Misplaced Anger


Misplaced Anger

After Dad died, visits to the lake place became bittersweet.  All our memories involved Dad: drifting in the pontoon boat, watching the fireworks from the deck, charcoaling burgers. 

My sisters and I weren’t surprised when Mom decided to sell it.  She never loved it the way Dad did.  She and nature didn’t get along too well.  She was fearful of the sun damaging her skin, the wind messing up her hair and the birds pooping on her deck. 

In order for Mom to sell it, we needed to clear it out.  We planned one last family weekend at the lake place to help Mom pack.  We pictured a quiet weekend of reminiscing about Dad.      

But Mom ruined it.  She complained if we took a break to enjoy the view.  She snapped at us if we dirtied a glass.  She accused us of stealing items that she couldn’t find.    

By the time we left Sunday morning, anger consumed my thoughts.  On the long drive home, I vented to my husband how Mom destroyed the weekend.  How my memories of the lake place were ruined.

After a couple of hours of listening, my husband said calmly, “I don’t think your mom destroyed the weekend.  Alzheimer’s did.”    

He was right.  Alzheimer’s was the culprit.  My anger was misplaced.  Mom was just a victim.  Alzheimer’s had already destroyed most of mom’s memories.  I wouldn’t allow it to destroy mine.    

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