A Good Daughter?

I do a lot for my mom.  Probably more than I should.  I seem to be lacking the all important "self preservation" gene.  But I guess that's me.

I often hear about what a good daughter I am.  I know that's high praise.  I may seem "good" on the outside, but there's a raging fight inside me.  The part that wants to do everything I can to make things better is often battling the part that wants it to be over.

A few days ago I went to visit my mother.  I was nearby and she'd been complaining of trouble breathing over the weekend.  The facility and my sister were sure it was anxiety, but I figured I might as well make sure.  She was a shaking mess when I arrived.  When the Med Tech took her blood pressure the diastolic number was normal, but the systolic was almost 130!  And her heart rate was 125!  I argued with my mom about taking her to a doctor to get checked out and she was refusing. Thankfully the cuff was one of those automatic kinds and was reading incorrectly.  So after a manual cuff was brought in her blood pressure was measuring normal and her heart rate seemed normal (she was flinching too much to get an accurate count).  The psychiatrist on call decided her Zyprexa was lowered a bit too much on her last visit and he increased the dose to what it was a month ago.  She seemed better when I saw her the next day and the shaking was greatly reduced.

But through all that I felt incredible guilt because of the thoughts running through my head.  A huge section of my brain was hopeful that maybe this would be the end.  Maybe her suffering would be over and I'd finally have time for my kids.  I wouldn't have to deal with anymore ALS procedures or arguing with doctors over the right care or the right paperwork.  No more reports to APS or dealing with audits from the lawyer.  No more begging family to remove their things from her home and getting very little help in preparing it for sale.  If that house is just my inheritance I'd give it away.

Below is the picture of the "Tree of Life" my mother painted on the wall in the formal livingroom in her house.  She initially drew it with pastels.  When it faded she repainted it in ink.  Part of me hates to paint this over because it's part of my childhood and one of the few times I remember her being truly creative.



Most of my childhood memories of her are quite painful.  Painting this over feels a bit like erasing all the good that existed.