Her leg ulcers turn my stomach; I refuse to look at them, much less actually touch and treat them. I just can't.
I know she needs to be more active, more "interested" in things, walk more, do some exercises. This means I am supposed to be her personal trainer, social secretary and occupational therapist. I have my own life, and knowing i am failing in my tasks leaves me full of guilt.
I thought i would have more to embelish this entry, but i don't.
She just told me a story: her caretaker, Esther, made her tea, and gave her some "sacharin" in quotes, cuz my mom said the tablets were bigger than normal with a line across them. She says that Esther said they were from an "old bottle." So my mom tasted the tea, and it was not sweet, so she took another pill, and tasted it, and it was not sweet. Then she said that she (or Esther...confused) threw the pill into the sink. So i said...why didn't you save the pill to show me. I found a pill almost dissolved in the sink. I tasted it. It WAS sacharrine.
