Breaking Out, Losing Track of Days, and the Importance of Showing Up: Another Visit with Mom

This morning was already shaping up to be busy.

I got the car washed, ran an errand, and was preparing to head to Bluffton, South Carolina, to pick up a nephew so we could see the new Godzilla movie.

But before all of that, I had one more stop to make.

Mom.

Was Mom Trying to Escape?

As I walked into the skilled nursing facility, I spotted Mom rolling toward the entrance/exit.

My first thought?

Was she trying to escape?

I couldn't really blame her.

When I was in a skilled nursing facility back in June 2023, I wanted out as quickly as possible. I couldn't leave fast enough. There's something about being in an institutional environment, having other people control your schedule, and depending on someone else for things you once did independently that can make you want to head for the nearest exit.

So perhaps Mom and I have something in common.

When I got to her, she mentioned that I hadn't been there for a week.

Well, that's interesting!

I had actually seen her on Tuesday after dialysis.

Apparently, the days are starting to run together for her.

And I can understand how that happens.

A Few Supplies for Mom

I didn't arrive empty-handed.

I brought her a few things to keep her occupied and comfortable:

• Some magazines to read.

• Three tubes of Pringles.

• Bars of Ivory soap.

Yes, Ivory soap again!

Apparently, that's an important item on Mom's shopping list. When Mom requests something specific, I try to deliver.

After we talked for a bit, I took her outside so we could enjoy some fresh air.

We got her situated, and about five minutes later, a physical therapist appeared.

It was time for her physical therapy session.

The Hardest Working Woman Here

The physical therapist said something that caught my attention.

He described Mom as:

"The hardest working woman here."

He was excited to work with her.

That's encouraging to hear.

After everything she's been through, it's important to see her keep putting effort into rehabilitation.

Her recovery hasn't been easy, and there are still challenges with her mobility. But having someone on the rehabilitation team recognize her effort is encouraging.

It also brought back some memories of my own rehabilitation.

When I Didn't Want to Do the Work

I remember being in a skilled nursing facility myself.

Some days, I didn't particularly want to work toward a goal. In fact, I remember one day when I outright refused to participate in physical therapy.

Why?

I had developed a resentment toward the facility.

I wasn't happy with the circumstances, and that frustration carried over into my willingness to participate.

Looking back, that didn't do me any good.

The facility might not have been where I wanted to be, but refusing to work toward my recovery only hurt me.

Eventually, I had to recognize that the work I was doing wasn't for the facility, the therapists, or anyone else.

It was for me.

That's something I can relate to when I watch Mom working through her own rehabilitation.

She may not want to be there. She may want to roll toward the exit. She may have complaints about the food, the schedule, or just about everything else.

But the physical therapy is an investment in herself.

And hearing that she's working hard makes me happy.

I'll Be Back Tomorrow

Before leaving, I told Mom I'd be back tomorrow, Sunday.

It's easy to lose track of days in a place like this.

The routine becomes repetitive. Meals, medication, therapy, visitors, and waiting for the next activity. Before you know it, Tuesday feels like yesterday, and Sunday feels like another Tuesday.

I can imagine how difficult that must be.

That's one reason I try to keep visiting and letting her know when I'll be back.

Sometimes it's not about bringing something, fixing something, or having a major conversation.

Sometimes it's simply showing up.

Today, I brought magazines, Pringles, and Ivory soap. We got outside for a little while. She had physical therapy, and I heard she's working hard.

Then I headed off to Bluffton for my next adventure: a nephew, a movie, and Godzilla.

Life continues outside those facility walls.

And tomorrow, I'll be back.

Keep working, Mom. That physical therapist is excited to work with you, and I'm cheering you on, too.

A Resolution with Dad: Moving Forward with Mom’s Assisted Living Plans

Sometimes, after weeks or even months of frustration, disagreements, and conversations that seem to go nowhere, I finally get a little progress.

I'm not ready to declare victory, throw confetti, or announce that everyone is suddenly getting along. But we've reached a resolution, at least for the time being, regarding Mom's finances and her next chapter.

And that's something.

A Text Message on the Drive Home

While returning from my Cozumel cruise, I received a text message from my father.

He wanted to know where I'd been. Apparently, I also had some packages waiting for me at the house.

That started a conversation.

I was driving from Columbia, South Carolina, back to Mount Pleasant and using Android Auto to manage the text conversation. As sometimes happens, a simple exchange about packages turned into something considerably more important.

