Sandwich Meat

 

It has become the question I dread most.  It screams judgment and pre-determined disapproval.  “How long since you visited your mother?”

From where I sit, that question is based on so many assumptions, any answer I give is guaranteed to make an ass of only me.  Since my mother is 87 years of age, suffers from multiple sclerosis and severe scoliosis and lives alone in a bi-level house located 700 miles from here, my sister and I are expected to assure her comfort and safety.  To many, how we are doing in that regard is based upon how many times we gaze upon her face up close and personal.

I know I’m not alone when I say I feel like a slice of salami squashed between two slices of Wonder Bread.  Many fifty and sixty-somethings struggle with their dual roles as parents of adult children and as adult children of elderly parents.  We find ourselves so awash in external expectations and filial/parental duties, we wonder why we were delusional enough to expect to spend our retirement indulging some of our long-postponed pleasures, some of which might even be considered guilty pleasures.

I won’t launch a rant about how wrong it is for people to sit or stand in judgment of others – this time.  Instead, I’d like to offer some facts that make such judgment a waste of meddling time for people who would be better served meddling in some other aspect of other people’s business.

For starters, you’d have to know my mother.  Her body has forsaken her, but her mind, especially the part of it that governs her lack of flexibility, is still very much intact. And, yes, I meant to say “lack of flexibility,” for it has been one of her personality traits for as long as I can remember. This is a woman who will sit on her butt and scoot down a set of stairs instead of risking a fall, but who refuses to consider using a walker, much less the power scooter or wheel chair she really needs. 

Back in the late 90s, when Mama was around 75 and not too long after my stepfather died, she fell in the bathroom and ruptured her spleen.  Just a few months before that, the doctor had discovered a mass in her abdomen which required exploratory surgery.  Because my sister and I both live in Georgia, we persuaded Mama to come here to have the surgery so we could look after her while taking care of our responsibilities here.  She seemed to enjoy the two-month visit and the attention she claims not to want. 

So when the call came in to report her bathroom accident, my sister and I decided to locate a one-story house somewhere in the Atlanta Metro area and move Mama from Illinois to Georgia, so we could look after her.  She agreed, we located a cute cluster home, put down earnest money and began to plan the move.  One night after dinner Mama called in tears.  She couldn’t do it.  She hated Georgia.  It was too hot.  She doesn’t know anybody in Georgia.

My sister and I were livid.  Did we understand how overwhelming the idea was to her of just packing up the house she’d lived in for 25 years ?  Of course we did.  We also understood how independent she wished to remain, and the idea of having us close enough to investigate her true welfare at will had to have been difficult for her.  But it was the only solution my sister and I could make work at the time.

After that storm gradually blew over, I told our mother the following:  “It is clear to us that you don’t want us looking after you or trying to get you out of your beloved house.  From now on, we will only step in when you ask for our help.  We get that you are not ready for the role-reversal that seems to be happening; we probably won’t like it much either when our sons try it.  Is that the way you would prefer we go forward?”  She responded with a relieved yes.

When well-meaning (and not-so-well-meaning) people ask us how we can allow Mama to live alone with all her physical challenges, I ask “how can we not?”  She pays her bills, arranges for in-home help with shopping and cleaning, has a visiting nurse and a doctor who makes house calls, and spends her time reading piles of books and watching movies I provide.  Who am I to decide she must disrupt her routine, uproot herself to move into a place that she feels will “take over her life” (we would now prefer she choose assisted living, if we can afford it – a HUGE if.)  She is not incompetent; just frail.

No, we don’t get to see each other as much as other people apparently think we should.  The same is true of my son and me.  None of us can afford to make frequent trips cross-country, but we do stay in touch in every other way.  All of us have been determined NOT to fall prey to the relentless guilt trips my grandmother employed with her children in her later years. Everyone deserves a life.   

If my mother wants to see us, she will tell us, but the truth is she seems to try to discourage us from visiting. She is very uncomfortable with the way she looks, all hunched over and twisted.  She moves on a cane at a pace a snail would consider too slow.  As a result, she has taken to placing things as close to her sitting place as possible, causing a clutter she once would have abhorred.  She knows my sister and I inherited her neat-freak ways and are very uncomfortable in her clutter.  Arms length works better for her.

My grandfather, Mama’s father, was raised in a very religious household, so he often quoted scripture.  His favorite?  Judge ye not lest ye shall be judged.” (sic)