A friend once told me, “You can’t prevent a disaster from running it’s natural course.” She had four years of sobriety, a bankruptcy, an ex-husband, and a failed greyhound farm behind her. What she didn’t discuss, was how frustrating it is to calmly watch things go hell in a hand basket. That takes a special a special kind of zen or complete disregard for humanity.

I haven’t mentioned my in-laws since we screwed over the Mister’s younger brother moved. Aging has been a popular topic. I prefer not to dwell on the drama with the Mister’s parents, but others’ experiences can be useful when you attempt to map out your own.

In January I mentioned the possibility of the Mister’s parents, the One Eye, leaving the Assisted Living Facility and returning to their own home. In order for them to return, it is necessary for the house to be semi-gutted, painted, re-carpeted, cleaned, appliances, windows replaced, and sheet rock repaired. That doesn’t include the retrofitting required to make the house handicap accessible; handrails for bathrooms, ramp to enter the door.

The contractor hired was an abomination of ethics violations hand-delivered from Satan. The good news is eight months have passed, and the work is still incomplete. The bad news is the contractor started bypassing the Mister and his brother for advances and approval and went straight to Ole One Eye. I’m not sure what the final tab was on the remodeling, but I am certain the contractor abused the situation. Don’t rely upon the kindness of others when it comes looking after aging parents. You are their best advocate. Grace extended from others is a bonus not a given.

The return home has conditions. They will have constant supervision. One proposed plan is for the One Eyes to visit the home for 6-8 hours a day. They would leave the ALF in the morning, transported by caregivers spend the day at their home, and transported back the ALF in time for dinner to spend the night. This plan is favored by the sons. The back-up plan, is to return them to their home with twenty-four hour care. The back up plan is the back up plan only because there is a fear that once they return, they won’t be able to pry Mrs One Eye out of the place.

Being in excess of three hundred miles from the situation, affords me the luxury of not being affected by such a change, but it does not prevent me from giving a shit.

The cost of twenty-four hour care is obscene at best. At the most frugal cost, the services rendered are basic. Light housekeeping, light cooking, shopping, and transporting. Typically, the cheapest providers are not insured, and have minimal medical training, if any. The team of four which have been interviewed, have requested being paid in cash (Red flag, maybe?) There are agencies which offer the same service for a higher cost, but their staff have typically undergone background checks.

My SIL fears the One Eyes will go through caregivers like toilet paper, driving away any assistance that isn’t bound by an agency or a contract. Supposedly, the One Eyes will not have the power to hire and fire staff, that will be the sole domain of their sons. Even with a caregiver available to assist with cooking, cleaning, physical assistance. Mrs One Eye isn’t likely allow anyone to cook in her kitchen. Her kitchen and her paperwork are HER JOBS.

The son who still lives in the area and is responsible for their finances and the house remodel, has plans to build his home near the One Eyes’ homestead. I think his religious leanings have convinced him, this is the right thing to do, but emotionally, I don’t think he will be able to handle what it requires. True, he won’t be a twenty-four care giver, but should the hired staff fail to meet their obligations, I think he would expect his wife to. If you are unable to deal with your parents, I don’t think it is fair to expect your spouse.

I could offer a laundry list of friends, family, and physicians who believe it is a bad idea for the One Eyes to return home. I believe three out of four sons also think it is a bad idea. I don’t know why they persist in trying to actualize this disaster if they truly believe it is a bad idea. My inner uneducated freudian suspects their sons are seeking approval. It has been a lifelong quest of all yielding no acknowledgment, much less a reward. It saddens me on their behalf, yet my vicarious pity serves no useful purpose.

The silver lining is….
they remain heavily supervised in assisted living, and their house will not be ready for occupancy this month.

The not so silver lining…
Ole One Eye’s mental capacity is diminishing. He is hallucinating. He sees fleas fish eggs bees wasps. He isn’t nuts. This is symptomatic of a legitimate medical condition, for which there is medication available. No one seems to know why he isn’t on the medication, nor has anyone spoken to his primary physician about the psychosis or getting a referral to the appropriate physician. Ole One Eye is diminishing physically. He is no longer able to walk far, and he is very unsteady. He has abandoned most attempts at basic hygiene. The vision in his remaining eye has greatly diminished, and no longer reads or dials telephone numbers without assistance. Mrs. Ole One is probably shoving him into an early grave. She yells at him, she gets in his face, and she doesn’t let up about wanting to go home. Her strength is actually improving, but her basic understanding and comprehension are not.

