Shawarma-style chicken with tabbouleh and salad

It’s been another long day. Mum’s variable memory has locked onto Wednesday’s hospital appointment, and she has been looping (and looping, and looping) on “my head hurts, will they fix me, I’m scared, my head hurts” at approximately 2 minute intervals.

I really do feel for mum: with her memory not always holding on to details, she is left with just a free-floating sense of dread and terror. If I ask her what she’s scared of, with the hopes of easing her fears, she very often doesn’t know. Her anxiety winds up her pain, which winds up her anxiety, and do on and on until she’s curled up, clutching her head, unable to think of anything but “my head hurts, will they fix me, I’m scared, my head hurts”.

That said, I also feel for me: by the time lunch appears on the horizon, I have heard “my head hurts” over a hundred times (although it feels like far more). The urge to snap “I KNOW, MUM!” becomes almost overwhelming.

Suki vanishes into hiding (and who can blame her), and I am left alone to be the sponge absorbing all mum’s pain and fear. Nothing I say provides reassurance, and no attempt to distract her works for more than a few minutes. Attempts to provide some distance by lying on my bed only inspires mum to shout her complaints to me from the living room, then huffily lower the volume of the tv when she can’t hear my response.

This leads to mind-bending conversations such as (verbatim, or near enough):

Mum: “It will all work out, won’t it?”

Me, a touch wearily: “Yes, mum. It will all work out.”

Mum: “Pardon?”

Me, louder and even more wearily: “Yes, mum. It will all work out.”

Mum huffs, gets up and walks into my room. “What did you say?”

Me: “I said: yes, mum. It will all work out.”

Mum: “What will all work out?”

Me: “Err… hospital. Your head. Everything.”

Mum nods, and walks back to the living room. No more than five minutes later, she calls “it will all work out, won’t it?”

Head meets wall, again.

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Dinner was the sort of collation job I can only manage when groceries are newly delivered: shawarma-style chicken (I don’t know exactly what that’s meant to mean, but mum liked it) with chips for mum, and tabbouleh (and a few chips) for me.

Then mum satisfied her current sweet tooth with a big bowl of tiramisu with a chocolate éclair, the last of the banana cake with cream, and half a bar of chocolate.

Now, at last, mum’s complaints have eased off, and I’m counting down to the time I can lie back on my bed and have some treats of my own (blueberries or dried apricots if I’m feeling good (😇), or caramel chocolate buttons if I’m not (😈).

I can’t believe I – and mum – have another day of this to get through. Wish us both luck, please.