gramma dramma

Every once in a while I get a bit coocoo from the dealings of a 96 year old with Alzheimer's.

For the longest time after my accident, I heard, "You're still not quite right, are you?"

It's bad enough that I tell myself I'm not perfect, but to hear that negative question day in and day out, I was going a little nuts about it.  She's laid off of that one a bit, but there is always a replacement question to deal with.

I'd go up the 'my they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs', and open the door handle as quietly as possible, tip-toe through the kitchen, and move like a burglar out the door to my salvage of a vehicle.

Never will the old bird admit that I'm doing much better than I was when I first got hit.  I'm walking, remembering most things and happy, ...

when i allow myself to be hehe ...

... so shouldn't I hear, "Wow, you're doing so good and look how far you've come!"

Anyway, my point is, after the diagnosis of Alzheimer's,  I felt a lot more able to care for the old fart emotionally, because I felt so sorry for her.  She needs us.

However, in the past few days, I've been thinking of renting the movie, "Throw Mama from the Train."

They may have some suggestions of how to deal with the old poop who thinks that every breathing moment in my life is to be spent tending to her needs.

I don't mind tending to her needs, but when I have to have the same conversation 4 to a thousand times a day, I lose it just a little bit.

Ok, maybe it's because I'm having a wicked PMS and want to kill everyone.

Or it could be the fact that I'm taking care of my spouse who is healing from a surgery, I have 2 film scores to work on and one of the composing programs still hasn't made it to my door, 5 critters to tend to, 3 days of physio a week along with 3 more visits to the gym to practise what they've told me to do, and the wing nut 'gma to deal with.

Somethings gotta give, and it seems to be my patience.

But when an old lady asks your spouse, "Is Andréa mad at me?" it makes me feel like the biggest ogre on the planet. 

wtf is the matter with me?!?!

And here's where I gotta wonder what goes on in my own brain though: I walk in and hear the same questions from the g'ma, without so much as a 'hi' first and I want to run and hide from her.

So in order to run and hide, I walk down the 'my they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs' to our basement abode, and after a quick, "Hi honey," I launch into, "I'm going to lose it," and proceed to repeat the same story I repeat every day: the story of the g'ma who repeats every question, every 30 minutes of every single day.

Who's the one here who is losing their marbles?!?!?!  Seriously?!?!?!

and now you get the joy of listening to me vent ... lucky you ...

I should be able to just buck up and figure out that she's not doing it to make me lose my mind.

that's what the assholes in life are for ...

Maybe I should go up the 'my they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs' and answer every one of her questions before she's even asked me.  The monologue for this week's answers would go something like this:

a) the man across the street has cancer and is going to die, and you're not allowed to call his grieving wife 5 times per day anymore,
b) you're going to Alberta for 4 months so that I can handle taking care of Papi, the 5 animals and the house,
c) my love is healing perfectly fine from the surgery, and yes you did see him today, yesterday and the day before,
d) psycho kitty will be fine here while you're gone, and no he's not coming into our basement dwelling to kill my cats,
e) my cats are doing just as well as they were 30 minutes ago when you asked me,
f) your sherry is in the same place it's always been, and no we're not rationing it to torture you, it's just that you forget you've already had a glass and drink too much,
g) the tv is not broken, you've just pressed the wrong buttons,
h) your phone is not broken, you just forgot to charge it,
i) yes I still have pain from 3 years ago and I'm not quite 'right',
j) the stove is not broken, we unplugged it because you were leaving burners on, and now, after you've flooded us out of our home, we don't want you to burn us down next.
k) yes, I know how to load the dishwasher I've been loading for 3 years now.

all done with a fake 'i'm the sweetest most patient person' smile on my face and suppressing the urge to say fuck off.

Well, I could go on, but these are just off the top of my head.  We've tried writing down everything for her, but she'll just ask anyway.

So, is it PMS?  Homicidal tendencies?  Too much pain?

One, or all of the above?

Someone pour me a tall dark glass of 'fuck-it-all'.