A Bittersweet Trip to the Eye Doctor

I’m sitting at the eye doctor’s office today—not for myself, but for my dad. He has a regularly scheduled appointment to help manage the macular degeneration in both eyes.

I drove him in his car. He can’t get into mine, a BMW X6, so he bought a Chevrolet Blazer. I’m happy to take him. He’s driven me to plenty of appointments over the years.

But today feels bittersweet.

Dad got ready on his own. He got dressed, made it down the stairs, climbed into the car, buckled his seat belt, got out at the office, and walked inside. It was good to see him manage something important to him.

And it left me thinking about what else seems important. Seeing the TV and scrolling on his phone appear to matter. But he hasn’t seen his wife since around the end of August.

He made one attempt. I didn’t take him, and I own that. But there hasn’t been another attempt since. He says he’s in too much pain to go.

Today, he made it to this appointment.

I’m not saying his pain isn’t real. I’m sitting with the contradiction, and with the sadness of watching him make the effort for one thing while the distance from his wife continues. I can’t make that choice for him.

The Appointment, the Doom Scroll, and One Good Foot

I went to the podiatrist today. My foot is fine, and somehow I didn't have a copay. So I have to ask: why does seeing a doctor for one foot cost a full copay, but apparently seeing a doctor for both feet costs nothing? The healthcare system remains a mystery—at least my toes are doing well.

My father had asked me several times to make an appointment for him while I was booking mine. So I did. After the recent malay with my mom, and after he used my “deficiency” against me, I still helped. I told him the appointment time, and the doctor texted him a reminder.

When it was time to leave, he was still in his chair, doomscrolling amid the boxes, papers, and other stuff that had gathered around the place he hardly gets up from.

As I was heading out, he asked, “Did you get my message?”

“No,” I said.

“I canceled the appointment.”

“As long as you called them.”

I’m not playing messenger.

This has become a pattern. He asks for help setting up an appointment or task, then cancels when the time comes because he’s “not feeling well.” Maybe there’s more going on—perhaps even agoraphobia. But whatever the reason, the result is the same: plans get made, plans get dropped, and I’m left rearranging my day around them.

It happened with a necessary trip to Verizon to fix his cellphone. We finally went about six months after he first asked. It happened with an in-person bank deposit, at least two months after he asked me to help. There have been other examples.

I don’t mind driving him. He isn’t in shape to drive himself, and I like being behind the wheel. Honestly, the world is probably safer with him off the road.

What I do mind is changing my own plans to help—like moving a pain appointment I’d arranged for that morning in Downtown Charleston—only for him to cancel at the last minute without telling me directly.

That’s not cool.

So, lesson learned: I’m happy to drive when there’s a real plan, and he’s ready to go. But I’m not rearranging my day around appointments he may cancel from his chair.

At least one of us made it to the podiatrist. And one of us left with a good foot and no copay.

After Dialysis, Assisted Living Tours and Complaints: I Need the Ocean and Bacon

Today was one of those days when my internal battery was already flashing red before I walked through the door.

After dialysis, I toured The Palms, an assisted living facility I'm considering for Mom.

Today's dialysis was a little more difficult than Monday's. By the time everything was finished, I didn't even make it to my recovery meeting.

Instead, I had another mission:

Deliver Mom's dinner.

Ham, grits, and peas.

Gross.

I'm sure someone loves that combination. That someone is not me.

So, after dialysis and touring The Palms, I headed over to the skilled nursing facility with Mom's meal.

And then the complaining began.

Apparently, Everything Is Terrible

It was nonstop.

The food.

Physical therapy.

Nursing.

This.

That.

Something else.

At times, Mom was saying things that, from my perspective, didn't line up with what had actually happened. I've experienced that before with both of my parents, and today I didn't have much energy left to sort through what was accurate, what was frustration, and what might have been something else entirely.

I could feel myself reaching my limit.

That's when H.A.L.T. popped into my head.

Hungry.

Angry.

Lonely.

Tired.

I was feeling three out of the four.

I'll let everyone guess which three.

Actually, don't think about it too hard.

The important part was recognizing what was happening before I allowed myself to get dragged into an argument that wasn't going to accomplish anything.

See You Tomorrow

I finally told Mom I was going to leave and that I'd see her tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I'm touring another assisted living facility.

Her response?

“Don't come.”

My response?

“See you tomorrow.”

At this point, it felt less like a discussion and more like defiance.

Ugh.

Yesterday, I wrote about needing to establish boundaries. Today was another opportunity, actually, to practice one.

I didn't argue.

I didn't address every complaint.

I didn't stay there until I was completely exhausted and angry.

I left.

Sometimes that's the healthiest option available.

I'm Still Doing the Work

The frustrating part is that behind all these conversations, I'm still trying to do what Mom has said she wants.

She wants assisted living.

So I'm touring assisted living facilities.

I'm looking at rooms.

I'm learning about services.

I'm figuring out costs.

I'm asking questions.

I'm trying to imagine what her life might look like in each place.

Then I walk into the skilled nursing facility and hear complaint after complaint about the place she's currently living.

I understand that she's frustrated. She's been through a lot.

But I've been through a few things myself.

Today alone started with dialysis, moved into an assisted living tour, and ended with me delivering ham, grits, and peas while listening to a review of practically every department in the building.

Eventually, the tank is empty.

Mine was empty.

So I went home.

Tomorrow, I'll get up and do it again.

Another facility.

Another tour.

Another visit with Mom, regardless of today's “don't come.”

And hopefully another reminder to myself that I don't have to solve everything in one day.

I Need the Ocean and Bacon

Fortunately, I have something waiting for me at the end of October.

I'm going on a cruise.

And after the last few weeks, I think I've identified exactly what I need:

The ocean and bacon.