We started talking about Mom.

Specifically, what comes next with her move into an assisted living facility.

If you've been following along with my blog, you know this hasn't exactly been a smooth process.

There have been disagreements, frustration, questions about finances, conversations about Power of Attorney, and my father's reluctance to provide information about Mom's employer 401(k).

I've written about the challenges of visiting Mom in skilled nursing, touring assisted living facilities, and trying to balance her needs with the financial realities of making a move.

If you're just joining the story, you have some reading to do!

But this conversation was different.

We actually made some progress.

We've Reached a Resolution, For Now

The current plan is to establish a trust with funds designated exclusively for Mom's care.

That's important to me.

I've reiterated that I don't want the money for personal use. I'm not looking to benefit financially from any of this.

The money is intended for Mom.

That includes:

• Housing and assisted living expenses.

• Furniture and furnishings for her new living space.

• Medical expenses and related needs.

• Other expenses directly associated with her care and well-being.

The objective is to make sure the resources are available for the person who earned them and needs them.

We have an appointment next Thursday to open the account and move this process forward.

Is everything resolved? No.

Is this the final chapter of the financial discussions? Probably not.

But we've moved from arguing about what should happen to taking a step toward making it happen.

I'll take that progress.

The Next Step: Making Sure Mom Has What She Needs

One of the things I've been trying to accomplish throughout this process is making sure Mom has the resources to live somewhere appropriate.

Assisted living isn't inexpensive. There are monthly costs, potential additional services, furniture, personal items, and medical-related expenses to consider.

I want to make sure we're planning for all of that.

I also want to be clear that this isn't about controlling someone else's money for my benefit. It's about making sure Mom's money is used for Mom.

We've spent enough time going back and forth. Now it's time to put some structure around the finances and start moving forward.

Next Thursday's appointment is an important step.

A Little Time with Mom

I saw Mom on Tuesday after dialysis.

Today, Wednesday, I went to dialysis again, but I didn't make it over to see her.

It was one of those back-to-back days that can be particularly rough. Between the treatment, the time involved, and everything else going on, sometimes I need to recognize that I can't do everything every day.

I plan to see her Saturday.

And I have something for her.

Ivory soap.

Yes, Ivory soap.

It's what she requested, so that's what I'm bringing.

After all the conversations about assisted living, finances, furniture, medical needs, and where she's going to live next, sometimes it's the little things that matter.

Mom wants her soap. Mom gets her soap.

It's a small thing, but it's one more way of showing up.

One Step Forward

I wouldn't describe my relationship with my father as suddenly repaired. There are still plenty of things that need to be worked through.

But for now, we've reached an agreement on how to move forward with Mom's finances.

That's progress.

I've spent considerable time advocating for Mom, researching facilities, touring locations, asking questions, and trying to figure out how to make this next chapter work.

It's been exhausting at times.

There have been days when I've needed to step away, days when I've been frustrated, and days when I wondered whether we'd ever get anywhere.

Now we have an appointment on the calendar.

Next Thursday, we'll take another step.

In the meantime, I'll continue doing what I can, taking care of my own health, keeping up with dialysis, and visiting Mom.

And Saturday, I'll be delivering a very important package.

Ivory soap.

Sometimes moving forward doesn't require a major announcement. Sometimes it's an appointment, an agreement, and a bar of soap.

I'll keep you posted on what happens next.

From Carrying Groceries Home to Fighting for Independence: Watching Mom Change

I'm at the skilled nursing facility, spending a bit of time with Mom. We're outside right now, enjoying some fresh air and talking.

This morning reinforced a decision I made a long time ago: I was right not to pursue a career in healthcare. I don't think I have the personality for it.

And that's not a criticism of people who work in healthcare. Quite the opposite. Watching what the CNAs, nurses, and physical therapists do has given me a greater appreciation for the patience required to do their jobs.

Because it’s an easy patient.

She's difficult. She's demanding. And when she wants something, she makes sure everyone knows it.

I'm pretty much the opposite.

"I Want"

While talking with Mom, I noticed how often she uses those two words: "I want."

She wants to get out of the day room. She doesn't want to spend her time sitting there. She wants to go to the physical therapy gym.

I understand it.

The day room sounds like a prison to her. She's in a facility where other people have schedules, where she depends on staff to help her move around, and where she can't simply get up and do whatever she wants whenever she wants.

