You Keep A Knockin But You Can't Come In...

I stayed away last evening to take care of a friends home and cat. I laid out all of Ma's meds in clearly marked envelopes with a magic marker. I left his house early in the morning and headed home to shower and go to breakfast with my friends. When I arrived at my apartment I couldn't get in, Ma had put the chain lock on the door. There is a dead bolt and a handset lock that were also locked but I have a key for those. To say I was angry would be an understatement. I banged on the door knowing that Ma couldn't hear it and my angst boiled with every futile knock. I resisted the urge to kick the door in and I was running late for my plans with my friends, so I left. I plotted my course for when I returned. I took a pair of needle nose pliers from my car and was prepared to break in to the apartment. When I reached the door the chain lock had been unlatched and this perplexed me again. There is no rhyme or reason to put that latch on the door. There is a more than adequate dead bolt to keep the crazies out, or in this case to keep the crazies in. I have learned not to expect logic in fantasy land so I didn't bother to question why she though it necessary to put the fragile chain latch on the door in addition to the other locks. The truth is it would be so easy to break that latch with very little force. The only one that it would keep out is a shanty caregiver who would be required to repair any damage to the door if he kicked it in.

Later, I went out and returned to find the door latched again but Ma was right there and opened the door for me. I told her to never use the latch again and took a nap. I slept most of the afternoon and evening as I wasn't feeling well and when I awoke I found the latch attached again. I immediately removed the chain to insure my future access. I now wonder what delusional boogeyman Ma has fabricated to create this paranoid need to latch the door. I need to really remind myself that there is no logic in fantasy land.

Whenever their is an incident like this I become hypersensitive to the other idiosyncrasies which haunt my everyday life. The tea stains in the sink, the TP use, the bowls of cereal milk in the refrigerator covered with another bowl instead of cling wrap, the unused adult diapers, the hand washed underwear in the bathroom, the volume on the TV, the failure to take medicines properly and the nonsensical repetitive discussions about something kind said to her in 1957. I am certainly running out of patience. The life of a shanty caregiver is certainly difficult and is a challenge to grow up and view their elder charge objectively.