The terrible, no good, very bad daughter

Well, in addition to being up for Mother of the Year, I think I'm a definite shoe-in for Daughter of the Year too. In Hell.

Since my dad became sick, the family dynamics that have been lying stagnant have come back with a force that leaves me somewhat breathless. On one hand, my sister and I have confirmation that we both have similar beliefs and desires of the care for our parents despite the large age difference between us. We make a very good team, as in Bad Cop/Good Cop...she tends to put things in a much nicer and subtler way, whereas I'm the one that is totally balls-to-the-wall, in your face but not in a mean way. My two brothers are pretty clueless - my brother P the Salsa King actually came right away when my dad was so sick without asking any questions. My other brother D, the Idiot Savant (with heavy emphasis on IDIOT), actually had the balls to ask me, "So, exactly how sick is Dad, because I haven't bought my plane ticket yet...." It's one of those moments when you wonder how the four of us ended up so vastly different despite coming from the same gene pool.

And then there's my mother. I've written about her before - I love her so much, but sometimes I wonder if there's any heart lurking inside of her chest. I'm almost 37 years old and she has never once told me that she loves me. Can you believe that? I mean, how can a mother NOT tell their child that she loves them? But mine can. Watching her deal with my dad in the hospital was heartbreaking because there would be times that he would reach for her hand and she would literally bat him away like an annoying bug. I wanted so badly to reach across and grab her by the shoulders and scream, "You've been married to the man for almost 60 years, at least could you pretend to like him?" But I didn't. And the night he was in the coma, I saw my mom cry for the very first time ever...and then I knew she really did care despite the stony facade.

The issue at hand right now is equipping the house for my dad to be able to get around. The fighting started the first week he was in the hospital (when he made it through the surgery and we expected him home right away) in the bathroom accessories at Lowe's. My sister and I had already plotted that we needed to get some basic stuff for Dad to use at home - things like rails for the bathtub, a bath seat, a handicap toilet retrofit thing, stuff like that. Stuff that they will eventually need anyway due to their advancing age. Well, the minute my mom got a whiff of our plans she immediately got defensive and insisted that they didn't need "that stuff cluttering up our house." At one point several weeks later when I was discussing hiring a contractor to add another handrail on the steps to their basement (which is finished and has a full bath in it) she came up with the brilliant plan that Dad could just walk around the outside of the house and go in the basement door if he needed to take a shower. Um, yeah - the guy just lost pints of blood, has been bedridden for weeks, and you think he's going to prance around the outside of the house with no walkways, no ramps, no handrails? Puh-leeze.

And so, the trip down the River of Denial was well on its way. And when he came home last week, she hadn't done anything other than finally put together the bathseat my sister and I forced her to buy, and she purchased the wrong type of walker for him to use.

Can you see where this is going? According to what my sister finally pried out of my mom, Dad fell twice last week getting up in the night to use the bathroom. It made my blood run cold. The first time, he was able to get himself up. The second time required the help of the rescue squad.

So I ended up doing something I hate to do - I called someone to exploit their professional knowledge. Cat Door M's wife, who I will call L, is a well-known physical therapy expert to the point that she teaches seminars nationally. I spent 30 minutes on the phone with her last night getting advice about what we can do to make sure that Dad is properly equipped and receiving the proper care. One thing will be making sure that the PT clinic is helping him with strength and balance instead of endurance...not that endurance isn't important, but right now it's not what he needs to focus on. We need to check out the owners of the clinic - are you aware that sometimes doctors will own shares of a PT clinic and therefore will assign a patient there because they make money off of it - even if it's not a good fit for the patient? And she gave me a few names in town to call if we need help. And the most interesting part for me was her acknowledgment that most of the time, the family won't listen to other family members about things that need to be done - so we need to use the PT clinic as our weapon to make sure that they pound into my parents' heads what needs to be happening so that they don't injure themselves.

The number one thing she told me was that 95% of falls happen at night because the person doesn't have a light on - and the simplest thing we could do was get a lamp to put close enough for Dad to turn it on before even trying to get out of bed. That way he can get his orientation, see well enough to negotiate out of the room and across the hall to the bathroom.

So, armed with this information and indignant that my parents have been hiding the falls from us, I called my mom last night.

It didn't go well.

I explained to her that not equipping the house properly was not only putting Dad at risk, but her as well. If she gets injured because of him falling (like he knocks her over, or she pulls/breaks something trying to help him get up) then we will really be up the creek. Not to mention the fact that Dad could potentially get a head injury, break a hip, or worse. I explained that we love them and care for them, but her refusal to equip the house properly could potentially make the situation worse than it already is. Not to mention that my sister and I want to know immediately when this stuff is happening so that we can help.

I think she tuned me out after she heard my suggestion about buying the lamp. According to her, Dad will not be getting out of bed at night anymore because she's making him use a bedside urinal...which yes, is a potential solution, but what if the guy needs a drink of water or to throw up or something that he needs to get up for? She argued and argued with me about the goddamn lamp.

And that's when I lost it. I cried and yelled and talked to my mother like I haven't talked to her since I dropped out of college back in 1989 and took a year's hiatus. Not one of my better moments in general, and probably my worst moment with my mother.

When all was said and done, she did promise to buy Dad a touch lamp. And to report the second fall to the PT when they go this morning. And that from now on she will let my sister and I know when something happens.

"I'm not a mean person," she said to me. "I know you're not, Mom, but you've got to be realistic with everything now. I know it's hard, I know this is an enormous change for you, but this is also your life now and we're here to help you make it as safe and comfortable for you and Dad as we can." And with that, she hung up.

Today, my heart is aching. I feel horrible about yelling at my mom, but I also know it had to be done. Even if she didn't hear me, I feel like I have said everything that I needed to say to protect my dad.

My sister is heading down there for a few days to assess the situation, talk to the PT (and see if they will perhaps either do a home assessment of Dad or at least give my mother a list of what equipment they need), and go to a doctor's appointment with Dad. And she's going down armed for bear knowing that my mom, The Queen of Denial, is in full effect.

I never thought it would be this hard. Never.