Some of us are forgetful.
We misplace our keys, our glasses, essential paperwork.
Sometimes our loyalty, our friendship, our hearts.
A few of us are actually misplaced.
We are in the wrong place.
A bad fit.
A lost soul, forever uncomfortable.
After years of wearing a metaphorical hat, we look around and wonder why we are here.
Dad passed away almost 18 months ago.
I am still his son.
His influence on my life is strong in both positive and negative ways.
Mum differs.
For 40 years she was his carer, his voice, his hands.
She would cut his hair, help him to bathe, tie his laces.
Now he is gone and she is one of The Misplaced.
She is both lost, like my keys, and in the wrong place.
Being alone suits some people.
They thrive on the quiet, the autonomy, the time passing.
My Mum is now a lost soul.
She aches to speak but only achieves a different more hurtful kind of solitude when she drives new friends away. Her intensity and lack of social skill can scare folk.
Today we are going to do a Memory Test at the local clinic: the first step in a long and painful journey to assess the level of her senility and the appropriate level of care she needs.
Much of me wants this because she needs it.
Why do I weep?
A part of me feels treachorous for walking her into what could be a one way path, a locked yard, an ever decreasing place where her freedoms are taken away.
There is no “right” answer.
All I can do is love her now, as I’ve always done.
