З життя
Я больше не справляюсь. Куда обратиться для помощи моей пожилой матери?
Я больше не в силах. Куда деть мою старушку-мать?
Не знаю, сколько ещё выдержу. Вначале казалось — справлюсь. Думала, это временные трудности, что хватит любви и терпения. Но сейчас я у края. И душой, и телом, и сердцем. Кто-то осудит, а кто-то поймёт — ведь чужие слёзы не катятся по щекам. Хочу рассказать, не оправдываясь, а просто чтобы облегчить душу.
Меня зовут Татьяна, я младшая в семье. Старший брат Иван на три года меня старше. Мама родила нас уже в годах: брата — в сорок два, меня — в сорок пять. Долго ждали детишек, и когда они появились, мама считала нас чудом. Мы стали её смыслом. И хоть она была старше других матерей, вкладывала в нас всё — ласку, любовь, знания.
Когда мне исполнилось семнадцать, умер отец. Для нас страшный удар, для мамы — конец света. Она едва держалась, а я, как могла, поддерживала. Брат уехал учиться, потом в Штаты — работать, жить, семью заводить. Остались мы вдвоём. Я — и мама.
Прошли годы. Теперь маме семьдесят восемь. Я по-прежнему с ней. Только теперь это не просто мама. Это человек, которому нужен постоянный уход. День и ночь. А я не справляюсь.
Мама забывает простые вещи. Оставляет утюг включённым, плиту горящей, может поставить чайник в холодильник, а хлеб — в бельевой шкаф. Уже сто раз просила не помогать — сама всё сделаю. Но она упрямится — то ли по привычке, то ли из желания быть нужной. Только толку никакого. А сказать ей: «Мама, не надо», — не могу. Вижу, как ей больно от собственной беспомощности.
А недавно случилось худшее. Мама ушла из дома и пропала. Забыла, куда идти. Забыла, где живёт. Искали три часа. Обошла весь район, звонила всем, с ума сходила. Нашла случайно — соседка увидела её на другом конце города. Мама стояла растерянная, дрожащая, испуганная. А я — будто выжатый лимон.
И так теперь постоянно. Вечный стресс. Вечный страх, что случится беда. Вечная ответственность. Не могу расслабиться ни на минуту. Просыпаюсь ночью от шорохов. Никуда не уеду. Я не живу — я выживаю. Я уже не дочь — я сиделка. И это медленно меня убивает.
А у меня ведь и своя семья есть. Муж, дети, внуки. Люблю их, жила для них. Но сейчас все силы уходят на маму. И я чувствую, как слабею. Устала. Выгорела. По ночам плачу, потому что нет выхода.
Даже подумать страшно: «Куда пристроить маму?» Само слово — «пристроить» — звучит как измена. Будто я не родная дочь, а чужая. Но ведь есть же дома для стариков. Есть пансионаты с уходом. Есть специализированные места. Почему одна мысль об этом гложет совесть?
Потому что нас так воспитали. Потому что мать — святое. Она меня родила, выпестовала, берегла. А теперь мой долг — быть рядом. Но долг не должен быть петлёй на шее. А у меня чувство, будто тащу камень в гору, и конца этому нет.
Брат помогает деньгами, звонит, жалеет. Но он — за океаном. Не видит, как мама ночами плачет, как путает меня с покойной бабушкой, как не может найти дорогу домой. Не носится по улицам в панике, когда она задерживается у магазина. Не подбирает осколки разбитых чашек. Он живёт спокойно. А я — здесь. В этом доме. В этой ловушке.
Не знаю, что делать. Хочу просто дышать. Проснуться без тревоги. Съездить к дочери, не опасаясь, что мама тем временем устроит пожар. Прошу не многого — просто кусочек жизни. Немного покоя. Немного себя.
Кто-то, может, осудит. Скажет: «Плохая дочь». Что мать надо носить на руках до конца. Пусть попробует сам. Год, два, пять. А потом расскажет, каково это — быть живым человеком, но не иметь права на передышку.
Я не хочу бросать маму. Хочу, чтобы ей было хорошо. Чтобы о ней заботились, чтобы была в безопасности. Хочу любить её, а не бояться. Но сейчас — я на пределе. И если есть место, где ей будет лучше, где за ней присмотрят, — может, стоит подумать?
Не знаю. Честно не знаю. Но так больше нельзя.
You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Light Bulb! On Sunday morning, I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket while my husband drove over to his mother’s to “change some light bulbs.” But of course, the real reason for summoning her darling boy was something else entirely: “Son, have you forgotten it’s Igor’s birthday today?” My husband’s the generous type—his salary barely lasts a week. Thankfully, he still gives me cash for the bills and groceries, but the rest? He blows it all on new video games and whatever gadgets go with them. I don’t mind; better my man enjoys his hobbies than squanders his time (and money) in pubs or nightclubs. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for any man. I’m not telling you this for sympathy, just so you understand why my husband always has empty pockets. I have no such problem—even manage to save. I often lend him money in emergencies, but when it’s for his mum, niece, or sister, I always say no. Naturally, I remembered Igor’s birthday. Last week, I bought his present myself. Before my husband set off, I handed it over and settled down to watch a film. I didn’t go—the mutual animosity between me and my in-laws made sure of that. They think I don’t love him, accuse me of being mean because I refuse to fund their expenses or mind my sister-in-law’s kids. Once, I watched them for an hour, but they picked them up half a day late, making me miss work—when I dared complain, his mum and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, any requests to babysit were met with a firm “no.” Didn’t bother me if my husband watched the kids—he enjoys their company. Not long after my husband left, he returned—with the whole family in tow, nieces and all. His mum barged in, coat still on, and declared: “We’ve decided that, for Igor’s birthday, he’ll get the tablet he wanted—two grand it cost. You owe me a thousand pounds for your share. Pay up.” I might have bought the lad a tablet—but nothing that expensive. Obviously, I refused to hand over any cash. That’s when my husband started guilt-tripping me for being stingy. I turned on the laptop and called Igor over. In five minutes, we picked and ordered a gadget he really wanted—job done. Thrilled, Igor dashed off to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My sister-in-law always had sticky fingers—nothing in our house was safe. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, ignored my thoughtful gesture and exploded with indignation: “No one asked for your help. You were meant to give money! You’re with my son, and he’s always skint, can’t even buy a lightbulb. Hand me a thousand pounds now—you know full well that money belongs to my boy!” She reached for my handbag on the nightstand. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You’ve got three minutes to get them out of here.” In less than three minutes, he’d grabbed his mother and chucked her and the lot of them out the door. So, yes, I’d rather my husband waste his wages on games than have his mother snatch every penny. At least he spends it on things that make him happy, not on those freeloaders. Sometimes, I genuinely think I’d have been better off marrying an orphan!
Youre robbing my son, he cant even afford a lightbulb. One Sunday morning, I was curled up under a blanket...
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