"People say I'm different." That's the first thing she said.
My turn to speak. I can't see her face--we're on the phone. But I know her face, and I also know what she would like to hear from me, that she is not different.
I couldn't say it. Instead I said, "I'm different, too. We're all different. You can't get older without changing." Well, that is true, and it seemed to be good enough. She agreed with it. Maybe it was comfort enough, too.
The truth?
She is different. More different than just that growing older different. Now, all conversations are about her, how this all began, how she's doing, that people are afraid of her, the medication, etc. Same ground covered again. If I bring up a topic, we move through it quickly, but then we're back. I do not blame her for that. No one is to blame for that. And I do not mind talking about her, except that . . . it's different.
I just had a thought. Her husband is in the room as we speak. Perhaps if we could go to lunch, just the two of us, she could relax a little. I think that's part of it; she sounds not quite herself. Oh, right. That is what we're talking about here, isn't it.
But also I think on those in-person visits, when he has left to run an errand or whatever, she has been more relaxed in our conversation. I think.
I wish I knew more.
No comments:
Post a Comment