Just call me Miss Bossy Boots

Yesterday, as Mum was snoozing in front of the TV, I noticed that her breathing suddenly became strange and strained, her eyes were  half open, and it was hard to rouse her. She eventually woke up, and told me that she'd been having a dream. A very strange dream. It starred me, and I was apparently shooting her. 

Of course, dreams are interesting things, and the human psyche that manufactures them; who can understand it? My guess is that I starred in Mum's dream because I am the primary figure in her life at the moment (and the naughty part of me suggested to her that what I was shooting her with in her dream was not bullets, but rather tablets, since I thrust more than 35 tablets upon her in the course of any given day. We both had a bit of a giggle at that).

But seriously, there are times when I feel like, at best a Miss Bossy Boots, and at worst, a heartless bully, as I continually force Mum to 'eat', to take tablets, to have showers, to get up and get dressed every day. After every 'meal', Mum has to suck an antifungal lozenge to combat the thrush infection that coats her tongue. She hates these lozenges, as they taste sickly sweet and she finds that hard to bear. So I feel heartless when, three times a day, I ask her, "are you going to have your sucky tablet?" in a tone of voice that will not take no for an answer.

She keeps reassuring me that she doesn't mind me reminding her to take these tablets, but still, I feel like a bully.

Tonight, as Mum was getting into bed, she said to me, "Don't think for a minute that I mind you telling me what to do, especially at this time of night, when I can't remember what I have to do next."

I love her so much, and she has put herself into my hands so completely; sometimes I'm at a loss to know how to respond to such unconditional trust.