It is a strange irony that the visits I make to my mother are a bitter sweet pill for her. She craves my company, my attention, my love and my support and yet my being there is also a sharp reminder that the all too brief visits will soon end and the fear and loneliness that eat away at her mind along with her illness will invade her once again.
She has few glimpses of the joy of the moment, being ever conscious instead of the fear and loneliness that my presence highlight by sheer contrast. I can see in her eyes the thought that I will soon leave and she struggles to find cause to keep me there longer, ever more desperate, resorting to meaningless questions or requests for help – anything in a hopeless effort to hold onto me for a moment longer.
I feel I almost do more harm than good by my many relatively brief visits and our weekly breakfast together, for it upsets her more than when I don't see her for the day. Yet I rise above that concern, feeling, rightly or wrongly, that if I bestow myself and my love upon her openly, freely and unabashed, somehow she is better off with my visits than without.
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