Daylogs tend to be very... anecdotal. If you don't like anecdotal stuff, try this. Or maybe this. Good solid nodes.
So I went to see my mom the other day. She is in a home now. It's a short term solution while they find her a permanent place to stay. A place to live. For however many years she may have left. She has agreed to this, and it is good. There is no way she can live on her own any longer. Her short term memory is supershort, and she would probably burn the house down within days by forgetting stuff on the stove. She's had some close calls these last few years already, and lately she has been rapidly declining.
Her sense of humour hasn't gone, though. She said that if she came to live in some small town she could discover it anew every day, since she would have forgotten all about it, straight after coming home from a walk. So true. I didn't have the heart to tell her she would probably not be allowed outside unsupervised. I am a coward. I like to see her laughing, and I know that saying these things I'd make her sad. No need for me to add to the sadness, I reckon; she'll be plenty sad, on and off, as she remembers how much she forgets. She does that sometimes, she said. Makes her cry, she said.
Her cats have been put to sleep, her apartment is going to be emptied, and her stuff is going into storage except for what she can fit into her new home, once she gets one. We kids will probably each take what we want to keep. There'll be no arguments and no fights. No need. She brought us up to be nice people, our mom did. There are some things that should follow the family name, and those are for my brother. And then there are some paintings that I painted; I'll take those, unless she'll be wanting some on her new walls. I don't know what my sister will be wanting.
They have a computer free for use at the home she is in now. I showed her pictures of her grandchildren and her great-grandchild. She was happy to see them. I printed one pic of my sister and brother, wrote on it who they were, and who had printed it for her when. I mentioned it just as I left, and she had forgotten all about it by then. I call that a short short-term memory. Damn.
I suppose this is all part of growing up.
I'm not liking it much, really.