Day #39 > TUESDAY 1st DECEMBER
I greet Mum in the kitchen at 8.30am as we’re off today to escort & chauffeur Bob who’s finally having that scan on his spine. To see if he’s got one perhaps? Stoppit. We chitty-chat & she’s good, wondering how logistically we’re going to move forward so I reassure her that all will be fine & I’m here for her.
Bob hears us & shuffles through, interrupting Mum & I with some irrelevant nonsense – so I let him say his piece before gaining his attention & saying: ‘Despite making it clear that I am not welcome in this house, you want me to leave & that I am not officially your guest, I appreciate that we are all under the same roof at the moment & Mum does want me here, it would be good to be civil to each other, so ‘Good Morning’’. Bob says he saw us talking & didn’t want to interrupt. Sigh. I took a step closer to him & very slowly said: ‘Bob, Mum & I were talking & you shuffled in & interrupted us. That’s rude.’ He stared blankly at me. I said I knew it was a big day for him & let’s move forward, as he’s likely to be on-edge, so changed the subject to food options – as I would cook later – but it went round in circles so I simply asked what he wanted to eat tonight. He told me what was in the freezer, so I asked him again what he wanted to eat. Sigh. He replied chicken pie & chips. I said no problem, I could handle that.
We left for his appointment at 8.50am, but Mum remembered she didn’t have her collar on – whoop! – so we stopped to retrieve it. Good on you Mum, that’s the first time she’s remembered it – & I for one felt guilty at not noticing. Must keep my eye on the ball – on what’s important, & not get dragged down to his level.
We got him to his appointment in Columbia, hung around for 30 mins or so until they confirmed they’d call us when Bob’s done in around three hours – so we’ve got a good dollop of time together this morning.
We start with breakfast at Waffle House, of course. Mum was on great form – we had a lovely chat with the server & out of nowhere Mum said the young server should write poetry, which resonated loudly with her & she confirmed she used to write & it certainly seemed to inspire her. Lovely stuff – we brought some light to someone else’s day.
From there I suggested we visit Trinity – as although Bob won’t take her & she says she doesn’t get much out of that church, it is her church – so let’s go & visit. She beams. She knows the way too! En-route we receive a call saying Bob’ll be cooked in an hour or so, so no need to rush.
We walk around there & notice a big ‘we are closed’ type of sign on the door & I make some reference to what use is a church if it’s closed, & we both raise our eyebrows, & continue walking around moaning when a lady walks past & says ‘hello’ – then does a double-take & greets Mum warmly as they used to be in a church group previously. They chat & then a door opens up & it’s Andrella, Bob’s old boss in the kitchen. Well, it’s like long-lost family, & we’re invited in, hugged, shown the kitchen & all recent upgrades & given three pies to take home along with a dollop of love & care. Smashing. We then check-out the gardens to see Mum’s old stomping ground & she clearly loves seeing her previous work but TBH is not entirely happy with the current state of maintenance . . .
We head back & scoop up Bob, who seems ok-ish. We start to tell him our tale, but he interrupts to tell us the story of how the Waffle House was raised to the ground & then rebuilt in a different orientation, so simply didn’t bother finishing our good news about decent pies to eat. That’s right – thank you Lord – not cheap ’n’ nasty Costco chicken pot pies, but lovely honest homemade pies cooked with love for us all. Wow. What a blessing.
Back home, Bob grumbles ’n’ mumbles as per usual, & is firmly ensconced in front of his tablet & TV within a few minutes. I make Mum & I a cuppa & once we’ve drained that we walk Abel, returning to find Bob’s scoffing some beef & potato leftovers from the fridge.
Mmmm.
I ask him if he’s plated some up for Mum. No he says – in a tone like I’ve just called him a very bad word – so I ask why? He shrugs, so I walk off, leaving the ole fella in his own pit. Mum’s in the kitchen so I say Bob’s fixed himself some beef ’n’ potatoes & is she hungry? No she says, she’s good (she scoffed a big ole blueberry waffle earlier of course!) & then she walks into the den, spies Bob with the food & I hear her say ‘It’s all about you isn’t it Bob.’ I can’t help letting out a small smile & when she turns tale & returns straight back into the kitchen I ask again if she’s hungry? No she says, but it would’ve been nice to be asked. I agree, & say I have work to do, so unless she prefers I don’t I’m going upstairs for a while, but will be back down at 5.00pm to start dinner. Ok? No problem she says, would you like something to eat?
