Yes, definitely no shower in days. I turn my head at the stench emanating from her. We make our way back to her bedroom down a short hall off the side of the kitchen. I help her sit on the edge of the bed and leave to turn on the shower. Once it’s warm enough, I lead her into the small bathroom, scarcely big enough for the two of us to stand in it. Slowly and laboriously I pull her shirt off over her head and lower her pants, helping her to step out of them.
Once she gains stability, standing there with only a white bra and panties, both obviously too large on her thin frame, she barks at me, “Kimber, get out. I can do it. Do you think I’m an invalid or something?”
My feet move backwards giving her space. My hands go directly to my sides with clenched fists and I relent, “Okay Momma, let me know if you need any help.”
She spins toward the shower and snidely comments, “Don’t you need to go to work?”
I turn around ready to walk out, glancing back once as she climbs over the side of the tub and pulls the flimsy shower curtain that is covered in roses, closed. My momma has never been very loving but now she’s just the opposite if there ever was. I’m not sure she’s even capable of love anymore. I wonder if I am. Maybe that’s why Andrew left in the first place. Maybe I couldn’t give him what he needed. As I make my way to my room across the house, today’s events resurface. He looked so good, nothing like the eighteen year old boy who left four years ago. He filled out in all the right places and his chiseled face makes my knees go weak just thinking about it.
Becca and Heidi may be onto something. Maybe I just need to get laid and things will look better. That might be an option I need to explore and possibly in the very near future.
Showered and wrapped in a towel, my foot finds the threadbare cotton mat spread out on the bathroom floor. Once I’ve stepped completely out, I hear a curdled scream. My feet move into action before I can focus on exactly what it is. I head to Momma’s room and find her sprawled out on the floor. Her feet are splayed at an odd angle. Leaning over her, only inches from her face, I ask, “Momma, are you alright?”
She stares across the room as if she didn’t just fall. Concern etches itself across my face, for her health but also for work. We can’t afford for me to miss a day of work. We’re barely getting by as it is.
“Here Momma, let me help you up.” I reach down, allowing her access to my opened hand to help her up. She ignores it placing her hands by her sides. She attempts with all the strength she has to push up but gives up after one try. After a minute of watching, I center myself behind her and gently place my hands under her arms, pulling her up. As she gains her bearing, she brushes my hands away and yells, “Get out, just get out.”
I back away once again and head for the door swallowing a lump in my throat trying to hold back my tears at seeing her like this. I don’t turn to check on her. She is slowly losing control of her body and she doesn’t know how to deal with it. That’s what this disease does. Multiple Sclerosis is a slow killer. Yes, I make sure she takes her meds every day but she was diagnosed late. The fact that she drinks and smokes doesn’t help either but I can’t blame her. If I were slowly losing command of my muscles, I might venture to vices too. It breaks my heart every time this happens. She has a fall or is unable to grasp something. Her only response is to lash out her frustrations and I just happen to be the only one around. Jenna ran away because she couldn’t stand to watch her deteriorate. I can’t really blame her.
My towel is still wrapped tightly around my small chest. Entering my room, I glance over at the clock on the bedside table, 5:15. I have exactly forty-five minutes to get dressed, find something to eat and make it to the Duck. In a pile of clean clothes yet to be folded and put away, I find a
Once she gains stability, standing there with only a white bra and panties, both obviously too large on her thin frame, she barks at me, “Kimber, get out. I can do it. Do you think I’m an invalid or something?”
My feet move backwards giving her space. My hands go directly to my sides with clenched fists and I relent, “Okay Momma, let me know if you need any help.”
She spins toward the shower and snidely comments, “Don’t you need to go to work?”
I turn around ready to walk out, glancing back once as she climbs over the side of the tub and pulls the flimsy shower curtain that is covered in roses, closed. My momma has never been very loving but now she’s just the opposite if there ever was. I’m not sure she’s even capable of love anymore. I wonder if I am. Maybe that’s why Andrew left in the first place. Maybe I couldn’t give him what he needed. As I make my way to my room across the house, today’s events resurface. He looked so good, nothing like the eighteen year old boy who left four years ago. He filled out in all the right places and his chiseled face makes my knees go weak just thinking about it.
Becca and Heidi may be onto something. Maybe I just need to get laid and things will look better. That might be an option I need to explore and possibly in the very near future.
Showered and wrapped in a towel, my foot finds the threadbare cotton mat spread out on the bathroom floor. Once I’ve stepped completely out, I hear a curdled scream. My feet move into action before I can focus on exactly what it is. I head to Momma’s room and find her sprawled out on the floor. Her feet are splayed at an odd angle. Leaning over her, only inches from her face, I ask, “Momma, are you alright?”
She stares across the room as if she didn’t just fall. Concern etches itself across my face, for her health but also for work. We can’t afford for me to miss a day of work. We’re barely getting by as it is.
“Here Momma, let me help you up.” I reach down, allowing her access to my opened hand to help her up. She ignores it placing her hands by her sides. She attempts with all the strength she has to push up but gives up after one try. After a minute of watching, I center myself behind her and gently place my hands under her arms, pulling her up. As she gains her bearing, she brushes my hands away and yells, “Get out, just get out.”
I back away once again and head for the door swallowing a lump in my throat trying to hold back my tears at seeing her like this. I don’t turn to check on her. She is slowly losing control of her body and she doesn’t know how to deal with it. That’s what this disease does. Multiple Sclerosis is a slow killer. Yes, I make sure she takes her meds every day but she was diagnosed late. The fact that she drinks and smokes doesn’t help either but I can’t blame her. If I were slowly losing command of my muscles, I might venture to vices too. It breaks my heart every time this happens. She has a fall or is unable to grasp something. Her only response is to lash out her frustrations and I just happen to be the only one around. Jenna ran away because she couldn’t stand to watch her deteriorate. I can’t really blame her.
My towel is still wrapped tightly around my small chest. Entering my room, I glance over at the clock on the bedside table, 5:15. I have exactly forty-five minutes to get dressed, find something to eat and make it to the Duck. In a pile of clean clothes yet to be folded and put away, I find a
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