I'm safely installed in my parents' house in southern Alabama. This area of the state is called "the Wiregrass," a title which accurately evokes the amount of natural beauty that it has to offer.* I'm typing on their Smith-Corona computer. This thing is slow as Christmas and makes a noise like it's humming a little song to itself, but I'm glad it's here.
I drove over from New Orleans yesterday with a lump in the bottom of my stomach. I'll be going back through there to pick up my stuff and my Adam for the Wild Western Adventure, but I'm not really a resident anymore, which is sad. I thought I might be able to shave a day or two off of this parental visit and spend a little more time in New Orleans, but it looks like I won't be doing that.
My mom is having a pretty rough time of it. My 93-year-old grandmother (her mom) lives here, and she has Alzheimer's Disease. Yesterday Grandmamma didn't know where she was, and this morning I woke up to my mother telling her (at the top of her lungs--Grandmamma is quite deaf) all over again--"WE ARE IN SOUTHERN ALABAMA, MAMA. YOU LIVE WITH ME AND MY HUSBAND. MY DAUGHTER IS HERE FOR A VISIT . . . "
They will probably have this conversation seven or eight more times today. Sometimes my grandmother remembers who I am, and other times she asks my mother how many children she (my grandmother) had. The only things she remembers with any clarity are her childhood summers spent with her grandparents in Americus, Georgia. You can't really talk to her about anything else because she gets confused. She also can't read, can't watch television, and can't walk (even with her walker) without terrifying anyone who is watching with her extreme wobblyness.
My mom deals with all of this very well, and is never hurt when my grandmother can't remember who she is. The real problem is that my grandmother is addicted to sedatives, because not knowing what the hell is going on all the time makes her really nervous. Who can blame her? I'd be nervous too. When my mom tries to hold out on the pills (giving her too many makes her even more fuzzy and wobbly, and she's fallen before), my grandmother protests that she doesn't drive, does not operate heavy machinery--why shouldn't she be as fucked-up as she wants to be? (My gentile Southern grandmother would never use such language. She has never even worn pants. She is a Lady.) So my mom is doing this really hard job, in which she can never be quite sure that she's giving my grandmother the right amount of medicine (my dad is a doctor, but there is no "right amount"), and though she never complains, no one comes along and tells her what a great job she's doing. So I'm going to stay here for a week and a half and do that.
I'll probably be updating pretty often.
*That is, none.
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