Toxic

26th October 2011 Wednesday

‘It sounds like toxic confusion,’ says the doctor, dipping a litmus stick into the sample bottle of my father’s pee.

So an infection of the urinary tract causes mental fogging. This afternoon my father sits at his desk in his dressing gown and says,

I’ve been asleep for twenty four hours.

No. I gave you your breakfast this morning, I say.

Did you? he says. I haven’t had my pills.

Yes, you took them this morning.

But it’s Thursday and the box is empty.

No, it’s Wednesday.

I’m worried I haven’t had my diuretic. The doctor said I should take it.

You have taken it.

Is it Tuesday today?

And so we go round and round. I remember having these conversations with my mother. For years.

I hope the antibiotics start working soon - start taking the poison out of my father’s brain. So he can be normal again.

Driving home tonight I think about how worrying is like a toxin. I feel poisoned by my own anxiety - exhausted by trying to make the right decisions. As if it’s all up to me.

Forgetting to trust God.