The diary of a bemused Boomer
Mother is sitting at a table by herself. Her fingers rest on the edge of a cup and saucer half full of spilt tea. Her eyes are open, and her head is tilted backwards, perhaps thirty degrees. I can’t tell if she is gazing up a slight incline towards Heaven or is asleep. Whichever itContinue reading “Chocolate: the opiate of old age”
It’s five months since Mother got sucked into a demented game of ping pong between us, hospital and her nursing home. Four falls, four visits. Still fighting. In that time, she’s fractured her hip, caught Covid and won the Cheeriest Personality of the Year at the local gerontology department’s Christmas awards after charming them duringContinue reading “Moonpig, Mother and me during lockdown”
I am hanging Mother’s paintings and pictures in my study. The study smells of drying paint and I have a headache. I am not sure if the ache is because of the paint’s volatile organic compounds or because I cannot hang a single painting straight. I am frustrated because I’m not even winging it likeContinue reading “Mother Moves In”