Earlier this week, I made my regular phone call to my mom, who has not been doing so well recently. But she was in noticeably good spirits when she answered the phone, and after exchanging the usual pleasantries—how are things, how is the weather—her voice cracked as she blurted seemingly out of nowhere: “Hey, so what do you want from my place?”
As many or most of the regular KTK readers know, my mom almost died last year—indeed, did die...a few times. Untreated pneumonia led to severe sepsis, and I flew home to be at her side as it became increasingly clear that she was likely going to pass. Even though we all strongly hoped for a recovery, a part of me was forced to make a kind of “peace” (as much as one can) with the idea that I was about to lose my mother. So when, against all odds, she survived and eventually went home after a lengthy rehabilitation in a nursing home (where my sister-in-law is a nurse), it was a surprise. A wonderful surprise, if a bit surreal. I didn’t think I would even speak to my mom again, much less see her regain independence.
But independence came with new—and terrifying—challenges. It went mostly unsaid, but I don’t think any of us were really that comfortable with the idea of Mom living alone in her apartment again. She had enough physical problems that made living alone difficult before her fight with death. We wanted her to be independent again, because she’s our mother and she raised us and she the idea of our tough mom being dependent is not something we wanted to entertain. But we weren’t comfortable with it. Not after her illness, and certainly not after she had been significantly weakened by a lengthy fight for her life in the hospital. But she went home, because she was “better”...and because the government wasn’t going to pay for her stay in the nursing home anymore.
Being 1,500 miles away, there was a lot I didn’t know until my brother told me. The falls...the late-night calls for help...the extremely tense conversations about whether “independence” is the really best idea. My mom is one of the toughest people I know. She wouldn’t have survived last year otherwise. She is also one of the stubbornest, especially when it comes to her privacy and independence. And who could blame her? After all, as she pointed out, we’re not the ones who have to live in the nursing home. My mom isn’t even 70, and I’m not even quite 30 yet. These conversations aren’t even supposed to be happening right now. So I understood the resistance on her part.
One particularly bad late-night fall is what finally did it, a humiliating incident in which her grandchildren had to help get her off the floor. “Call the nursing home and make arrangements,” she said.
But it was only supposed to be temporary. Go through therapy (under the watchful eye of my sister-in-law), build up strength, go back home. She held on to the apartment and all of her things—years’ and years’ worth of things, all of which hold distinct memories. Eventually, she would go home to all of it. Of course, we talked about the possibility that she wouldn’t be able to go back home, and how we might deal with that (and how we might convince our mom that going home was not in her best interest). Like before, we wanted her to go home, because the idea of Mom being anywhere other than home is not a pleasant thought. But then again, neither is the thought of Mom going home in her present condition.
So the turn that our phone conversation took earlier this week was a shock: “Hey, so what do you want from my place?” Hearing those words brought both relief and profound sadness. We talked about the foreseeable future, which will undoubtedly be in the nursing home. We talked about the possibility that, in the long term, she might be able to move into an assisted living facility to regain some of her previous independence while also not sacrificing her safety. We also talked about what to do with this thing and that thing, who should get this keepsake and that keepsake. The table Grandma used to have in her living room, the lamp that has been passed down for nearly a century, the photo of my dad in the casket (that exists!? You can keep that, Mom), the collection of yearbooks, the desk that Grandpa gave to me, my dad’s collection of model cars, the list goes on and on.
After agreeing that my next trip to Pennsylvania will probably have to be in a U-Haul, we said our good-byes...and the reality sunk in. The apartment will be cleared soon, precious keepsakes divvied up. And Mom will probably never be truly independent again. It’s for the best—everybody involved knows that—but it won’t be easy for any of us, most of all our mom. And as much as Mom appears to have made peace with it, I’m starting to realize that I wasn’t quite prepared for this day to come.
That was a depressing diary, but the comments don’t need to be!
What do you want to kibitz about tonight?