Marianne Talbot Mum was in a foul mood the other day. She said 'no' to everything, bared her teeth and snarled when I tried to hug her, and generally made it clear she wanted me to go away.
One of the carers told me she'd tried to do mum's hair and mum had punched her.
This mood used to herald a developing UTI*. But yesterday mum was OK, though not exactly cheerful.
I think mum is deteriorating further. If she had stroke-induced dementia I'd say she has gone down a step. She's definitely not where she was even a couple of months ago.
She no longer understands anything. Even the simplest command ('lift your foot') goes over her head, and her own command of language has disappeared. Like a child she now puts everything into her mouth. I took her some flowers for Mother's Day, and before I could stop her she'd bitten the head off one of the daffodils. If I hold her hand, she'll try to suck my fingers.
But someone has obviously succeeded in holding her hand. For the last two weeks mum has been sporting the most - er - striking nail decor: dark red nails, with silver half-moons.
I love seeing that someone has bothered to sit with mum and do her nails. To do those particular nails someone must have sat with mum for a while: they were meticulously done. Mum would have adored having someone's attention for that long.
But they started to look tatty quite soon. Not that this bothers mum. Or me. But then it occurred to me that if I did her nails it would give me something to do with her.
So today I took in some nail-polish remover and a pale beige varnish of the sort mum would have liked. It took me half an hour to remove the dark red. Then another 15 minutes to re-paint them.
I'd kill for mum's nails. They're beautiful: strong, oval and just the right size. Her hands used to be beautiful too. But now they're so thin you can see every bone, especially as her skin is almost translucent.
They're also covered in lurid bruises. In fact she's got bruises all over her. It was always easy to bruise mum. But these days you can damage her almost by looking at her. She doesn't have an ounce of protective fat.
Yesterday I walked behind her as she was taken to the loo. Her shoulder blades are painfully prominent. I could put my hands around the top of her thighs. She is fading away in front of me.
But according to the carer who tried to do her hair, she still packs one BIG punch.
*Urinary tract infection