When Mom and I began her journey in 2015, my tears burned. They did more than burn my eyes. They burned sadness into my soul.
There was a point that I knew God had held back my tears so that I could navigate and advocate for Momma. I had no emotions during that time. It’s so different now. I gasp for air as those tears cloud my vision. They attempt to turn my heart into nothingness.
With Momma on hospice now, those tears are abundant. Controlling her pain has turned into an experiment by the hospice nurse. This. That. This and that, plus a touch of the other.
This morning Mom smiled as I was getting her ready for her day. I cried. These were different. I reached her. I understood her wants. Last night I slept on the rollaway bed next to her. We listened to the Bible on Alexa. She ate all her breakfast of blueberry oatmeal with a vanilla Ensure. With two doses of morphine, she drifted to sleep.
Trying to find time to write is daunting. Either I am too tired or I need to attend to Momma. I say this is not fair. I’m human.
My time may not be now. My time will come. My future is so uncertain. With three older siblings, I and my daughter will have to lay Momma to rest by ourselves. They’ve told me they won’t be coming to Mommas homegoing. Who does that? Heartless heathens. One doesn’t call at all. One told me he’d never speak to me or my child if he couldn’t bring very socially active teens from another state to say goodbye to Momma. I told him I couldn’t allow that as the two COVID variants were found. The oldest passes along the update to them. It’s not normal. Not at all.
What pains me the most is that because my daughter has ASD, they behave as she’s a leper with the plague in medieval times.
So, my daughter and I take each day as it comes. The Home health care agency I work thru has done me a massive disservice. My disability is in jeopardy now because they received COVID money last year and padded their pockets. I was told if I didn’t work these thirty-four hours, I’d be fired. That the hours came from the Cooperate Office. Who can live on 431.00 dollars a month?
When we as members of humanity begin to openly intentionally step to destroy another person for money, we loose our dignity.
Somehow, somewhere a door will open for me and my writing. Then, I will no longer be dependent on others. It will be by the craft and God given gift of my hands.
Handmaidens, you are loved!