Making the Decision - part 1

Making Decisions for People you Love

I thought that making decisions regarding my children were difficult; vaccinate or don't vaccinate, use medication or don't, private school or public, spend the night with the rowdy kid or don't. The list goes on and on.

I admit: I am a thinker. I am an over-thinker. I worry and fuss about decisions. Then I worry and fuss after the decision has been made. Did I make the right decision? Can it be revoked? Is it too late? What if this small decision is the tiny pebble that seems so insignificant but when we pan out, we can see that it's been dropped into a still, dark pond. Ripples are already in motion. What if that last ripple has devastating affect? 

Yes. That's really the way I think. (I'm trying to change or at least balance that.)

A Short Chronology

• My parents lived in the home my dad built for more than 60 years.
• As they got older, me and my sisters adapted; spending more and more time helping them.
• For three years, they had a caregiver come into the house every day for three hours.
• As the only one living in town, I finally hit the point where I just couldn't do it anymore. 
• In November, 2017 they moved to an assisted living facility. We fully expected they'd live for at least a few years there together (dad was 96, mom 88) before Dad (most likely) passed.
• Dad died two weeks later.
• Mom was now alone.

As we grieved our way through the funeral, the insurance companies, the AL facility, and a multitude of other things, mom lingered. We tried our best to fill her days with visits from us, and friends. After several weeks of grieving, we worked (in vain mostly) with the AL facility to get her involved in activities and the many events that took place at the facility. I thought mom would be happy there. I thought she'd eventually come out of her funk and enjoy living there. She stayed with me for three or four nights every other weekend. At first, I'd cry every time I dropped her back off. Soon, I cried when I picked her up too.

No matter when I visited her, mom was always in her room. The woman who rarely sat did nothing but sit. But what struck me was the look on her face - her reaction when I came through the door. There was always a thirsty look of anticipation; like she was sitting on a hill of sand in the middle of the desert - waiting, hoping someone would bring her a cup of water. 

My mother was waiting for someone to visit. She was lonely, legally blind, hard-of-hearing and waiting for someone to take her away from her misery. Other children of residents commiserated, "Oh, I know. It's so hard to leave them, isn't it?" This normalized it for me. Staff at the facility wondered aloud if she'd do better if I wasn't taking her out so often. 

A thought was niggling it's way into my consciousness. A question; What if I moved mom in with me? That's where the process of making a decision began.