These seniors can no longer be held responsible for their actions. All the hateful words, and manipulative statements are simply a means to an end. Like toddlers, their goal is to get what they want, nothing more and nothing less. Attempts to reason with them yield short-lived victories, because the One Eyes forget what they agreed to, or they discard it. Fear of being disrespectful, forever traps their sons in the process of negotiations. Respect is a two way relationship, not one of constant submission.

I was talking to my sister Friday evening, and she started one of these, “You’re never going to believe what grandma said…” conversations. These are typically entertaining forays into the world of octogenarian logic. Wit and wisdom conveniently sprinkled with bitterness and paranoia. The statements are true, but the incidents that lead up to them are usually built on a crumbling foundation of science fiction and Dr Seuss.

Grandma disclosed to my sister the REAL reason I moved. Apparently, I relocated because I didn’t want to be part of the big decision making. She sort of neglected to mention which big decision making she was actually referring to. She could be referring to herself as she is absolutely paranoid that she will fall asleep one evening in her ginormous king sized bed with her beloved cat, Cry Baby only to wake up the following morning restrained on a single bed, in a sea foam green room, that smells like urine and baby powder. She IS eighty-eight, so it is a legitimate concern. What she doesn’t realize is that is completely out of my jurisdiction. I am her grandchild, not her child, so effectively my voting power is nil.

I have obvious affection for the woman. I gave her eiswein for Christmas, in spite of her protest of being a baptist. I don’t bat my eyes when she says, “shit”, and I still eat her home cooking, though its glory days expired prior to the Y2K scare.

She could have been referring to the situation regarding my in-laws, but let’s face it, I don’t, nor have I ever had, any influence of their care. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s a bad thing. We will never really know, will we?

Maybe she was referring to my responsibilities regarding my own mother’s care. Today, my mother is completely able to handle all her basic needs. It isn’t like she has two feet wedged on the gas pedal trying to outrun the staff at the nursing home. She does need help with larger task: trimming shrubbery, removing pine straw from the roof, taking animals to the vet.

Over the past two years, I have spent as much time preparing my mother’s house to be put on the market (her idea to sell) as I have my own. She changed her mind after the appraisal. Sentimental attachment has no influence over fair market value in the midst of a real estate slump. Frequently, I have shown up at her doorstop to take care of maintenance without being prompted. I have made arrangements, and enlisted help to relocate an ass load of furniture from one antique mall to another one three hours away. I don’t take it upon myself to pitch in because I’m looking for praise or credit (and I’m not looking for credit now). I do it because it is the right thing.

Few things Grandma says surprise me any more, but this one…. I thought she knew me better, or at least had an inkling of type of person I became. I don’t have difficulty accepting responsibility, nor do I have difficulty making decisions and accepting the consequences. I don’t even mind admitting fault when it is clearly mine (this took a lot of work). I can’t be expected to take responsibility of those who CHOOSE not take responsibility for themselves, and as for those confined to a small cell chewing thorazine and creating macaroni and glue sculptures, on some level, they become the responsibility of all. What I struggle with, is determining the best path from where I am to where I want to be. So there is a molecule of truth in what she said, but not enough to merit a sweeping statement. I wish she had listened to me more, so she might have gotten to know me better.

I am the same age my mother was when she gave birth to me. I never considered the age particularly significant, but I have spent much time considering similarities and differences between us. I don’t compare terms like successes and failures, but in terms of which traits we share and where we differ. I’m not competitive by nature, and prefer to improving my shortcomings rather than compete against other’s accomplishments. Spoken like a failure? Maybe, but success isn’t black and white like corporate America would lead one to believe. Sometimes the best you do is simply to better your previous attempt. It isn’t a recipe for curing cancer, but it implies the desire to continue growing.

I shudder when I consider my mother was parenting three children when she was my age. When I see people younger than me, with a one child, I question whether or not they could really be ready for all the responsibility and selflessness it entails. It’s hard to imagine being altruistic and postponing the things I feel driven to do with my life. I always worried that a child would need more of me than I am prepared to give. Habitually, I always hold a little something back from relationships. Even the relationship with the Mister. Restraint is necessary in parenting, but so is being real, and being emotionally available.

Both parents were influential in shaping who I became. As I grow older and more contemplative, I am aware my father had a definite advantage in passing first. As a ghost of my memory, I am less likely to compare myself to him. There is a reverence achieved when life suspends. People are often hesitant to speak of your shortcomings in your absence of defending yourself. Although, in southern cultures they feel free to say whatever they damn well please provided it is prefaced with well bless his/her heart.

My mother and I are alike in many ways, some for better others worse. We are stubborn, self-sufficient, hard working, and determined. We are also easily frustrated by setbacks, non-confrontational, too quick to jump to conclusions and not easily forgiving. I hope I am more flexible than she is today. Aging suppresses flexibility. Maybe she was more flexible at my age, but she was firmly planted by the time I became a teenager.

