Little Knives

Anyone remember the way the eponymous hero in Vernon God Little likened a mother’s ability to emotionally wound her child as receiving a small stab in the back? (Whatever happened to DBC Pierre after that great literary début?) 
 
My mother’s dementia seems to have increased her accuracy at knife-throwing. Or perhaps I’ve just slowed down as a moving target? My guilt complex, nurtured, I now realise, by Myra’s parenting style, has grown unfeasibly large and encompasses everything from apartheid to climate change. I’m a sitting duck for emotional blackmail.
— You’re always too busy. 
— You’re always in such a rush.

Then there’s After-all-I’ve-done-for-you and If-you-loved-me. Shameless stuff, and in her right mind, Myra wouldn’t have been so transparent. I wonder if dementia corrodes parts of the personality while exaggerating others? Is it always the worst parts that bloom like blisters?  

I wonder if dementia corrodes parts of the personality while exaggerating others?
Is it always the worst parts that bloom like blisters?

Reasoning with her doesn’t help. I switch to remonstrating.

— Don't you dare scold your mother! 

She balls her fists and waves one at me, saying she’d like to smash it into my face. I'm shocked. I know how irritating criticism from one's child is, but her reaction is uncharacteristic and disproportionate.  I withdraw, popping in only briefly for errand-duty in the days that follow.

She doesn’t say sorry and nor do I. While I stand at the door she bumbles around her immaculately organised flatlet trying to find the chore lists she’s drawn up for me.
They are lost amid her coping notes:  

• Go to lunch. 11:45. Everyday. 
• I tablet, morning and night.  
• Turn shower towards wall for hot. 
• Emergency numbers....

  I don’t help.
 
— Every time you walk through that door I start feeling confused.
 
(A knife, but just a glancing blow). 
 
— I’m sorry, we say simultaneously.