Blowing my cover

All right!  I’m going to stop trying to cover up.  If you find yourself lily white enough to excoriate me for a humanness I find embarrassing, nay, even shameful, so be it.  (This comes from my head and most assuredly should not be taken personally.)  Since your existence here with me on these pages is questionable (I can’t tell if you are here or not) and mine is not, I find I need to go with clarity so as to see myself and what I’m doing, whether you agree or like it or not.  I do hope you will know it is not my intention to offend you, hurt or shock you.  I simply can’t keep trying to guess what you are thinking, or how you would be in the same circumstance.

Maxine was (for nineteen years), my mother in law.   Since I didn’t celebrate 38 years being married to her son last month, simple math says she has not been my mother in law the most recent nineteen years.  Her son still lives, just not as my husband.  I had pretty much lost track of Maxine in the intervening years.  I moved to another state for ten of those years.

I did think, however, that I remembered her pretty well, and had a clear picture whom and how she was.  It turns out; I was going to have the opportunity to look at her, and myself, a lot more closely.  If ever something came out of the blue and seemed what I should do, it was that.  I have moved in with her in an effort to keep her from doing exactly what she would completely and thoroughly abhor doing, that being placed in assisted living.  For my part I have time and opportunity to work on building an online presence.

Perhaps, more often than not, things are not what they seem.  More accurately, for me, anyway, things are often not the same as the picture in my head suggests they will be, and then I often argue, should be.

I was aware her son thought she had dementia, hence the idea she should be in assisted living.  The reason this blog is entitled as it is, is due to several months of hearing the same stories such a, pardon, please, galling number of times.  The repetition was definitely there, but not necessarily accompanied by correct interpretation to begin with.  I found it became increasingly galling to me that there were so many misinterpretations and inaccuracies.  I also knew I recognized that should not matter to me.  At least, on some level, I did.

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