And when you think about it, that's a significant loss of independence.

I want things, too. We all do. The difference is that I'm generally more inclined to work around circumstances rather than keep pushing until I get what I want.

Mom has a different approach.

Sometimes I get frustrated with her demands. Then I have to remind myself that she's the one living there. She has to spend her days in that environment. What feels like another complaint to me might represent something much bigger to her.

That doesn't mean we can meet every demand immediately. The staff has other patients to care for, and practical limitations limit what can happen.

But I can understand why Mom wants more control over her day.

The Woman I Remember

What's particularly difficult is remembering the woman Mom used to be.

I remember seeing her carry groceries from Post Avenue in Westbury, New York, to our house. It was only three or four blocks, but she made that trip with the groceries she had purchased for our family.

That was the Mom I knew.

She went out, did what needed to be done, and brought the groceries home.

Today, she's in a skilled nursing facility. Her mobility is limited; she needs help, and she wants to get to the physical therapy gym to get stronger.

It's sad to see that change.

I'm not suggesting that the woman I remember has disappeared. She's still Mom. She still has opinions, preferences, and a very clear idea of what she wants.

But the circumstances of her life have changed dramatically.

The woman who once carried groceries home now has to depend on other people to help her get where she wants to go.

And I imagine that's frustrating for her in ways I can't fully appreciate.

A New Appreciation for Healthcare Workers

This is also why I know I made the right decision not to pursue a healthcare career.

I can help Mom. I can visit, advocate for her, ask questions, and try to help her figure out the next chapter of her life.

But can I handle the demands of patient care all day, every day? That's a different story.

Healthcare workers have to balance compassion with practical realities. They need patience, resilience, and the ability to deal with people who may be frightened, frustrated, demanding, or simply unhappy with their circumstances.

I don't think I could do that job well enough to make it my career.

I have limits, and recognizing them matters.

It also makes me appreciate the people who show up and do this work every day.

What Comes Next?

Mom wants to leave the skilled nursing facility and move into assisted living. I'm continuing to explore options and figure out what might work for her.

But beneath all the complaints about the day room, the food, and getting to physical therapy, I want to see past something.

Mom wants to’.

Mom wants to have some control over her life again.

I want things, too. I want her to be safe. I want her to have the opportunity to regain as much independence as possible. And I want to help her find a living situation where she can have a better quality of life.

Those goals don't always align with what she wants in the moment, and there will undoubtedly be harder conversations.

For now, we're outside together.

I'm listening, thinking, and writing.

And I'm remembering those trips from the grocery store on Post Avenue to our house in Westbury.

Life can change in ways none of us anticipate. Sometimes the hardest part isn't figuring out what to do next. It's accepting how much has changed while still trying to help someone move forward.

That's where I am today: sitting outside with Mom, remembering who she was, seeing who she is now, and hoping for what's possible next.

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.

What I Can See, What I Can’t Control

I’ve written before about the struggle with my mother and her second stroke, about setting boundaries with my father, and most recently about the way his home is becoming more cluttered. I want to share what I’ve been noticing—and what I’m learning to do with it.

I’m an alcoholic in recovery. I’ve been sober for 17 years. I believe I’ve always had an addictive mind. Alcohol was my main way of dealing with life—or avoiding it—but food, television, and other things could take hold, too. At one point, I weighed at least 350 pounds. I say “at least” because that’s where the scale stopped.

I understand that alcoholism is a disease, and that genetics can play a part. We inherit genes from both parents. But recovery has also taught me not to point fingers or label someone else. Only a person can identify their own addiction. I can speak about my experience and notice similarities, but I can’t diagnose my father.

For a long time, I’ve noticed that he holds on to things “just in case.” There are expired medications, papers stacked near his computer that never seem to get looked at, and old mail. Lately, I’ve also noticed more processed food coming into the house through Amazon.

When my mother was living at home, she wouldn’t have bought this much junk food. Without her there, my father’s choices seem to be changing. I’m not going to police what he buys or try to manage his home.

This morning, I took a picture of the first floor—the kitchen and the TV area. It was never a Better Homes & Gardens photo, but it used to be tidier and stocked with healthier options. Seeing the difference was hard.

Still, noticing something doesn’t mean I can control it. I’ve set my boundary. My father’s choices are his to make, and my recovery and well-being are mine to protect.

It is what it is. I can care, be honest about what I see, and let go of what isn’t mine to manage.