remorse

I do a horrible job keeping this up. I kept a livejournal in middle and high school purely because my parents would allow it. I went online every day and updated when they weren't paying attention, all the while swearing on someone's grave that I had deleted it.

I want to keep this thing to know what happens in my daily life. What I found funny, sad, amusing, the usual. And I never think about it. I want to try to keep a more accurate blog. Maybe a few times a week even?

I just found out my aunt (who, for all intents and purposes is my grandmother) has Alzheimer's and dementia. She doesn't recognize many friends or family anymore. It happened a few months ago and I had no idea. My family withheld it from me for awhile since there was nothing I could do about it and I wasn't really in any stable state of mind.

Without sounding callous, I was more emotionally moved by it than I expected. I spoke with her when I first returned from Boston in late February/ early March and, though she was old, I didn't think in any way we were heading down this path. I thought she was getting older clearly, and physically taxed. Apparently a month or so later the doctors made the diagnosis.

I was such a child. I was so lazy about them, and though I cared, I was always doing something when they called the house. I would talk with them but have to run to do something else. And now, here I am, filled with guilt, regret, remorse and overall sadness. Tomorrow I'll be fine, but it's sad to know that she's alive and in a childlike state of bliss and I'll never be able to fix my lazy actions. Regret is overwhelmingly powerful.

I had cinnamon toast crunch waffles with them. I watched Lawrence Welk with them. I sat on the floor too close to the TV with my sweater over my knees so that it stretched and cocooned my whole body (My parents never allowed either of those things.) I loved them. They thought I still loved cats like when I was 7. They were so supportive and loving and caring. I wish I hadn't been so indifferent as I got older. Maturity is so much an experience of learning from your mistakes. I wish I could fly out to California to be with them. To hold her hand, to say I'm sorry, to tell her I love her. It's hard knowing she's there and breathing and thinking, but won't register or remember any of it.

I think what is hardest is knowing that, most likely, the next time I'll see her will be for the funeral. And even if that were to change, she wouldn't be able to remember it anyways.