Mom was upset today. She came out to the studio and cried for a time. This is not all that odd. She goes through mood swings as part of the Alzheimer's Disease, and sad times usually only last a couple of minutes.
After a bit, she started to get back to herself and I asked what was bothering her.
"My daughter died."
Now, I feel pretty lively for a dead person. This statement came as a great surprise. Since I'm an only child, it was also a little confusing.
So we talked about it. She finally said that it wasn't me that died, but her "other" daughter. Ahhhhh. In her mind, I have always been confusing. I've never been the daughter she pictures in her fantasy.
She has an idealized daughter, one that is always sweet and agreeable, and ready to wait on Mom hand and foot. THAT one died. That leaves only me, the one she has begun to think of as her jailer. I make her do things she doesn't want to do...baths, eat real food, not just candy, brush her teeth, wash her hands, change clothes and sheets and lots of unpleasant, unnecessary stuff. I won't let her go off with the mystery ride in the white truck. The jailer.
So, now that goody-two-shoes is gone, she is left with me. No wonder she was crying.
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