Can't Sleep

I just couldn’t sleep this night. Mary has gotten up three times already (I hope she doesn’t have another UTI—getting urine samples is a real pain.) and someone’s car alarm was going off for what seemed like ages.

Whenever Mary coughs several times, which is several times a night, I get up and go in and give her some water. I wonder at myself sometimes. Like when she has been in the hospital (or nursing home that one time) and I go in every day all day or even spend the night. Where does my devotion to Mary stem from? Do I love her so much? In some ways I think no, yet in other ways I think yes. It’s really more that I can’t be any other way. If Angie needs something, I give it to her if I can, too. Perhaps it stems from a desire to please. But the Lord knows I am not always so diligent and I’ve been occasionally downright nasty. That’s why Mary had a UTI and bronchitis back in January. I waited too long to take her to the doctor. I ignored her coughing. I took her craziness and having to pee during the night for granted, as evidence of her growing old. That’s why she’s told me that sometimes I scare her. (Although that was partly part of a running joke we have about the word “scare” because one of the kids in the family said it once about Dad and with such a country accent. When Mary jokes about this, I always think about how people think she’s dumb but a sense of humor is a sign of intelligence.)

Mom thinks I’m a saint and always tells me I’m just so generous. I’d like to believe that but find it hard to believe that others are different from me. I’ve always had a basic belief that I’m no different than anyone else. If I fart, others must be farting, too. If I doubt or love myself too much, others do the same.

If Mary tells me that I’m so good to her, I tell her that it’s because it’s easy for me, and that’s partly true. I mean, I would so love to sleep all the way through the night, but it’s not a drudgery most of the time for me to hop up and help her. I don’t mind heating her up a “bean bag,” wiping her bucket if I think it’s still dirty (I don’t want it to get sore or stinky.), or even giving her a shower. I often wish she would complain less—about how cold the shower seat is when she gets in (even if I’ve tried to heat it with water beforehand) or how cold the lotion is when I rub it on her (hey, I’m doing her a favor and the cold only lasts a moment). When I first moved in, she was always saying that she wished we had something good to eat. That really drove me bananas because I was trying my best to cook well for her and she never helped me much when we went grocery shopping. (Now I wonder if she actually meant something sweet but she never would explain what she meant. Maybe she just wanted to say something.)

Sometimes I joke with Mary that she’s lucky I don’t have a boyfriend because then I’d be showering all this affection on him instead. Sometimes I feel bad because I’m not giving this affection to Mom, but Dad makes that kind of hard. I do things with/to Mary that I’d be doing with/to Mom if she were here. I sing songs using her name instead of the real words. I hold her hand. I pat her on the bucket as she walks along—not too hard. Sometimes I massage it, telling her that I’m trying to get some blood circulating there. I’m sure she thinks I’m crazy and I guess I am. But, once again, I do these things with Mary because she inspires me to or I feel comfortable. I don’t think I’d ever walk around singing songs with Angie’s name in them, no matter how much I feel like I love her. Because I always did feel like I loved Angie more than Mary. I mean, we grew up down the street from Ange. I never saw Mary much. She was more like a fairy godmother who gave me money and who I knew was sort of disappointed in what I did with it. I remember when she had Gina and me stay with her and Harry once. We were so uncomfortable because we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We were used to having to work, for one thing. I was 8 years old. She took us to the mall and gave us each $20, which seemed like a million. She sat down to wait for us because her feet hurt. I bought two records (Jan and Dean and The Sound of Music Soundtrack), several books (from the Little House on the Prairie series), and a little diary. Mary had hoped we would buy toys or dolls—something girlish. I distinctly remember her being disappointed. It’s funny but those things all had quite an impact on my life. Oh, she also got my ears pierced and signed my name as Bridget Beisler.

Is this why I’m so giving to her? Can’t be. It’s more that I’ll feel inside of me and there’s not that sense of drudgery that I feel with washing the dishes or making the beds, or if it’s there it dissipates and there’s just nothing there. No resistance. That’s why I say these things are easy for me to do. Isn’t that there in other people? I know it’s there in Susan, my friend from New Zealand. In fact, she’s brimming over with it when it comes to giving to people. Too bad there aren’t more Susans in the world. It always frustrated me that Susan gave so much and yet always had more money than I did! Well, there’s the newspaper. I guess I’ll have a cup of tea and read it. I’ll probably get tired by the time it’s time to get Mary up.