I talk a lot about my husband in this blog, but I have more family than that.

My parents are beautiful people. They have faults of course, some are rather glaringly obvious. Their kind hearts, compassionate natures and and and, well they are beautiful people. It just is hard for me talk about them sometimes because my heart hurts for them. I see how hard they work, and struggle to make ends meet, with their health, to overcome obstacles in their daily life and it just makes me worry. The snow is coming and I think about how they will manage shoveling. Will my father with his arthritic body be out in the cold, or will my mother with her diabetes and bad back be out there. I worry about the pluming in the old house. I worry that the heat isnt turned up enough for them to be comfortable. I worry that they are sad, or feeling low or stressed. How can I help them when I am so far away and have stressers of my own?

My grandmother is sick. Not the sick that will improve. My grandmother has Alzheimers. I do not see her deteriorate like my parents do. Witnessing her childlike fears and little stubborn outbursts. Watching her struggle to follow a conversation or see the confusion in her eyes as her mind drifts in and out. She has trouble eating. Making her food. Remembering what is in the fridge for her. It pains me to hear these stories. It pains me to listen to my mother tell of my grandmother’s failing mind. I think of my father and how he is dealing with seeing his mother’s mind slowly leave her body. As memories of him, of youth, of good days evaporate like water to the air. How long can she last a stranger in this world of family? I worry about her. About him. About my mama.

Is a “Home” an answer? A home for grandmother to live in. What a concept. A  home of fellow strangers is not “Home” at all. And yet, she is a stranger in her home of 60 years. Where is home when you don’t remember a past and can’t see a future?

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