The packet of Jell-o pudding had fallen off the bed tray between the bed and the wall. It was simply beyond me to get close enough to do more about the spill then pick up the empty container and spoon and make a cursory sweep at the mess with paper towels. I really needed to move the bed to get to the mess. Which meant moving the oxygen tank. and fussing with the locks on the wheels. And mom feeling helpless and seeing me go to "all that fuss" which always made mom feel like I was overburdened. She liked it when I just sat and relaxed with her.
So for all these truly non-substantial reasons, the pudding splotch stayed until she passed. I felt it judging me as I cared for Mom, who was now morphined-out. I just couldn't bring myself to clean it up after all the other work I'd been doing. So I cleaned it when the bed was removed. After Mom had passed. It was maybe five days from the pudding falling to her death. I think. Time gets a little fuzzy for me.
I felt judged by that splotch. I didn't do enough. The nurse saw it. I felt like she was judging me for not doing my job well enough. Of course nothing of the sort was happening. I cleaned up the little spot and felt better though. The spot would have driven Mom nuts if she had known about it.
And today I sit on her sofa drinking coffee and still see the splotch in my mind's eye and I realize what confusion I had going on at that time, a mere three months ago. I see I was doing my best and that, yes, it was good enough. I see Mom everywhere. I wish I could stop seeing her in that damned bed. And I need to stop seeing the splotch and judging myself.
I did the best I could. Mom told me no one could have done it better. She felt loved and secure and well looked after. I'll remember that, not one little splotch.
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