Deja vu

“I love you to the bottom of my heart and that will never change, BUT,” sternly, gesturing around the careroom, “I really don’t think all this is necessary.”

I grinned to myself, reminded of my mother. In her eighties, she was devastated by a severe stroke with total left neglect. My dad moved them both into a private nursing home so he could stay with her, in the misguided belief that he could help her learn to walk again. And she ranted, “I Just don’t know why your father insists on spending all this money on this fancy hotel!”She had some spicey comments about the service at the “restaurant” too, when one of the care aides tried to feed her. “I have never seen anyone so rude. We’ll never go back to that restaurant,” she fumed, as dad pushed her wheelchair down the hall.

Our discussion trails off into nonsense and non sequitur, including another serious interlude: “I’m worried. I’m worried about our kids. Don’t you think you should give them something to eat? See,” pointing to a small lady across the hall, “there’s one of them now.”

I gulp, wavering between explaining for the third time in the hour that the kids are so grown up they are about to start drawing their pensions, or ignoring the issue altogether.

Inspiration strikes and I say, “well we’re having dinner at five o’clock. Do you think they can wait til then?”

“Ah, five o’clock sure that’s good, that’s great!” and my love’s injured mind wanders off into another stream of consciousness.

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