It's Wednesday, and I told her so. She insisted it was Tuesday.
I went home and took the nursing home application from the place where I'd tucked it away, hoping I would never have to send it.
I filled it out. It's in an envelope now, stamped and ready to go. Hubby and I are going to the mailbox in a few minutes. If this envelope does not leave my hands tonight, I may well lose my courage completely.
I feel like a traitor. A murderer. An all-round bad daughter.
But she has no desire to be well, and fights everything that might help her every step of the way. I've done everything I can to try and help her, and there's nothing more I can do, except to put her into the hands of people who can manage her.
I am fortunate to have a very good facility down the street from my house. The problem is, they are so good, there's always a waiting list.
At least now, if my sister happens to call and ask, I can answer truthfully: the application has been mailed, and the ball is now in the nursing home's court.
Grant is singing Flexible Flyer on the stereo now, and there are tears in my eyes.
"Soon you will know that you just grow, you're not growing old."
From your lips to God's ears, Grant. Please.
I am so scared that someday my mind will turn to mush, too, just like Ma's has been doing these last few years.
11:15 -- The application has been mailed. The process has begun.