SandLizard of Simmer
Jul. 30th, 2025 07:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoI always tell myself I'm going to do this the easy way when I go to see Madame, but I'm afraid we've come to the phase where there is no easy way. Rather than trying to go outside the facility, I took her to the "bistro" on the lower level again. She seemed to have some memory of this, and wanted to go there. The staff keep offering a wheelchair, but she hasn't accepted it yet. The walk is a long one for her, and she got tired. The food wasn't very good, and we agreed that next time, maybe we'll just get pastries. She doesn't understand the process of paying by giving your name and room number, and couldn't remember that she had already paid, so we had to discuss that repeatedly. She needed to visit the bathroom, which was down another very long hall, and the need was apparently quite exigent, so I had to leave our trash on the table.
When we came back, she was going through the doorway toward the elevator, became tired, and held onto the doorjamb for support. One of the volunteer ladies from the bistro was behind her, became impatient, and started trying to hustle her. "Move along, please! There are people behind you who need to get someplace!" As we approached the elevator, this same lady stuck her face rather close up to mine, and said with a sugary smile but a rather tart tone, "You need to know that in this place, people are expected to bus their own tables." I replied pacifically that I knew that and was sorry, but in this case, the bathroom emergency took precedence. Honestly, sometimes the "nice" people can be rather nasty. By the time we returned to Madame's room, she was tired out and thus became agitated. She can't manage her phone any more, but fusses with it endlessly, and it didn't help that her battery was at 3 percent and the charge cord wasn't plugged in. It also doesn't help that she keeps getting spam calls. There's a special place in hell for people who try to extract donations from old ladies. Madame has developed several entirely new obsessions. She is convinced that her husband is "up north" with some other woman, and is mad about this. In fact he's been dead for ten years, but I don't tell her this. I just tell her it's impossible that he would care for any other woman, which is true. She gives me a dark look and says I don't know what I'm talking about. Also true! She also believes that NO ONE ever visits her, and that no one knows where she is. I know that people visit her almost every day, but I cannot convince her of this. I used to be able to amuse her and take her mind off her troubles, but now she's in a kind of shadow world where nothing outside her mind's illusions has much reality for her. It's sad. I keep hoping she'll wake up a little bit, just enough to enjoy the time she has left.
Meanwhile, before I went over there, I was hustling around preparing for the arrival of a young man who was coming to do some yard work for us. He needed a job, and a mutual friend asked us if we had any odd jobs for him. So I suggested he could help dig up the buckthorn! I had to get the tools ready, and explain the job, etc. etc. He was a city kid, and I wasn't sure if he'd get the idea. He seems to have done a terrific job so far, and I'm pleased. He went home in the late afternoon when it started to rain. By that time, I was totally knocked out. Something about Madame is just very exhausting. I hope tomorrow will be a better day.
When we came back, she was going through the doorway toward the elevator, became tired, and held onto the doorjamb for support. One of the volunteer ladies from the bistro was behind her, became impatient, and started trying to hustle her. "Move along, please! There are people behind you who need to get someplace!" As we approached the elevator, this same lady stuck her face rather close up to mine, and said with a sugary smile but a rather tart tone, "You need to know that in this place, people are expected to bus their own tables." I replied pacifically that I knew that and was sorry, but in this case, the bathroom emergency took precedence. Honestly, sometimes the "nice" people can be rather nasty. By the time we returned to Madame's room, she was tired out and thus became agitated. She can't manage her phone any more, but fusses with it endlessly, and it didn't help that her battery was at 3 percent and the charge cord wasn't plugged in. It also doesn't help that she keeps getting spam calls. There's a special place in hell for people who try to extract donations from old ladies. Madame has developed several entirely new obsessions. She is convinced that her husband is "up north" with some other woman, and is mad about this. In fact he's been dead for ten years, but I don't tell her this. I just tell her it's impossible that he would care for any other woman, which is true. She gives me a dark look and says I don't know what I'm talking about. Also true! She also believes that NO ONE ever visits her, and that no one knows where she is. I know that people visit her almost every day, but I cannot convince her of this. I used to be able to amuse her and take her mind off her troubles, but now she's in a kind of shadow world where nothing outside her mind's illusions has much reality for her. It's sad. I keep hoping she'll wake up a little bit, just enough to enjoy the time she has left.
Meanwhile, before I went over there, I was hustling around preparing for the arrival of a young man who was coming to do some yard work for us. He needed a job, and a mutual friend asked us if we had any odd jobs for him. So I suggested he could help dig up the buckthorn! I had to get the tools ready, and explain the job, etc. etc. He was a city kid, and I wasn't sure if he'd get the idea. He seems to have done a terrific job so far, and I'm pleased. He went home in the late afternoon when it started to rain. By that time, I was totally knocked out. Something about Madame is just very exhausting. I hope tomorrow will be a better day.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-31 01:49 pm (UTC)