After yesterday’s post, I returned to my mom’s apartment to give her the bedtime meds. She couldn’t remember where she’d put them—even though we decided together earlier in the day where they should go. One of the meds, (the all-important zyprexa) can’t be opened until right before it’s taken. She wasn’t able to pop the pill out of the blister pack. It disintegrated into a crumbly yellow mess. Mom became agitated and said she couldn’t do it because I was watching over her so closely.
Later, I was watching Numb3ers, my Friday night network-TV guilty pleasure. She said something completely irrational about the TV needing to be off before she goes to bed. Whatever.
She accused me of wanting her to go back to the hospital so that I could go home. I said that I thought she should go back to the hospital because she needed time to make the transition from the geodon to the zyprexa. I pointed out that she couldn’t remember where she put her medication. She said, “You’re right. Just give me 24 hours.”
First thing this morning:
Mom: Where are the keys?
Me: They are around your neck. (She keeps her keys on a lanyard—carry over from teaching days.)
Me: They are hanging around your neck.
Mom: Oh, I guess I really am a mental patient. Maybe I need to go to the hospital for two days.
A few minutes later—
Me: I know you’re argumentative and you can’t help it. That’s why we’re not going to talk too much today.
She is wearing the green corduroy dress that she wears on Thanksgiving Day, with a flowered skirt underneath that and a pair of long pants underneath that.
I’m staying one more day. My brother will spend Sunday night here. If I’m not home tomorrow, send a posse.
Image courtesy of cowboypoetry.com
UPDATE: I just packed. I think I’m too fried to stay.
UPDATE 2 (16 Nov 08, 9 am): I am home, and I am in bed. I called my mom last night and she gave me a load of BS about taking her meds. Whatever.