Caregiver’s Log: Day 985
5:30 am: Run dogs before the sunup of another sultry 92-degree September morning. Return with new story idea on the recent demise of the neighborhood grocery store you’ve just jogged past. Hurriedly scribble “empty parking lot—metaphor for life purpose?” on the “Call Bob Today!” notepad recently left at front door by overzealous neighborhood realtor.
6:30 am Walk over to feed Greta, the neighbor’s Chihuahua you’re petsitting for a week. Attempt to meditate in peace on neighbor’s couch. Give up after ten minutes of Greta licking your face.
6:45 am Walk home. Dust living room. Drag vacuum cleaner from closet, causing immediate mass pet exodus. Decide dog hair dust bunnies can wait until tomorrow.
7:30 am Drive to the memory care home where you moved your mother last year after quitting your job and taking care of her for three years in your East Coast childhood home. Park in space marked “Future Resident Parking,” because at the rate you’re going, it’s probably true. Unload gigantic box of Depends from your ten-year-old Ford Escape which has epically failed to live up to its name, still annoyed that the one and only time you shipped the Depends—which she calls “paper panties”—directly to her apartment, they mysteriously vanished. Wonder if there’s a black market for adult diapers.
Smile and respond, “Hi, dearie,” to her “Hi, Mummy,” greeting, when all you want to do at this point is either (a) sit in a dark room, eat a jar of peanut butter and cry; or (b) drop a hit of purple microdot and blast Pink Floyd on your headphones.
Second in a series of 7. Read Part 1 here