Studio City Farmer's Market I got beautiful cards and earrings and we went out to eat at Canters Deli for corned beef and pickles. Yummm. We stopped at the Melrose Trading Post and Flea market and came back home and ate our bakery treats and coffee. The kids were playing with Ga Ga (ie:Beverly) and so I decided to go see my Mom by myself. They don't get to see Beverly very often. I picked up a lemon meringue pie and some berries to go with it. Another yummm.
I came in with the pie, and everyone smiled. PIE! I bent down to give Peggy a kiss, and she was so excited. She bit me. "OUCH! Mom you bit me?" I said. "Why did you do that?" Peggy whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" and had a manic smile on her face. I know she didn't mean to. I know it was a reaction, I know all these things. But, it still hurt. It hurt in more ways than one. "Well", I said to the others. "Peggy's awake!" Yes, so Peggy is awake, but she is having these almost tourette's like tiny episodes. Where she will swear at you and then say I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. She will say "Shut up" out of nowhere, and her arms and legs will try and hit or kick anyone that is near her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that" she whispers. And it's gone and she's there again, in her chair.
We ate the pie on the patio, I took her for a walk around the block. It was a beautiful day. She seemed to like it. She seemed calm. We hung out in her room and looked at pictures and listened to music she was calm, and as I went through the old box of photos of me and her. I cried. I cried because it's hard. It's hard taking care of her. Pie and cards and walks and drugs, or no drugs are not helping her. Or maybe I should say they aren't helping me anymore.
And then I read this poem I found in the box. This is going to go into another subject, and I usually like to keep these posts short, but I guess this is going to be a long one. I am an adopted child. My Mom Peggy has always been so supportive of who I am and has always wanted to know where I came from. She has helped me put my name on lists to find my birth family. She always wanted to meet my birth mother and so have I. That's why I have over the past two months began a search to find her. So this is the poem I found in the box. When she reached out her hand for mine, we both cried.
One you do not remember, the other you call Mother.
Two different lives shaped to make you one.
One became your guiding star, the other became your sun.