD player. Sometimes not.
Tonight I got the bullet.
I arrived and she sprang to her feet with her arms outstretched and a look of absolute, total despair on her face. She sobbed at me and I felt her tears running down my face when I hugged her. The care worker who had been sitting with her looked frightened.
I asked Rosemarie what was wrong. No intelligible reply. She pushed me away aggressively. I asked the care worker, who said she didn't know. I asked how long she had been like this and was told that she had been fine all day and this upset had suddenly started about ten minutes previously. I am not sure I believe that: too convenient. I suspect it was either going on most of the day or it started as a result of my arrival.
For some reason Rosemarie was wearing a heavy cardigan and was sweating. I struggled to take it off. The room is always kept very warm and I asked why she was wearing it. I was told it had been cold in the morning. But it was now five o'clock....
She was really too distressed to eat supper properly. She alternated being very angry with me (but on this occasion not lucid), wildly throwing a couple of quite violent left hooks, and creasing up her face in sobbing distress and pouring out tears like a fountain.
I think it was about being there and not understanding why she can't come home. I am to blame and she hates me for it.
What can I say? My biggest fear is that the only problems she has are with speaking and the physical issues of balancing, walking and doing stuff for herself. My nightmare is that often her mind is clear and she knows exactly what is happening. She can't understand why I am doing this to her.
The accusation in her eyes and her tears is heart-breaking. I want to scoop her up in my arms and run with her to the car. My soul cries out to do something but I am powerless. To me she is clearly in misery. The care workers and nurse are keen to dismiss it as remembered sadness or confusion but I have known her for thirty five years....
Maybe they are right and I am paranoid and reading too much into this. Maybe I project my own guilt and fears onto her (I actually wrote 'self-loathing' there and then deleted it: this is melodramatic enough) and maybe she is not saying what I think she is saying. But part of her angry outburst is an exaggerated tonal imitation of my voice when I am trying to reassure, comfort or encourage her. It is clearly me, to me.
I don't know what to do.
I can manage the anger - just about. It is the tears I find so hard. These are not manipulative tears: these are the unstoppable tears from the depths of a really dark place.
They burn me like acid.
Tonight I got the bullet.
I arrived and she sprang to her feet with her arms outstretched and a look of absolute, total despair on her face. She sobbed at me and I felt her tears running down my face when I hugged her. The care worker who had been sitting with her looked frightened.
I asked Rosemarie what was wrong. No intelligible reply. She pushed me away aggressively. I asked the care worker, who said she didn't know. I asked how long she had been like this and was told that she had been fine all day and this upset had suddenly started about ten minutes previously. I am not sure I believe that: too convenient. I suspect it was either going on most of the day or it started as a result of my arrival.
For some reason Rosemarie was wearing a heavy cardigan and was sweating. I struggled to take it off. The room is always kept very warm and I asked why she was wearing it. I was told it had been cold in the morning. But it was now five o'clock....
She was really too distressed to eat supper properly. She alternated being very angry with me (but on this occasion not lucid), wildly throwing a couple of quite violent left hooks, and creasing up her face in sobbing distress and pouring out tears like a fountain.
I think it was about being there and not understanding why she can't come home. I am to blame and she hates me for it.
What can I say? My biggest fear is that the only problems she has are with speaking and the physical issues of balancing, walking and doing stuff for herself. My nightmare is that often her mind is clear and she knows exactly what is happening. She can't understand why I am doing this to her.
The accusation in her eyes and her tears is heart-breaking. I want to scoop her up in my arms and run with her to the car. My soul cries out to do something but I am powerless. To me she is clearly in misery. The care workers and nurse are keen to dismiss it as remembered sadness or confusion but I have known her for thirty five years....
Maybe they are right and I am paranoid and reading too much into this. Maybe I project my own guilt and fears onto her (I actually wrote 'self-loathing' there and then deleted it: this is melodramatic enough) and maybe she is not saying what I think she is saying. But part of her angry outburst is an exaggerated tonal imitation of my voice when I am trying to reassure, comfort or encourage her. It is clearly me, to me.
I don't know what to do.
I can manage the anger - just about. It is the tears I find so hard. These are not manipulative tears: these are the unstoppable tears from the depths of a really dark place.
They burn me like acid.
posted by Other Kosh at 9:34 pm
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