...and got back to the house at 6:30 pm. Spent over seven of those twelve hours driving, either to and from Valdosta, or with the auntie taking her to the dental appt., running errands while she had her mouth open. It is hard to think of this as being an exhausting day, when I have spent the greatest part of it sitting on my backside, inert. But I was not immobile: drove over four hundred miles, to end up right back where I started from.
When I got home, The Man Who Lives Here asked about how my day was. I said 'other than the auntie, it was a very productive day'. Made several stops while she was in the dentists' chair and feel like I got a lot accomplished - getting some paperwork the CPA will need to prepare her taxes. Which I am sure would never get done if I did not put the effort into assembling all the pieces of the puzzle to turn over for tax return prep.
The sad, distressing part of the day was taking her back to the assisted living facility where she was relocated last June: almost eight months ago. About five miles west of town, we turned down the road she lives on, a narrow lane, almost tunnel like, with overhanging oak trees draped in Spanish moss. She asked where we were going, and I told her we were headed to Fellowship.
She wanted to know if I knew anyone who lived there? I said 'yes, I do.' She asked if we were going to visit. I forgot she cannot remember anything, and assumed she was referring to a friend we both knew from years ago, who worked at a church in the town where I grew up. We had just been talking about this woman, and how she had been such a faithful worker for so many years. Working into her nineties in the church office, before she retired, probably due to failing eyesight. But finally got to the point that she could not manage to live independently, and had sell her home and relocate into communal care facility.
When I parked and we got out of the car, and were going towards the entrance, she said she would leave her purse in the car, since we were just going in for a visit. I knew that was a bad omen. But decided not to press the issue. We admitted ourselves in to the hallway, and she asked what we were doing there: apparently having no memory of having ever been there. Not earlier in the day or ever. Completely unaware that she has been living there for eight months. I could tell this was not going to end well...
We walked on to her room, and she wanted to know how her furniture got there. I told her she had been living there since June. She was so confused. Wanted to know who was going to pay for all that. I said she could. She said it was too expensive and she was not going to pay. I said 'ok.' She demanded to know who would pay, and I told her she could.
And decided retreat truly is the better part of valor. So I left. If it were not for the fact that she has dementia, and cannot retain anything long enough to put a period on the end of a sentence, I would be confident she still has steam coming out of her ears, waiting for me to come back to finish our conversation.
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