I wonder where she thought she would be in her life at the age I am. Did she aspire to be more than a wife and mother, or was that enough? She once told me she had considered joining the army after nursing school, but she became smitten with my father and accepted his proposal instead. I also wonder if the army was really HER dream, or one my aunt had thrust upon her. My family has a long history of woman assigning their dreams to their progeny. My grandmother, my mother, my aunt, all guilty. I suppose that’s another tradition I would have chosen to abandon had I become a parent. Everyone should choose their own dreams, without the burden of vicariousness thrust upon their shoulders.

I hope her stubbornness will be beneficial in the right ways. That it will give me the strength to persevere and find my way in the world. The notion of independence is ironic. On one level, I think it pleased my mother to raise three independent children, but on the other hand, I think she wished I needed her more and was more malleable to her influence. Like her, I have my own ideas and do not change my mind without considerable thought. Unlike her, I don’t give a shit if you believe in the things I believe in, and I have no desire to change your beliefs so they imitate mine.

Approval is unimportant to me. I consider whether or not my actions are knowingly inconsiderate to others. I place value on common courtesy. My rights shouldn’t infringe upon your rights, but if my actions offend your sensibilities, you’ll have to deal with it on your own. I have difficulty living up to my expectations, don’t be disappointed if I don’t consider your expectations of me.

People grow and change, and yet adult children still access their parent’s strengths and weaknesses from the point of view as teenagers, and aging parents still treat their adult children like eleven year olds who don’t have enough common sense to come in out of the rain. My mother mentions how proud she is of her adult children, but she seldom praised our accomplishments during the ages it mattered most. She always clung to the notion we holding on out, or that we should doing better. All our accomplishments weren’t worthy of praise, but undermining our self-confidence was a hardly an effective motivator.

Unfortunately my thirteen year-old memory is more vivid than my thirty-plus year old memory. My default reaction is to associate her with the disapproving matriarch of my youth, just as her default memory of me is the irresponsible thirteen year old who was too uncoordinated to master a steak knife. I suppose that makes us even.

This pet was supposed to make her last car trip to the vet this week. She’s eighteen years old for christ sakes, and meaner than a widowed, one eyed, overweight, misogynistic librarian supervising detention hall. She weights six pounds soaking wet, has a head the size of a golf ball, and falls asleep without warning while standing up.

She’s the first cat I rescued. Itchy. I chose her because she was the only cat at the shelter that hissed at me when I approached her cage. I told my father that I was afraid she was too mean to find a home, and she needed me more than the others did. Together, we were Hell on Wheels for seven years. My mom decided Itchy would be better off remaining with her when I got my first apartment after college. It didn’t seem right to confine her indoors when she had always had the option of outdoor living.

When I returned to my Mom’s, Itchy always remembered and acknowledged me by placing a paw against my cheek. In the hormonal turmoil that defines the transition from adolescence to adulthood, we were mates. We shared stubbornness, feistiness, head rubs, and ice cream. She’s lived a long healthy life, and she refuses to let go without a fight. She has congenital heart failure, and we agree we don’t want her to suffer… She is too fuckin’ mean to die on her own. I’ve been coming to terms with the inevitable for the past month and I’m okay with it, because it’s about doing what is best for her. She isn’t ready yet and still has much fight left.

This pet was only eight. Lucy became a member of my mother’s household because my mother has sucker stamped on her forehead. My mother gave her a home because a neighbor needed a favor. My mother has kept cats, fish, bunnies, and dogs, but she favors cats. Dogs have always held an ornamental status in her household. They were always well fed, and their health issues were attended, but they never received enough of the personalized attention dogs need and crave.

Lucy was different. She inserted herself into my mother’s life and refused to be ignored. She was a collie mix, a working dog, and she needed a job. Undeterred by the absence of livestock, Lucy herded my mother’s cats. All five of them. When my mother would pull into the driveway, Lucy would round up all the cats who were outdoors and drive them into the house. When Lucy tried to playing with the cats they hissed, slapped, or snubbed her. Not one to accept defeat, Lucy adopted her very own kitten to raise.

This is Linus. Notice the resemblance? No one seems to know where Linus came from, but Lucy raised him as if he were her own. the family has always been impressed the dog selected a kitten with markings similar to her own. They were often spotted curled up together on the porch. When Linus unwillingly donated his nads to science, Lucy comforted him and nursed him back to health.

