Yesterday was not a great deal of fun, because Mom went on the warpath. It was not her fault: the transportation aide took her to the wrong therapy department and Mom sat and fumed for over half an hour before a therapist said 'what are you doing here? you've already had physical therapy." Mother, being a Lady of the old school, took her tone as rude, so refused to do any further therapy, even after the therapist saw me in the hall and asked me to come and talk to her.
They should not put so much faith in me: when Mom gets angry, Jesus Christ and his Mother could not coax her into doing exercises. She is the most stubborn person in the world, and she gets it from her Mother, my Maternal Grandma, who was half English and half Irish, but so stubborn she would not admit to being Irish ( "I'm really more English than Irish, because my Mother was English and women inherit everything from their Mothers". Well, Britons ne'er shall be slaves.
Mom announced that she was never going to therapy again; she was going home. I spent the better part of the morning fretting about that, only to be told by Cathy that Mom went to PT without any fuss. It's very weird when Mom gets her passive aggressive act going. Her only power lies in not doing what therapists , aides and daughters want her to do. It's rather like Ghandi, or a Sixties sit in ( without the marijuana; just a tank of oxygen.
Moral of the story is I spend far too much time worrying about her. Speaking of worry, I just heard our resident squirrel over my head. I've seen him/her on the second story window sill in the late afternoon then heard those little footsteps on the plaster, not the metal of the gutter. Ginny insists he is in the gutters, but I do think I hear those dancing little feet.
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