Making the Decision - part 2

As I began to picture my mom moving in with me, I imagined her living in my house, my spaces, my yard. I imagined the routines, the rhythms of my life weaving into hers.  I didn't know anyone who was in my position. And yet, the more I allowed the question, What if mom moved in with me?, space in my brain, the more I realized that I did know people who had been in my position. So, I chose three people to take to lunch with the intention of getting advice.

COUSIN
My cousin did not live with her parents in their last years, but she might as well have. She was there day after day, hour after hour; somehow holding down a job, plus seeing to their care - allowing them to stay in their own home, and then as they moved to a care facility. And she did so with grace and laughter.

Her advice when I worried that eventually, I might not be able to take care of mom. If she had a change in health, or I did, what then?

Advice: "Just do it until you can't." 

Those words were very helpful to me. They helped me to lighten up and realize that I can only do what I can do - and right now, I can do this.

FRIEND
My mother's friends daughter was a particularly difficult time when I spoke with her. She was worn out. She hadn't had a vacation with her husband since the caregiving began. She hadn't had a night off or even gone to dinner without her caree. She told me how hard it is to never get a break.

Advice: "Build in time for yourself right from the beginning."

Her words were a powerful reminder that having the compassion to do something like this isn't enough. I will need support too. That's something I hadn't seriously considered.

FRIEND
My high school friend cared for her mother, who had Alzheimer's Disease in her home for several years. She spoke of the funny times, the really, really hard times, and the times when suddenly the level of care her mother needed changed.

Advice: "There will be guilt."

After a frank discussion about guilt, I knew she was oh-so-right. Guilt is in my DNA. Along with worry, guilt drives a lot of what I do.  To be told that no matter what, there will be guilt, was freeing. She didn't say, "Whatever you do, don't feel guilty about it." Good thing because that would be impossible for me. But to simply accept that I will feel guilt - that was far more meaningful.

All three of the people I spoke with said they wouldn't take their caregiving years back for anything. Armed with the advice of three dear people, whose words I knew to be true, I made the decision. Mom would be moving in with me. I was excited at the prospect of starting this new life with and for her.

About six weeks later, she moved in.

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.