Feet First Down the Rabbit Hole


White rabbit trumpet

White rabbit trumpet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Been combating a head cold this week, arriving just in time for Thanksgiving, although my hope is to have it beat by them.  Also been dealing with the cancer diagnosis of a long-time friend, a woman I’ve known since we were both nine years old.  With luck, it’ll all prove routine — in, out, done — but the emotional roller coaster has been interesting (and I’ve only been in the passenger seat.  I can’t begin to imagine what it’s felt like from her side).  Plus, you know, there’s the daily stress of living with someone with dementia and trying to keep “normal” things in life together.  And write.  Oh, yeah.  Write.

I’d even thought seriously about ending this blog.  I’m still thinking about it, but it’s interesting that the very day I decided, “That’s it.  I’m going to finish it,” I got an email from a woman in the Midwest telling me how much she enjoys it.  So…maybe I’ll keep at it a little while longer.  Amazing what some reader praise or encouragement can do for a writer.  (And speaking to that, you guys have been terrific in that regard.)

Anyway, I was on the couch trying to catch maybe an hour’s nap (colds have a way of making me pass out even without medication), and this little noise began to intrude on my not-so-deep slumber.  shuffle-shuffle-shuffle….shuffle-shuffle-shuffle…shuffle-shuffle-shuffle…  Around the living room, up the stairs, around the entire second floor, back down the stairs, into the kitchen, back to the living room.  Mom on the move.

Sigh.

I opened my eyes and sat up.  Mom was standing looking out the sliders into the backyard.  “What’s up, Mom?”

“Where is everyone?”  (This is a routine question.  For some reason, she thinks there’s a crowd of people here just out of sight.  I dunno…maybe there is.  Maybe the ghosts have begun to draw near.)

“We’re the only one’s here, Mom.”

“But we have to leave before dark.  We have to get home.”

“This is your home, Mom.”

Confusion.  “No, it’s not.  I could never afford a place like this.”

“No, Mom.  I meant that it’s my and Ed’s house, but you live here now.”

“I do?”

“You’ve lived here for almost two months.”

She dropped down onto the couch and placed a hand to her head.  “Don’t tell me that!  It makes me even more confused.  How could I live here two months and not know it?”

“I don’t know, Mom.”  We’ve talked about her diagnosis, but what’s the use in belaboring the point?  She’ll only forget again.

“Where’s Bumps?”  That’s my dad, a nickname he picked up from his mother.

“Dad died, Mom.”

“Oh.  Oh, that’s right.  I remember that.”  She went on to ask several questions about her family — her birth family, she means, the brothers and sisters she grew up with, all of whom died many years ago but for her younger brother (and her favorite), my Uncle Paul.  She does this a lot, asking if they’re all dead, when they died, what they died of, where they are buried.  She asks about her mother, too, and sometimes her beloved step-father.  She also asks often about her age.  If I ask her to guess, most of the time she’s spot on.

All of a sudden she sat forward, very earnest, and said, “Did I have a funeral?”

It was one of those moments where your brain stutters a wee bit.  “You’re not dead, Mom.”

“Oh.  I guess I’m not, am I?”

“Are you thinking of Dad’s funeral?”

She shook her head.  “No, I remember that.  I remember being at his bedside when he died.”  She wasn’t, but there’s no kindness in telling her otherwise.  “I’m going to be buried with him.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”  And two hours later, she was right as rain with no memory of this conversation.

This is how our days go and I hope the powers of the universe can forgive me if I occasionally run mad for a few minutes.  I get frustrated.  Angry.  I lose patience and sometimes (rarely, but sometimes) snap.  I’m tired.  I’m trying to see every angle before it is exposed, see every curve we’re headed down and learn to lean into it, be watchful of every bump and pothole, and  somehow (I hope) land on my feet when all is done.

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About Melissa Crandall

A million years ago--round-about the first Ice Age--I cut my writing teeth on fanzines and science fiction media tie-in novels. I'm happy to say that I've since branched out to include fantasy, horror, essays, and narrative nonfiction. This site will keep you up-to-date on my adventures in writing. I live in Connecticut with my husband--who frequently wonders what he got himself into by marrying a writer--two cats named Tuna and Gypsy, and a semi-neurotic Australian shepherd named Holly.
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6 Responses to Feet First Down the Rabbit Hole

  1. Lorraine Spaziani says:

    Hang in there, honey. You’re doing the best you can…and many people would not even give it a try.

  2. You are doing a great job of taking care of your Mom, and with the writing too! I’m glad you have decided to keep up with the blog. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t know how things are going for you and I would be wondering how you are.

  3. Linda McGee-Grimes says:

    I have to take a minute and tell you that I can’t even begin to tell you how much I enjoy your blog. I only recently discovered it and its outstanding. I have considered for several years doing a bit of writting myself but you seem to be able to write my thoughts and feelings far better than I ever could, its almost a bit unsettling (like you can read my mind) but at the same time wonderful. I am sure that there is a great many others that can apprecaite and be grateful for your blog and know that there is someone else out there with the same issues. Keep up the good work, believe me we would miss you more than words can say, don’t STOP!!!!! We love you………….

    • Oh, my…. Linda, you made me cry. Thank you. Yes, for the tears. Yes, for letting me know that the words reach people. That’s why I write, to connect with others, to entertain, to share pain, to say “You are not alone.” And, apparently, neither am I. THANK YOU!

      (And, as a footnote: woman, if you feel the urge to write, DO IT!)

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