Fridays

I miss her most on Fridays.

Back before we sentenced her to "The Manor", my siblings and I each took one weekend a month to give the care-giver some time off.  I can't remember what year we started this, or how many years it lasted, but I can remember the routine I followed, right down to the chardonnay.

And it shames me.

Right about Wednesday before it was my turn, the dread would set in.  I knew what was coming and I wasn't looking forward to it. 

The long drive down there.

The endless, repetitive questions.

The broken sleep.

Sometimes NO sleep.

And it was always the same.

Don't get me wrong, there were often very easy and enjoyable times.  Sometimes her mind would be shown a temporary mercy as if the fog had lifted.  Sometimes it would last more than a few hours and when it returned, she could still see through the mist. 

Loved ones with dementia are hard to take care of.  It's exhausting physically, but mostly mentally.  It will tear your heart right out of your body and stomp on it with lead boots and leave it on the floor along with the last of your patience.

But she was my Mama and I loved her and I would take care of her no matter what because it was my Friday, my weekend to keep her safe.

...

She would greet me with such joy and excitement.

"I'm so glad to see you Robin!  I didn't know you were coming!  Where are the boys?  Are you going to spend the night?  Where's Mark? "

She would hold the door open wide while I unloaded the car.

Meals prepared by my husband that I needed only to bake or microwave went into her fridge along with Diet Coke, bottled water and wine.  One of those great big bottles...

We'd watch the 6:00 news then I'd make supper.  No matter what I gave her to eat, she enjoyed it so much.  Maybe because it was something different.  Maybe it was the company.  

"When's your next show?" she'd ask.

And I'd tell her.

"What's your best seller?"

I'd tell her that too.

"When's your next show?"

"When's your next show?"

"When's your next show?"

"Are my Mama and Daddy still living?"

"What day is it?"

Always the same.

"When's your next show?"

"I wonder what time your Daddy's coming home."

"What day did you say this is?"

Then I'd clean up, sit down, and we'd watch Wheel of Fortune.   Sometimes she'd shout out the answer before the contestant did.  I was amazed at how she would follow along and work at that phrase until she or someone else figured it out.  When she was the one to solve it, she'd laugh, very pleased with herself.  And then she'd want to know if I was spending the night and if my Daddy was coming home. 

I'll buy a U, Vanna.

U need to drink a glass of wine with me Mama.

And sometimes she would.  Just an ounce or two.  But it helped her relax.

We'd talk about the past.  She lived there most of the time and it was easy for her to remember the good old days.  And they were.  Dear Jesus, they were.

I would sink into it and feel those walls surrounding me with memories of my Daddy's strong arms and my sister picking me up and sitting me on the kitchen bar.  She was ten years older than me after all.  My brother yelling to our Mama to make me stop banging on the piano because he was trying to sleep.  Our house was small but so was I.  I still felt small, even now and even though I was there taking care of the one who took care of me when the days were good so very many years ago. 

"What day is it?"

I'm so tired Mama.  Please stay asleep until the morning light.  Please don't wake up and start getting dressed for the day at 3:00 in the morning.  

Sometimes I'd get lucky and wake up before she did and my feet would find the floor on their own terms.  

I'd make a pot of coffee and soon enough, I'd hear her stir.  I always called out to her so she'd know I was there.  

"When did you get here, Robin?"

"Have you been here long?"

All of Saturday and most of Sunday were spent that way.  Some weekends were free of stress and I enjoyed those beyond measure.  Others found me pushing ropes uphill and swimming against the tide.  My mind would be so frazzled that I'd cry on the way home and drown in my guilt of being so relieved to be heading in the opposite direction.

It would take me at least a day to decompress.

...

That seems like such a long time ago. 

She went into a nursing home in June of 2017.  My once a month caregiver duties were over.

From then on, I saw her at least once a week, not once a month.  It didn't take long for me to wish it could be the other way around again though.  This place wasn't her home.  It wasn't my home or my Daddy's home or Clint's or Beth's and I couldn't feel the walls of this place.  But she was there and there she would stay until she joined my Daddy in heaven in December of 2019.  

For the longest time I kept all the Friday's that would have been my turn noted on my calendar.  It fed my guilty conscience and left my heart heavy.  I deserved it for all those times I complained about having to give her my weekends.  And now, just like clockwork when Friday afternoons roll around, that is when I miss her the most. 

I'd give anything to be able to spend a weekend with her again.

The long drive down there.

The endless, repetitive questions.

The broken sleep.

The  "I'm so glad to see you Robin!  I didn't know you were coming!  Where are the boys?  Are you going to spend the night?  Where's Mark?"

"What day is it?"

It's Friday Mama.  And I miss you more than ever.

Even more than I will two days from now when it's Mother's Day. 

Mother's Day comes once a year on a Sunday in May.

But there was a time not so long ago when Mother's Day came once a month.

It lasted for a weekend...

And it always started on a Friday.