DECLINE AND FALL

The fall involved me, not the 98 year old. Peg sat calmly at the butcher block making a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich on white toast and watching a movie called "Black Girls Are Beautiful" or something like that, while I slipped on the ice up in the rock garden after filling the bird feeder on the big pine tree and, unable to get my balance, charged on down the hill and landed on my butt. Up until then I was having quite a nice time. I realized I'd never in my life filled a bird feeder before. Peg has four here, and all needed replenishing. I also never knew all bird feeders are different, they all opened different ways. And getting the seed mixture out of bag and down into the feeder neatly, without spillage, appears to be something of an art, and one I have yet to master. Oslo the Owl flew off when I went outside but returned to Perch #3  (lower branch of the big maple) as soon as I brushed the snow off myself and hobbled back up into the porch.

Today I am upset for two reasons. Possibly more. Beginning with Peg telling me to shut up last night when I said goodnight to her. She asked when (her precious) Dominick was arriving today. I said he'd just called to confirm my request to be here at 9am. Her face crumbled and, tears in her eyes, she says:

"Why did he call YOU! I've been waiting all week for him to call!" 

I explained he was only answering my email, the one in which  I'd proposed staff hours this week. Dominick has been in NY since last Saturday, see, and Peg has been highly peeved by this.  

"He only works Wednesdays and Fridays, Mama, you can't expect him to be here every second. Anyhow we can't afford to have him here 24/7."

"YOU SHUT UP!" she says, and rolls over in bed.

Terri spent the night last night, in a room off the living room, to keep an eye on Peg, her first night back from rehab. Peg was fine but Heidi, Terri's beagle, woke Peg at 2 AM by standing next to the bed and howling. (Peg gives it treats all the time, much to Terri's annoyance.)

Then, this morning, in the dining room rubble, I happen upon a picture frame that's been torn apart, contents removed, and suddenly recognize it as something I'd had framed for Daddy for his birthday a year ago: the actual document detailing his release from Falstad concentration camp in Norway in 1942, all in German, and that I had discovered amongst his papers in the attic and taken back to England to have framed for £25. 

Peg has pulled off the backing and bent the frame oinher quest to get at the document to photocopy it FOR THE FUCKING BLUE BOOKS, which are no further along than they have ever been. I found the said document, just by chance in the appalling shambles of her desk to find she'd CUT IT UP. Cut down the 8 x 10 document, saved only the central typing, losing the heading and official stamp of the camp and the signature of the whatever he was, the oberstrumenfurherfuckknows. When I challenged her about this (when I could speak), she didn't even know what I was talking about at first. And she has no idea of the damage she's done. None whatsoever. I've been in contact with the curator of the Falstad Museum for a number of years--I'd given them a transcript of an interview I'd done with Odd's about five years ago about what life was like in the camp, and they were desperate for this document, which I said I had and would send a copy as soon as I got to Becket.  Peg finally FINALLY offered a million excuses including, my favorite: "It was taking up space!" meaning the frame. Please. 

I was in a state for most of the morning. Hard pressed to even hand her the half & half for her banana let alone give a fuck as to whether she took her pills or blood sugar count or blood pressure or pulse. Terri fortunately does all this. And weighs her. But Terri then left.

So I then got my mother into the shower, after cranking the laundry room temperature up to about 205 degrees, and emptying her catheter bag. After which Dominick massaged her feet for an hour and I gave her a bowl of soup and then we got her into the car and off we go to her urologist's appointment for a catheter change. Followed by a quick dash to the safety deposit to collect the bonds I'd mistakenly not collected the day before, then, yes, I'm afraid to say, Price Chopper again. Left Peg in the car. Came out, panicked, didn't see a head, thought she'd been stolen, then saw this tiny little doll-size figure with a red scarf over her head, way down in the passenger seat. Nap time.

My second upset today is that after working tirelessly to get Peg's video done for Comic Relief and getting it OUT THERE, and my friend Claire working tirelessly, and my friend Simon, and going through hoops trying to get footage of Peg last week at the nursing home for the intro--it's like, why did I bother? I mean it. Over 500 invites went out, plus Facebook postings, plus postings to fans--and how many people have gotten back to me to say "Wow, isn't she great !"? Four. And how many kind wonderful people have actually managed to donate on her GivingPage? Eight. Eight wonderful terrific people. I am discouraged, saddened, appalled and annoyed.