About 3:30 tiredness washed over me. I went back to Mom's room and told her I needed to lie down for an hour. I even set a timer by her bed that would ring in an hour.
Fifteen minutes later, just as I was really relaxed, she banged on my door. "Get up!" I can't remember what she wanted; I reminded her, not gently, that I needed to rest for an hour. In five minutes more she was back again. I screamed, "WHAT?" My voice was like a whiplash. It's a sound I don't ever remember hearing myself make until recently. (It's not really a scream or a shriek. Those are high-pitched. It's too razor-edged for a shout. There's no perfect word for this sound.)
I took her back to her bed, tucked her in and gave her hell before going back to bed myself. Ten or fifteen minutes later she barged into my room again.
Now I screamed. I beat on the bed shouting, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" before breaking out in sobs. She actually went away. But by now I was too worked up to rest any more.
It seemed, though, that I'd discharged enough pent-up frustration to give me some patience again. We got through dinnertime without too much trouble - then started on our nightly round of, "I want my sleeping pills now," starting (this time) around 7:30 (she has sometimes started as early as 6:00). This has been going on for some weeks. For a long time I held out for 10:00 as sleeping-pill time; just recently I've backed it off to 9:00, because that's one hour less of having her call and ask for them every few minutes.
The problem is, she only sleeps 5-7 hours even on a hefty dose of sleep medications. So now, if she wakes us up too early, we give her a lesser dose so we can get some more sleep. Although sometimes that doesn't work. And if it's 3:00 or later, Nohemi is unable to get back to sleep. (When she's here, I am able to get more sleep regardless.)
So last night I gave her the pills at 9:00, and went to bed myself at 10:40. The day ended as badly as it had begun. I discovered I'm developing bleeding hemorrhoids from all the stress/fatigue-induced semi-diarrhea. (Aggravated by my steady diet of coffee and Frappucino?) The last thing I said to Mom was, "I don't like to get up before 6:00. (Actually, I really don't like to get up before 9:00.) Think you can remember that?" And she promised not to get me up too early.
It was dark when she woke me. I could swear I checked the time and it was 4:35. But about half an hour ago I looked over at the clock and had a shock. It was 2:45 a.m. She'd awakened me at about 2:00. If I'd realized that at the time, I would have given her another sleeping pill. I honestly didn't think of it when I discovered it was only a quarter to three. I just went back to writing this article. Now it's too late.
At least Nohemi comes back today. I can get some more sleep after that. Mom, as always in the morning - whenever her morning occurs - is sound asleep in her chair, but I just know if I go back to bed she'll wake up and come looking for me.
What am I going to do? I don't, I don't, I don't want to put her in a nursing home yet. That will be signing her death warrant. But how long can I go on like this?
I actually had a call from a "pre-collection" agency the other day about an unpaid medical bill of my own. God knows where the bill is. In a stack somewhere. This has never happened to me before in my life. Never. I've always been pristinely responsible about paying bills.
Last year I ordered 637 plants and bulbs, this year, 376, a 40 percent reduction. Didn't help. Partly because the weather has been supremely uncooperative, mostly because I've been so depressed, as of Friday I was only about halfway finished planting. Saturday I paid to have our yard maintenance service put in a lot of what I had left, but that still only brought me up to being two-thirds done. Many plants have died waiting to be planted - under-watered, over-watered, or rotted away/dried up in their bare-root packaging. (Several have died after prompt planting, and a few arrived in poor shape and quickly passed away; for these I should complain and get my money back, but will I make the effort?)
Tomorrow Mom has an appointment for in-depth cognitive testing. Somewhere I have a questionnaire I'm supposed to fill out and take with me. I hope I can find it. Somewhere there is a medical release form that should have been signed and returned two months ago. Somewhere there are more of my medical bills that need to be paid. (Oh good lord, I found the questionnaire, and the appointment isn't tomorrow - it's on the 25th. My mind is going.)
I need to face the fact that I'm falling apart: that Alzheimer's and bipolar disorder are a devastating combination.
I need to face it. But it's easier to drift along, live minute by minute, lose myself in fantasy games, deny that my depression, stress and fatigue have reached dangerous levels. Wait, what did I just say - easier? Yes, it is. Because facing it means making decisions. Facing it means making changes. Not just about Mom. About me.
I don't have the strength to do that.