I smile.
Upstairs I go & start typing this. Funny ole day – I don’t want to be here; Bob doesn’t want me here & Mum clearly excels when she’s not here – but the whole morning has been spent focussed on Bob. Again. Let’s ensure he’s ok today but tomorrow I’ll be calling the relevant people – docs, neck doc, social services as well as checking with Bob about Mum’s passport & his own cessation of the whisky. We have work to do . . .
I return downstairs at 5.00pm as promised, & Mum greets me wearing a new outfit – minus neck collar of course – & tells me quite seriously that she is feeling worse & knows her brain is failing. I speak softly & try to get her perspective why she now thinks she’s losing it? It doesn’t take a Columbo interrogation to discover that Bob had had a ‘chat’ with her & now she was feeling all negative. Oh my, what can we do to break this? It’s nuts – actually, it’s more than nuts, it’s incredibly dangerous. I’m worried for her.
I drag it out of her that Bob has confirmed that she is ‘ill’ & she’s worried, so reassure her that from my perspective I have witnessed nothing but improvement in her since I’ve been visiting. I admit that I’ve seen Bob deteriorate – perhaps because he feels under pressure to actually care for you or simply because he feels it more important that his world has changed rather than Mum improving, so we continue our chat in the den but include Bob . . .
We go around in circles, as per usual, Bob telling me that I’m trying to split them up with me retorting ‘No! you couldn’t be further from the truth, I’m caring for my vulnerable Mum & you’re acting like a spoilt child Bob & turning the attention on your supposed ‘suffering’.’ I’m not entertaining it. He tells me that he’s now stopped drinking for two days – I couldn’t help standing up, throwing my hands in the air & whoop whooping out loud – oops. I say this is fantastic, but alas this is exactly what happened a month ago. What’s different now? No real answer except he has now given up drinking. Ok, get help then I say – Dr. Lyle, AA, whoever – get help as the success rate for quitting on your own is abysmal, according to Dr. Lyle’s message. He says he knows, as he’s read the message. Great I say, what else did the message say? He doesn’t remember. I jog his memory that Dr. Lyle recommends counselling & that he feels my knowledge & experience of Deweyland will be invaluable for them. Bob didn’t remember that bit . . .
I call time on the merrygoround chat by saying I shall take Mum on a vacation whilst Bob gets dry, as she won’t be safe until he is – plus Bob actually admits that he used to drink more than half a litre of whisky a day & has actually cut down since Dr. Lyle suggested it. Silence. What can I say to that? Well done Bob? Great that you’re only drinking half a litre a day? Why didn’t you say at the time, then we could’ve helped? Nope. Silence. Nothing.
Again, in simpleton language: ‘Bob, you’re a danger to Mum, & she does not want to be with you whilst you drink, so during this period of quitting it’ll be safer for her to be away, & then return if & when you’re dry, if she wants to.’ I say. I cannot make it any clearer than that.
I simply up-sticks & leave to make dinner – as he is about to pick on every unimportant snippet & take me down a rabbit hole of irrelevance so we lose focus on what’s actually important, & after a month I’ve had more than my fill of that now. He is a textbook narcissist & I’m on to him now.
And breathe . . .
Once I’ve cooked, served, eaten & tidied up, I retire to bed & read up on narcissists, as clearly going toe-to-toe & trying to justify logic & reason fails spectacularly with him, so I need to learn how to get through that thick skull. Turns out I simply need to stop any disagreement in its tracks by saying it’s alright for you not to agree with me Bob, although Mum / docs / social services etc. do, & that’s more important to Mum’s safety / well-being / recovery / happiness. Oh, & give him a bit of the silent treatment too, as he won’t be able to stop the sniping comments to gain attention, so let him dig his own grave eh . . .
I sleep well again.