Lots of ocean.

An unreasonable amount of bacon.

Maybe I'll sit somewhere, looking out over the water, holding a plate stacked with bacon and doing absolutely nothing for anyone.

No assisted living tours.

No skilled nursing complaints.

No ham, grits, and peas.

No problem-solving.

Just me, the ocean, and enough breakfast meat to concern a cardiologist.

But first, tomorrow.

Another assisted living facility.

Another visit with Mom.

Because even when she says, “Don't come,” sometimes I know what she really needs is for me to keep showing up.

So...

See you tomorrow, Mom.

Caring for My Mother: Money, Control, and Family Boundaries

There is another side to the story I shared about visiting my mother. If I’m going to be transparent about the coffee, the conversations, and the importance of showing up, I need to be honest about the harder part, too.

My mother is in a skilled nursing facility after two strokes in three months. She wants to move into assisted living. Eventually, when she’s mobile enough, the plan is to get her to Thailand.

She has also made something else clear: she does not want to return to Rivertowne to live with her husband, my father.

That is a difficult sentence to write. It is also necessary to understand what’s happening.

The Cost of Care

Assisted living is expensive. The places I’m looking at start around $6,000 a month for somewhere “nice.” We are not talking about the Four Seasons. At that price, though, I wouldn’t mind a mint on the pillow.

When my mother was in the hospital and expressed that she didn’t want to return home, my father’s first response was:

“Who is going to pay for it?”

I understand that hearing your spouse doesn’t want to live with you can hurt. I’m divorced. I received my own invitation to leave the home, and I left. I didn’t return. I understand that conversation carries feelings.

But my mother still needs care. Her wishes still deserve to be heard.

During a trip to Costco, before all of this, my mother told me she had a 401(k) through her employer. She gave me a rough idea of the balance during a conversation about things involving my father that were upsetting her.

Apparently, a Costco trip can include bulk groceries and information that becomes very important later.

When my father balked at assisted living, I remembered that account. My mother had worked and saved money over time. I wanted to explore using those savings for her care.

I asked him for the information to start that process.

His response was:

“I’ll think about it.”

Money and Control

I’ve heard stories about families coming apart over money. About a parent needing care and the conversations turning into arguments over accounts, expenses, and who gets to decide.

Now I’m experiencing that family strife myself.

From where I stand, this is all about money and control.

My mother has expressed where she wants to live and what she wants her next chapter to look like. Yet my conversations with my father keep coming back to whether money will be made available and who gets the final say.

When I hear “I’ll think about it” in response to a request for information about her savings, I hear him positioning himself as the person who decides whether her wishes can move forward.

That is why this feels like more than a disagreement about an expensive facility. Access to money affects my mother’s choices. Whoever controls that access has enormous influence over where she can go and how she can live.

I understand that $6,000 a month requires planning. I’m willing to work through the costs, the account details, and the practical questions.

What I’m struggling with is having to argue for taking my mother’s wishes seriously in the first place.

Taking Responsibility for Her Wishes

As of today, I am officially my mother’s power of attorney. I am also her designated proxy.

I let my younger brothers know my intentions because I wanted them informed. They know the plan: assisted living, then Thailand when Mom is mobile enough.

I want my mother’s wishes to guide the decisions about her care. There are details to work through, but I don’t want her voice getting lost in arguments about money or what someone else prefers.

Yesterday, my father began what I experienced as a negotiation over her care.

I told him I didn’t see this as a negotiation. I was talking about money my mother had earned and saved, and using it to care for her.

His response was:

“Prove it.”

Those two words changed how I saw him.

I was trying to move a conversation about my mother’s care forward. Instead, I felt pulled into a contest over authority and control.

My mother is recovering from two strokes. She has enough work ahead of her without her wishes becoming another thing she has to fight for.

What This Has Brought Up for Me

In that moment, I lost respect for my father.

I can acknowledge that he helped give me life, taught me things, and supported me at different points. Those parts of our history exist.

So does the pain I carry from childhood into adulthood. This crisis has brought some of that pain back to the surface. His responses now are affecting a relationship that already has a complicated history.

Hearing “I’ll think about it,” followed by “prove it,” while trying to help my mother get the care she wants has left me angry, hurt, and deeply disappointed.

I have been passionate in these conversations. My mother’s care and happiness matter to me, and I haven’t had many quiet feelings about either.

I also still live in the house my parents co-own. I go back there after visiting my mother, attending recovery meetings, going to dialysis, watching a movie, and doing the other things that make up my life.

My routine hasn’t changed much.

My connection with my father has.

Since hearing “I’ll think about it,” I’ve had less to say. I’ve been less engaged. I’m trying to live in that space while being honest about what I feel and what I can give.

I Still Believe in Showing Up

I meant what I wrote in my earlier post.

I believe in visiting people in hospitals and skilled nursing facilities. I believe in calling, listening, and making time for people, especially older people who may have fewer opportunities for connection.

I believe God created us to be in community with one another. We need people. We need conversation, care, and the experience of knowing someone remembered us.

I also have limits.

I cannot do all the work of maintaining a relationship. I cannot create mutual care by myself. And I have to be able to sleep at night with the choices I make about who receives my time and energy.

Right now, I am showing up for my mother, listening to what she wants, and working toward her next step. I’m also continuing my recovery, taking care of my health, and figuring out what boundaries I need with my father.

None of that feels particularly tidy.

But it is open and transparent.

I’ve heard how money can divide a family. Experiencing it myself has made me painfully aware of how closely money and control can become connected—and how much damage that can do when someone needs care.

Time is the one resource I know I will never get back. I want to spend mine helping my mother live the life she is asking for, while taking care of the life I’m responsible for, too.

Today, I want my mother to know that I hear her—and that I’m taking her wishes seriously.