After the kitten was raised, Lucy turned her attention to my mother. After my mother fell off a stepladder trimming hedges, Lucy refused to leave her side. Lucy considered my mother to be her responsibility. From that day onward, Lucy seldom left my mother’s side. Lucy transitioned from yard dog to house dog. In the early phase she was quarantined to her dog bed in the kitchen, later she had the run of the house and guarded my mother’s bed at night.

A week ago, Lucy had a seizure. She was taken to the veterinarian’s office and my mother received instructions from the vet. They took a Let’s wait and see approach. A few days later the dog had another seizure and she had difficulty coming out of it. She was taken back to the vet and kept for observation. After the vet ran some tests, he sent the dog home again with prescriptions for phenobarbital and valium.

Lucy never really awoke from the stupor after that. Her eyes were dilated, she was lethargic. Linus came and laid with her. She had three more seizures, and lost control of bowels. My sister maid plans to take the dog to the vet the for the final time the following morning. My sister miraculously talked my mother into staying home while she had the dog. My mom had already seen the dog at her worst, there was no reason to be present for the needle.

Lucy had suffered from brain damage. Her mouth was dry, and her eyes unfocused. My sister was upset that the vet allowed the dog to return home. My mother is a petite disabled woman. She might have been a lion tamer in her youth, but she no longer has the strength to wrangle a seventy-five pound dog. Of all the trials and tribulations my mother should endure in her life, I would have preferred she not have to deal with this one.

This dog was supposed to be here to keep my mother company. This dog was needed to be a good listener, because I know my mother talks to her non-stop during waking hours. This dog was supposed to be present for all successive family gatherings so we would someone to blame for the unfortunate toxic side effects of my sister’s broccoli casserole. This dog was supposed to be here, because my mom needs her.

The last few weeks, I have mostly been about the business of packing, organizing as it relates to packing, or home improvement as it relates to selling. When I know what I want, I am relentless about making it a reality. The courtesies of keeping in touch, often fall away. I’m not consciously being rude. I am consumed by the task at hand, and I despise stopping before a task is unfinished. I’m typing this under the guise of having breakfast. My coffee cup is beside me, but there are empty boxes in the garage and an assload of cds to sort.

The Mister has not been as motivated, but he is taking care of tasks I detest like making telephone arrangements. He’s lined up inspectors for the new house, shopped around for the best interest rate, and found a van company to transport our belongings. He’s also been more involved with his parents. Guilt is a very effective motivator for some people.

Mister Hombre’s family knows about the move, and considering the circumstances, they are taking things well. They are happy about our new adventure, and understand the benefit of moving closer to a major airport for the Mister’s job. They are also concerned about what this means for them personally not having him nearby to help out. They are simultaneously excited and petrified. If I were the one left behind, I would feel the same.

Mrs. One Eye is more emotional. Our move is something she remembers vividly, unlike where she put her gloves or hid her purse. One of the frustrating elements about dementia is the unpredictability of the memory. You never know what will become the object of obsession. Days can past without a glimpse of the person you recognize as your parent, and the moment you consider letting go… a glimpse of the person you remember becomes recognizable.

I haven’t told my family yet. I had planned on mailing a card with a cute illustration and an inappropriate ebonics style announcement, but I wasn’t finished on time. This means I get to tell them in person over Easter dinner. I’m not looking forward to this. It isn’t because I dread something emotional or crappy confrontation. Honestly, it interferes with my packing. This will take me away from most of a days work. I will spend a nice day with them, but I will be preoccupied by boxes, packing tape, pine straw bales, bubble wrap, transporting cats, and packing art. I’m that consumed about finishing the packing. This has been underway since January. I’m ready to be settled. There is an unfinished oil pastel calling out to me

I suspect I will catch a minimal amount of crap for not saying something sooner. I had to be reasonably sure this move would happen. I’m not the type to discuss hopes, dreams or goals. I prefer to wait until I’ve already started the process of making things happen. I hate explaining why thing didn’t happen, it makes me feel like a failure.

Even if I had voiced my intentions to them earlier, it wouldn’t have changed much. Their lives wouldn’t have become miraculously less busy, nor would mine. I’m the one without kids, so by default, I’m expected to drive to their houses for their milestones. I could elaborate on the lack of frequency of family visits to my home, but this isn’t about my suffering from bitterness. My only point is distance isn’t always the deterrent people make it out to be. I will still see the entire family together twice a year, which ironically is he way things are currently and we live less than seventy miles apart.

Life is full of changes, and it marches on whether we choose to or not. I will miss them and the conveniences of being near, but five hours isn’t a lifetime away unless you choose to make it that way.

For those who celebrate the holiday, I hope you have an enjoyable one. For those who simply celebrate the weekend, have a great one! I’m still reading, I just don’t have much time to comment.

And, Sari, I haven’t forgotten.