Dementia is capable of infinite stubbornness; carers are only capable of finite patience. But you're right, it doesn't stop you feeling like something usually found on the bottom of a shoe when things go wrong.
Last night, after another whole day of trying -- over and over and over and over and over and OVER AGAIN! -- to get Mum to take her pills, I did something which would probably get me arrested in a care home environment. I
finally managed to get the pills into her mouth, but she started to spit them out and...
And half an hour later, after I'd cleaned us both up and got most of the spilled tea out of the carpet, Mum thanked me quietly for some strawberries and ice cream. She didn't eat them all, but then she eats like a sparrow at the best of times now, so it was a victory of sorts. But she remembered nothing about our earlier drama, even though I was horrified and guilt-ridden.
I'd probably feel better if she did remember... forgiveness, whether accidental or deliberate, can be harder to live with than rage and retribution. Sometimes the fact that such incidents are so easily swept under the carpet makes me feel even worse. We have to be our own juror, judge and emotional executioner, because there's usually nobody else to keep us on the rails. As if we didn't have enough on our plates already!
But I think I've said before that the time to worry is when we stop feeling guilty. Guilt means we're back on solid emotional ground.
Mum still hasn't taken her pills today either, and although that's not the end of the world while she's not on antibiotics, it's probably contributing to her overall state of confusion and I suspect she'll be back on antibiotics again after tomorrow morning's sample goes to the doctor. So the stakes are going to get raised again and I'll try to get something liquid or crushable this time. But that still doesn't guarantee success, because Mum was always eligible for the UK Olympic stubbornness team and dementia has elevated her to gold medal status.
Meanwhile, the only gold medal I'm getting is for hypocrisy, self-doubt and grasping at straws. But half an hour ago, after Mum tried to thump me for helping her in the loo, she finally had a wee and then said 'I love you', out of the blue, in the moments of calm relief which usually follow.
How are any of us supposed to deal with such an emotional minefield? We know we're supposed to crawl slowly, probing every inch of ground ahead for hazards, but sometimes the tension gets too much and we want to stand up, scream at the sky, and run for the nearest exit. Sometimes we get away with it. Sometimes we wish we'd kept crawling.
Here's to crawlers everywhere. It's hard on your emotional kneeds, but the lower you are, the shorter the fall.