Tough Love

I hid Mom’s medicine organizer, hoping she wouldn’t notice it missing from the table beside her recliner. But, she did.

“Where’s my medicine?” She searched around her chair. Mom was obsessed with the little pills that filled each box. She would open the morning container and count them, then repeat the counting at lunch, in the afternoon and in the evening. She continually asked if it was time to take her medicine.

I inherited my mom’s patience, so I would watch her count and remind her what time she’d take her next dose. One evening I found a pill she had dropped on the floor, and then another, which meant she hadn’t taken them. Then she took a dose only an hour after the previous one. I knew how upset she would be, but I had to move her medicine. As a mother of teen girls, I was used to measuring how much independence to allow my daughters. As the daughter of an aging parent, I would never get used to taking independence away.

“Mom, I have your medicine.” I gently explained why, aggrieved by the defeated look on her face.

I changed the subject. “It’s time for dinner. I made soup.”

Mom had hardly eaten all week. I hoped she would be tempted. “Would you like a bowl?”

She thought for a moment. “I want ice cream.”

I patted her arm. “Ice cream it is.”