Overwhelming Weariness

 I never knew I could be so tired. No, not tired exactly, I am weary.100% emotionally exhausted. My soul is depleted. To watch someone you have known from the moment of your birth, disappear before your eyes, to be replaced by a stranger with a "difficult" personality is a true test of my patience and the strength of my character. All while trying my very best to not allow resentment to settle in and take up residence in my soul. This has been my biggest challenge and resentment has become my most ruthless adversary.  Who is this wicked imposter that has overtaken my mother's body?  Without fail, as an extra gut punch, the few moments of lucidity she does have always seem to coincide with the exact moment when I lose my cool and throw a tantrum that would give any two-year-old a run for their money.   ***This results in her crying and apologizing because she sees how hard it is for me. What is a matter with me, I think as I sink even deeper into the dismal abyss that is caring for a parent with Alzheimer's.   I often find myself angry that she was cursed with this disease.   Like she chose it on purpose. I am a colossal asshole.

I have always known that there is no cure for this evil disease. But I guess I just figured I would eventually get into the swing of things and get into a groove, or routine that made it manageable and not seem so heartbreaking and overwhelming. That has yet to happen. You know, rose-colored glasses and all that eternal optimism nonsense. 

Here is a recent example of the increasingly misguided and often deluded tendency of my overwhelming confidence regarding whatever "quality of life improvement" idea I have grabbed a hold of in a desperate attempt to make even the most minuscule improvement in our day-to-day existence. (I mean, I really do need a win here....). 

So for a little back story - just in case you have not read any of the other posts and are unaware of our excessive canine collection. - (reference other post)  Long story, but suffice it to say, I have over-compensated for the loss of my beloved baby boy Patch, and am now woefully out-numbered canines to humans 3 to 1. - Something like that, I wouldn't change it for the world but I am constantly harassed about it. I mean seriously, do I really need to have it brought to my attention that 11 is an excessive amount of pooches to parent, do people think that nugget of information has escaped my attention? Apparently, so, but I digress. 

[I will follow up with a post that goes into thvis in great detail, as I need to get it out of me. Bleed the wound for lack of a better phrase. Not to justify my canine collection, because I am fine with my babies, but to get it all out of me would be healing - I hope at least, and I could use that. I have not been the same since Patch was taken from me. I don't think anyone truly sees just how broken I am, and some things just can't be made whole again. No matter how hard you try]

Anyhow, suffice to say we have a lot of doggos. Ranging in age from 3 years to 9 months. we have lost another two this year, and while I loved them and am in no way diminishing their value to me or my love for them, They were not like losing Patch, That pain has no comparison, so we have 9 currently: Annabell, Fanny, Uno, Tina, Arrow, Einstien, Latte, Ace, and Buster. (Daisy and Coconut left us this year to be with our other fur babies that have been taken to higher realms). These are the most rambunctious, chewingest, and generally devious little sons of biscuits there are, but they are also the most loving and sweet and I couldn't live without them. All that to say, they like to chew. Anything. But it appears their favorite thing is anything that has a "bodily" scent. Well, as mentioned in a previous post, my mother is incontinent. This is a challenge that I have not mastered yet - Yet being the operative word!!!   Anyhow, she mostly sleeps in her recliner, but sometimes the couch, rendering them both a virtual buffet of savory scents that beckoned my doggos to chew, chew, chew, and then disembowel.  I cannot even think of a single word that is impactful enough to convey my frustration at this.  About two years ago my husband and I had just moved into a new house and we bought the nice furniture we ever owned. The crowning jewel was our couch. Oh, boy was it nice. U-shaped section. It has USB charging ports, reading lights, storage, all-electric reclining seats, and a chaise lounge,  It was not leather but the sales guy assured us it was "pet friendly" (LIE) and that we got lifetime cleaning/replacement with it (ANOTHER LIE). Long story short, after a weekend of mom sleeping on there while recovering from a hospital stay and having an "accident", it became a free-for-all with the dogs. We ended up PAYING $38 to the landfill to dump it. A heartbreak that both my husband and I will not get over anytime soon.

Flash forward to about two months ago. We have been staying back at my mom's for a few months now and we collectively outvoted mom on keeping her current recliner that she had owned for a good 20 years. It needed to be condemned. In my mind, all the living room needed was a good recliner for mom and possibly a new loveseat or sofa for the rest of us and then we would be able to all hang out together again, instead of all staying in our self-designated safe areas. I spent at a minimum, 4hours one night picking out, what I thought to be the perfect chair for mom, One that was waterproof, easy to work, sturdy, affordable, and comfortable because she would be sleeping in it most nights - by choice. I finally found it. It was under $200 and looked perfect, would arrive quickly and I just "knew" the living room atmosphere would miraculously turn our home into Shangrila. Let me be very clear - I hate this fucking chair. And it is not because the dogs ate part of the armrest the very first night. I sat in it, and while it wants to be comfortable, it just isn't. It sits high like a dentist's chair. What the actual F***. I have an extremely debilitating fear of the dentist. I can't express the gravity of that statement. Unless the dentist is going to greet me with two Vicodin, and a Xanax, hook me up to the Nitrous and crank the dial we are not going to get along. I have to have this for just a cleaning. This is why my teeth are falling apart. But alas, I continue to hold out for that perfect dentist, He's gotta be out there somewhere, and I will continue to search and wait. Of all things, it had to be a wanna-be dentist chair. This chair mocks me as I walk by it every day. I know better than to hang such high hopes on something so mundane as a chair to magically fix all the daily trials and struggles we go through trying to navigate managing Alzheimer's but I did. So sue me. But please don't. I have very little money, and really the chair is punishment en1 waough.