Sunday, July 28, 2013
"Yes, I have three," I replied.
"Little ones?" she asked.
"No, they're all grown and gone now," I said.
"Do you miss them?"
"Every day," I said.
She patted my hand.
"I have children," she said. "But I never see them. They never come to see me anymore."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I replied, my heart aching at the sadness in her eyes. "Do they live very far away?"
"No, they live in the next town. They just don't want to see me. I'm old. I'm feeble. They have better things to do."
I felt the tears welling in my eyes and looked away.
"Is your Mother alive?" she asked.
"Yes, she is."
"Do you visit her?" the woman asked.
"Almost every day," I said.
I saw her shiver and asked if she was cold.
"There's a bit of a nip in the air," she said, pulling the collar of her shirt closer around her neck.
"Why don't you put this sweater on?" I asked. "It will keep you warm."
"Oh, that's so very kind. If you're sure you don't mind?" I rose from the bench and helped her into the sweater. It fit her well and she smiled.
"This is such a pretty color," she said, stroking the soft, lilac wool. "It's my favorite color, too."
I looked away, and watched two young children playing ball across the way. Their dog scampered around them, barking and making them laugh.
"Are those your boys?" she asked.
"No, my boys are grown."
"Are they?" she asked, picking at the wool in the sweater. "My children never come to see me."
I felt the tears again. I could feel her sadness, her loneliness.
"Maybe they'll come see you soon."
"Oh, do you think so? That would be lovely."
She was silent for a while, and I watched the sun as it began to set just beyond the park trees.
"It's time to go," I said.
She looked at me, her eyes clearer than a few moments ago.
"Miriam?" she asked.
"Yes, Mom," I replied. "It's me."
"Can we go in now? I'm cold."
I helped her up. We walked along in silence for a while, holding hands.
"It's nice of you to walk me home, dear. Did I tell you I have children? They never come to see me."
Copyright 2013 Cia Williford
All rights reserved.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
My latest painting. It's called "Alzheimer's." It is dedicated to my father, my cousin, Mary, and my dear friends Barbara and Janet. Sadly, except for my father, we've recently lost them all.
I miss you, ladies.
I miss you, ladies.
It's not a matter of *if* someone in your life
will get Alzheimer's, it's a matter of *when*.
Please join the fight to find a cure for Alzheimer's.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Still a Child tells the story behind dementia and the struggles and guilt of having to place a parent in a care facility. Song written by Bakhus Saba and John & Michele Law.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Last week, Sis and I noticed that while Dad's face was looking good, his neck was covered with the rash. This week, it was still there and he was scratching at it. I asked, once again, if the folks in charge were *sure* Dad's medicated wash was being used on him.
Long story short, yes, the wash was being used on Dad. But only on his face. It was prescribed for application on the face, so it was only applied to his face. His neck wasn't touched, in spite of its condition.
Now, I understand that if something is prescribed in a certain way, then that's the way it has to be used. I don't fault that.
What I do fault is that not a single person thought to mention to the doctor that Dad needed the wash on his neck, even though it was painfully obvious. They just let it go until I complained about his discomfort.
We were told that this must have happened overnight because it "wasn't there yesterday." I took this picture on June 26th, over a week ago.
*sigh* That's it. No more words. Just. . . . *sigh*
On a brighter note, Dad's doing good health-wise, eating well and staying out of his wheel chair for the time being. He naps a lot, but that's okay. Here's a photo from a week or so ago.
Happy 4th everyone!