The fact is
that one of us is going to die at the end of this and we probably know which
one of us will go first. Most domestic
situations don't start that way. It's pessimistic. It's realistic. And I'm tired.
This began
in July when I looked down onto my 83 year old mother's scalp, through her snow
white perfectly coiffed hair, to see a silver dollar sized black circle that
turned out to be aggressive stage 2 melanoma.
It was July 3rd, Mom had come up for a 2 week visit. That turned into 2 1/2 months and is now going to turn into the rest
of her natural life, or mine, whichever comes first. BTW, that reference to a silver dollar will
probably go right over millennial's heads as they have most likely never seen
one. This blog is not for them but for
those of us who ducked and covered during the cold war.
Our
blog/rant/conversation is hopefully going to help me get through what is to
come, as I have realized I am about to embark on the most epic thing I have
ever done. I don't think I'm ready to
raise my mother to maturity in the years she has left with her wits, or before
I lose mine.
Mom is a
lot, repeat, a lot of work. She's used
to being the center of the room, my father doted on her, her favorite son doted
on her. My sister doted on her. I had been banished so I just achingly and
wistfully thought of her. Then she lost
her favorite son. Then she lost my
father. My sister, through proximity and
inclination, got my mother through the last 7 years, the sale of the family
home, packed and moved into the condo, depression, moms self medicating, through falls and broken bones, rehabs and
countless dr. appointments. My sister
has found love and deserves a shot at happiness. It's my turn.
During that
visit in July my brave husband suggested we make some renovations and have mom
move in. In the interest of full
disclosure, my husband is a former US Marine, had been at the WTC in rescue and
recovery efforts on 9/11, went to New Orleans after Katrina to aid in recovery and
to Haiti on a medical assistance mission after the earthquake. He's used to disasters. In my own quest to finally become a beloved daughter
I said yes.
We've had 2
visits from Mom since July. The October
trip took care of a single area basal cell removal. This trip was the removal of 2 more basal
cell areas. We got one taken care of
when we hit the snag. The snag that
precipitates this blog. The snag where I
am now coming face to face with my new reality.
Mom had a
UTI she managed to keep to herself during 2 doctor visits preceding her trip
here, to the surgeon and Dr who removed her basal cell and to her Internist who
met her and had a zillion questions about her health. Not a peep (get that play on letters? pee...peep, I'm hilarious) about burning urination. Days later, it's Saturday, the day of
snowmageddon here on the east coast.
Mom was not right all day, by 4 p.m., with the storm raging, it is apparent
we have to bring Mom to the hospital.
Husband cleans off the JEEP and gets her there where she was admitted
and stayed for the week. The UTI went
septic, and oh yeah, she has arterial fibrillation for good measure.
Mom was
moved to Rehab for physical therapy Saturday.
I believe that is the straw that broke my proverbial back. So, as I was getting to microwave my Hot
Pocket for my sumptuous dinner, I thought, "I would've liked some lists. Is there a book for this?" then I
thought "I need to help the next poor co-dependent daughter before she
slits her own wrists over her Diva mother". So here we are. Lists will follow.
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