Recent events of my grandmother succumbing to age-related illness and her just plain running herself into the ground has left me reeling. Were it not for my faith, kickboxing and talk therapy I’d go stark mad.
She has been the second mom of sorts in my life, walked through much that I struggled through in my teen years into my adulthood.
I love her, it’s hard to see your grandmother struggle to get out of a bathtub for 18 minutes while you try to hoist her up as she slides around.
I’ve helped bathe people before, that’s not the issue, it’s the instance on her part to see myself or those that honestly do want to help her as ‘out to get’ her if that makes sense.
She’s of the WW2 generation, stubborn as a mule and has cared for others her entire adult life.
She had a health breakdown over Easter weekend and was admitted to the ICU.
On that same weekend, her washer flooded her entire downstairs to her complex unit. This was the 2nd time it’s flooded the downstairs since Oct. of 2016. Needless to say mold in the carpet, walls and wood have been wreaking havoc on her breathing and no amount of air filters will help that because it’s in the padding of the carpet.
She has nick knacks from 25 years of living in her complex and never really ‘cleans out’ anything just moves junk around, forgets about it, and pays for storage units that house more of her junk.
I love her, she was with me when I was born, she was with me when I attempted to kill myself in 2005 when I had my bouts with borderline anorexia as a teenager and the 10 years that I abused my body via cutting.
I’m now 4 years healed thank God, and it’s a patience related thing. But, it’s so damn hard. Now instead of tears, it’s ugly sobbing for longer than needed. I suppose I do need the good cry of 3 hours.
I shan’t post this on Facebook as it’d upset her. Rant over.