Report from Pillville: Possums, Pills, Psilocybin, and Other Fine Things

I'm feeling incredibly accomplished.

I have three weeks worth of pills in pillboxes for my mom. I've been doing her pill sorting for several months now, and it only recently occurred to me that I could purchase additional pillboxes instead of refilling one box every week.

And because my mom eats about a quarter cup of jam on her toast every morning, I now have at least a dozen empty jam jars which means that I can pour out a couple weeks worth of martinis instead of doing that every few days.

So the drug and alcohol situation around here is awesome.

If I could just get my hands on some psilocybin, I think my world could quite possibly be transformed. I come so close sometimes to sensing the depth of my situation here as a caregiver. I know in my heart that it's an honor, a privilege, a true act of love, but it's so hard to hold onto that  minute by minute. Sometimes I feel it. A look in her eyes as she looks at me. That thread that pulls tight with something she says. And then it snaps, so frayed that I can't catch hold of it.

There's a possum hidin' in there.

Last night we had a long talk about possums. I wikipediaed the hell out of the subject at the dinner table. She's so curious about the possums in the pot. Just recently she's given up hunting down the booze and now I feel like I have to do possum patrol.

When my girls were little I got them a hamster. We got the furry little beast and the cage and the supplies upstairs to their room. "Do not pick her up or touch her," I said as I dashed downstairs to get some thing or another needed for the project of installing the hamster. You know what comes next. A scream, of course. By the time I ran up the steps, there was a trail of blood from the bedroom to the bathroom. I wonder how many caregivers have gotten the instruction not to let their patient try feeding the possum jam and toast. I'll try not to laugh when I say it to one of our near-palindromic duo (Amy and Mea are their names) arrives. And dear god of small furry things, watch over my mother. And the possum. Because when she's not talking about feeding it, she's considering that maybe it should be drowned in "the river."

Other accomplishments include a recovered chair seat so that it matches the decor. One way to know for sure that I've been body snatched is that I'll stop caring if things match. And I have houseplants. And M sent roses to my mom and to me for Valentine's Day yesterday.

Awesomeness, right? I really hope the next post is not about possums.