Bomb Diggity

Happy to continue my feminist holiday T-shirt schtick.

Think I could go about celebrating Indigenous People’s Day this way?

Wondering if I should get a new one for Halloween this year.

But her Medicare only lasts until March 17/18. And she won’t be independent by then.

My brothers are trying to decide if they want to price shop for the attorney.

Do we still do gratuitous pictures of ourselves?

But when your (my) mom is hospitalized for a week at a time (or in old people rehab for a month at a time) setting boundaries on visitation expectations is hard but critical work.

When she was in rehab 2 miles from my house I went to see her every day. But the real hospital is 20 minutes away in another town. That requires a whole different kind of psyching myself up. And I don’t like to have to psych myself up in the weekends. So I’ve had to squash expectations and establish my limits.

I’ll come see you on Saturday, but on MY schedule not yours. I’m not going to hop out of bed and haul myself to see you first thing in the afternoon. It will technically be Saturday until midnight. So I’ll “visit you on Saturday” but probably not until after 7:30. (Gotta go by 8 or they’ll lock the main entrance and you have to enter through the ER -I know how to do it but it’s more walking and more maneuvering and I do not like to do it.)

Right now I’m fending off texts from my mom, telling me things she wants me to bring her in the hospital. Yes, I’ll bring you lotion, but it will be tonight. Yes I’ll bring you a scrunchie, but it will be tonight.

Then in Nov 2022, at 74, she fell and broke her femur, requiring intramedullary nail for the fracture and full time rehab. Rehab that isn’t going well. Rehab that has been derailed by a bladder infection that made her throw up and prevented her from eating and required 5 days in a real hospital. Rehab that was derailed further when she got Covid at the ER while waiting for bladder infection treatment. She’s finally back at rehab, free from her 2-weeks of Covid quarantine, but she’s throwing up again. And on it goes. It’s always something.

I whine about all this to say: this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life and it’s not even happening TO me. I’m powerless, I’m helpless, I’ve got no control of her treatment and it feels like I’ve got no control of my own life b/c I spend so much time visiting her and worrying about her comfort and going to her appointments.

People: stay active. Walk your ass down the driveway every day. It will make a difference. Get up, get out, move around and use your body. Sure actual exercise is good for you but movement of any kind will help. My mom will likely never walk unassisted again. My mom can’t come home and live alone and I can’t be her personal home aid. She’s going through this medically but I’m going through something too.

Being a caregiver (really I’m a care supporter) is slowly killing parts of me. And I am mad. I’m mad that my parents never followed instructions after previous surgeries to be active. All they had to do was walk around the block everyday. They never did. I’m mad that nothing seems to go right for my mom since she fell and all the lofty goals of being back to “normal” in 6-8 months have evaporated.

I’m mad that my two brothers and I haven’t met up to discuss things. Even when the older one showed up in town unannounced last week he didn’t tell me his plans so I never even saw him. I’m mad that I can’t focus on critical things in my own life because everything has become dependent on my care obligations. I wash her laundry bc she’s got sensitive skin and needs special detergent. I bought her new clothes so she wouldn’t be in the rehab gym in her ratty old house clothes. I haul shit over from her house to make her more comfortable in the rehab room. I leave work to go to appointments with her, to hold her hand when she cries. I do all this shit but it’s not enough to change any god damn thing.

Nothing is going to be changed. I’m locked into this bullshit until mom finally gives up and dies. There is no fucking escape. The brothers aren’t going to hold her hand and rush up there when she calls scared and crying it for my dead dad. My role in this position was set in motion when I was born the only daughter. And I’m fucking mad.

I love my mom. Living next door to her was a dream come true. But I’m killing myself trying to support her and I’m mad that I can’t let myself step away. I know I don’t have to be the caretaker, but if my dad ever found out I abandoned my mom he’d be so disappointed. As he died in Vanderbilt hospital I held his hand and promised him I’d take care of mom. So I have to keep going. I do my best and I acknowledge that my best changes from day to day.

I’m mad at my mom for being old and out of shape. I’m mad that she had surgery, followed by an infection, followed by Covid. I’m mad at myself for not adjusting into this new role easily. I am not a parent, I have no experience guiding someone to make good decisions and try her hardest. I’m not trained in this at all but now I’m fucking stuck in it.

Of course leaving without a new job lined up is dangerous and risky. But to my way of thinking staying in a job that’s breaking me down is the bigger risk. I’ve got enough money to survive for a few months without a paycheck. Of course I’d rather keep those savings for something more “fun” but honestly not being miserable daily will be fun enough for a while. And I’m employable. I will find a job. But it’s a slower process when I’m not looking for a new role so much as looking for a new place to plant myself and do, just, whatever, for a few years.

But I suppose I should have dreams and goals and secret longings. I’m not very good at “should” however and the longer I live the less i give a fuck if others approve of my choices. My dad is dead, so he doesn’t get a vote. My mom loves me and is much too kind to criticize me unless it’s something utterly ridiculous so I’ve always got her support. Who else’s opinion matters to me? My nieces & nephews want me to be happy but they don’t care about the details as long as I still have time for our weekly Just Cara Day. Others that I might listen to: exhuz, puhleez, he doesn’t care as long as I’m not risking death. My little brother probably worries about me but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt very cared for and concerned about from him. I feel a few years ago he accepted I was self sufficient and stopped actively caring for the most part. Sure he cares, but not enough to want to discuss things with me. As long as I do my part to take care of our widowed mom he’s mostly gonna let me be. The secret is I want him to care, to talk, to share, to give advice. With my dad gone my little brother is the smartest man I know. But I know he can’t be my replacement for my dad, so I tend to just not spill anything on him at all. Unfortunately he doesn’t seek me out for much either so instead of a close sibling relationship we have a perfectly pleasant but unfulfilling war of attrition, neither of us wiling to get closer to the other.

My therapist says I’m doing great. She reassures me that I’m not sabotaging myself, that I’m thinking out my decisions and that if I would just be nicer to myself I’d see that I’m doing great too. So good in fact my dad would totally be proud of me. Therapy is weird. I pay $100 to get a real hug from her and for her to look at me with sympathy when I cry “I miss my dad” every session. And she tells me all the ways my dad is still with me and makes me tell her all the ways my dad would be proud of me and I feel better for a little while. Almost all my crying about my dad is done in therapy b/c I don’t want to worry or work up my mom and I don’t want to be that vulnerable with my brother. I don’t cry with the kids if I can help it but I do talk about him with them. Remind them how cool he was and how much he loved them. Help him stay in theirs little memories for as long as I can. He deserves to be remembered.