Day eighty-one of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
I had many words in my head toward the end of the day yesterday when thinking about drawing this and sharing it with you. And then later when actually sketching.
I knew I was going to tell you that this was the last plug sketch, I promise! (It is).
And after two power outages yesterday - the first affecting about 580 properties served by our local substation, the second affecting one in three properties served by it - it felt appropriate to draw an unplugged plug again.
I sketched yesterday's plug by a mixture of candlelight, mobile phone torchlight, and desk-lamp light as they brought our power back up.
Angling my phone in just such a way that the light from the torch on my phone hit the page so I could see the 4H pencil lines I was making, but also refer to my source image on my phone at the same time.
I can't say the sketch would have been better if produced in daylight or under a reliable desk-lamp light. But maybe it's not terrible, considering the circumstances.
As I regularly do, I sketched it with a 4H pencil, then drew over the lines with an HB pencil.
After discussions about the state of the world with close friends via chat, I was preparing to edit and share yesterday's sketch when I received an unscheduled call from Mum's nursing home. The first in almost three months.
And it completely disarmed me. Not in a good way.
I'll be the first to admit I generally get the 'sanitised' version of my mum's dementia. A lot of effort goes into finding the right moment. When Mum is friendly; at least a little lucid; ideally knows who I am; and open to engaging with a device she doesn't understand.
So today's call was really hard, though I appreciate Kim attempting it. Her heart was in the right place. I can't fault her for that.
But Mum looked tired. She looked older than I've ever seen her look.
She spoke like someone afraid of silence.
What she spoke of - as disjointed as it was - obviously affected her emotionally. Where, usually, I would smile at her encouragingly and nod politely when her sentences drifted off into nonsense, today smiling and nodding felt wrong. Even if I didn't know what she was talking about, it obviously upset her.
About the only piece of discernible discourse happened because Kim referred to my mother, talking to me. But Mum misunderstood it as a reference to her own mother. And she knew she was long gone, even if she didn't know who I was.
Clementine Ford posted recently about what would have been her late mother's 72nd birthday. My mum is 75.
I read her post and thought to myself, "When Mum finally passes, it will be easier than that".
Even before the onset of her dementia, we often found ourselves at an impasse.
While I would have considered her my best friend when I was in my late teens and early 20s, it had been years since we'd seen eye to eye on most things.
Especially in the ten years before her dementia became evident, there was a window where we were both at the right level of tipsy that we could reconnect. There was a point where we recaptured that mutual admiration and affection, usually poring over her family photos after dinner.
But much of the rest of the time, our vastly different personalities clashed.
I've rarely been one to withhold my opinions. But Mum always held to the saying that you don't discuss politics or religion in polite company. I could have (mostly) lively, open debates with my Dad and Uncle about contentious subjects without it (always) turning sour. Mum only saw disagreement and conflict, not a healthy exchange of ideas, even if she wasn't in the conversation.
Our Skype call this morning brought it home to me that my perception of it being somehow easier to let her go when the time comes because of all of the above is just false. It's still going to hurt.
It hurts now, and I miss her already.
