Back home with Ma. Once again I have to get used to how very slow she is, how weak her voice is, how little she says. She has not asked a single question about my week away. Her answers to my questions are brief and careful. There is no connection apart from me hurrying her along. She is in pain and her eyes are rheumy. I wish she were not here, filling me with guilt and impatience, taking up my time.
I took her to the audiology clinic for the umpteenth time. As we got back in the car I blurted out, ‘You have absolutely no idea how difficult this is. Everything is so incredibly slow.’ She said nothing in her suffering, but she must have thought much. She never says anything. Never has. I am impatient and must get used to her awful slowness once again. She never says, ‘I’ll go and live in a home. I must get out of your way. I’m being selfish living with you. ‘ She never takes responsibility for herself.