A Cooler Afternoon with Mom, a Warmer Conversation, and the Ongoing Battle for Boundaries

Today, I'm sitting outside with Mom at the skilled nursing facility. It's about 20 degrees Fahrenheit cooler out here, which makes a huge difference. We're enjoying the fresh air and talking, and I'm doing what I often do: writing as life unfolds around me.

Our conversation has turned to my father, her husband, and what's going on at home.

Sometimes, the conversations you have with your mother aren't just about her recovery or what happens next. They become conversations about the life she's lived, the relationship she's in, and what's missing.

And today, that's where we are.

Another Round with Dad

Last night, my father and I got into it again.

This time, we argued about the outdoor garbage receptacles.

Yes, the garbage cans.

On Thursday, he asked if I had brought the receptacles in from the curb. I answered: Yes, they had been brought in.

Fast-forward to last night.

He asked me the same question again.

My response was straightforward: "I told you yesterday."

He came back with, "I still don't know if they were brought in."

At that point, I gave him my final answer on the subject:

"You can get up and look."

Apparently, that wasn't the response he wanted.

He then told me we needed to be civil.

My response?

"How am I not being civil?"

I'm not refusing to be civil. I'm refusing to be a servant.

There's a difference.

I'm setting boundaries, and apparently, those boundaries aren't sitting well with him.

Show My Belly? No, Just Do the Right Thing.

The conversation continued.

My father asked what he should do. Did I want him to "show his belly"?

For anyone unfamiliar with that expression, he was referring to making himself submissive to me.

My answer was simple.

"No, I want you to do the right thing and give Mom the money she earned."

That's what this is about.

My mother has spent decades working and earning money. I have Power of Attorney over her assets to help manage her finances and arrange for her care. Yet my father has voluntarily declined to share information about her employer's 401(k).

Meanwhile, I'm touring assisted living facilities, trying to figure out what Mom's next chapter might look like and how to pay for it.

This isn't about me wanting control over my father.

It's about making sure Mom's resources can be identified and used appropriately for her care.

I don't need him to be submissive to me. I need him to cooperate in doing what's right for Mom.

Those are two very different things.

Meanwhile, Back at the House...

There's another part of this situation that I can't ignore.

While all this is happening, the clutter at home keeps growing.

I'm talking about junk food, boxes, papers, old medication, and other things creeping into spaces where they don't belong.

It's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

I'm starting to wonder whether my father is developing hoarding behaviors. I can't diagnose him, and I don't know what's driving the accumulation, but from where I'm standing, the situation is getting out of control.

Things seem to be spreading everywhere.

And before anyone points fingers, let me acknowledge something: I don't live in the tidiest room myself. I'm not going to pretend my personal space belongs in a home organization magazine.

There's a difference, though, between having a messy room and watching clutter accumulate throughout the living space until it becomes a growing concern.

I'm not claiming to have a perfectly organized home. I'm saying that what I'm seeing is becoming a problem.

I'm planning to take some pictures to share in a future post. I want people to understand what I'm talking about, not just read my description and imagine something different.

I'll be mindful to protect personal information in any pictures I share, especially if medication labels or other private details are visible.

The clutter is another layer of stress in an already difficult situation.

I'm trying to help Mom transition to a more suitable living arrangement while navigating a strained relationship with my father. Meanwhile, the house where we both live is becoming increasingly difficult to deal with.

It's a lot.

Sitting Outside with Mom

And that brings me back to where I am today.

I'm outside with Mom, enjoying the cooler weather and talking.

She's telling me about other people at the facility.

She's noticed couples who are working together in therapy. She's seen partners visiting their loved ones. She's watching people show up for one another during a difficult chapter of life.

And I can't help but notice the contrast she's describing.

Her husband hasn't been showing up for her in that way.

At least, that's how she's experiencing it.

He's not there working alongside her in therapy. He's not visiting her or spending time with her the way she sees other partners do for their loved ones.

Instead, I'm the one making the visits, asking questions, touring facilities, and trying to figure out the next steps.

I'm not looking for a medal. I'm her son.

But I can understand why seeing those other couples might bring up some difficult feelings for her.

When recovering from a serious medical event, notice who's there for you. You notice who makes the effort. You notice the people who sit beside you, encourage you, and help you get through the day.

And sometimes, you notice who's missing.

I don't know everything that's happened throughout their 56 years of marriage. I'm not going to pretend that I do.

But I can see what's happening now, and I can hear what Mom has to say.

Boundaries Aren't the Same as Being Uncivil

My father and I are clearly not on the same page.

He wants us to be civil.

I want us to do what's necessary to help Mom.

Those goals shouldn't be incompatible.

We can disagree without being disrespectful. We can have difficult conversations without turning every question into a power struggle. We can work together on practical matters without one person expecting the other to be at their beck and call.

And we can discuss Mom's finances without turning the conversation into a debate about who is submitting to whom.

I'm not asking my father to show his belly.

I'm asking him to help resolve the financial questions standing between Mom and the care she wants.

I'm also trying to establish boundaries around what I'm willing to do, how I'm willing to be treated, and how much energy I can devote to these ongoing conflicts.

I have dialysis. I have my own health to manage. I have recovery meetings, responsibilities, and a life outside the skilled nursing facility.

I cannot spend every day fighting battles that cooperation could resolve.

And I don't want to.

What Happens Next?

For now, I'll keep moving forward.

I'll continue exploring assisted living options for Mom. I'll continue trying to understand her financial resources. I'll continue visiting her and listening to what she has to say.

And I'll continue setting boundaries when conversations with my father become unproductive.

The situation at home is another concern I'll have to address, especially as the clutter continues to spread.

I don't have all the answers.

I don't know how this will ultimately play out.

But sitting outside with Mom today, listening to her talk about the couples she sees working together, has given me something to think about.

Sometimes, support isn't complicated.

It's showing up.

It's sitting beside someone.

It's helping them take the next step, even when that step is difficult.

And sometimes, it's doing the work that needs to be done without expecting applause.

That's what I'm trying to do for Mom.

As for the garbage cans, I think we've established that my father can check them himself.

I'm her son, not his servant.

The Power of Attorney Is Signed: Welcome to My Real-Life Version of The Traitors

Well, we have an update.

If you read my previous post about caring for my mother, money, control, and family boundaries, you know we’ve had some difficult conversations about what happens next.

My mother has made her wishes known. I’ve been working on making sure those wishes are heard and respected.

Now, there’s a new development:

I have a signed South Carolina Power of Attorney.

Yep.

The paperwork is signed.

The next step?

I need to give my father a copy.

And then we see what happens.

Previously, on NielFlamm.com...

In the last episode, my father and I had some very different views about my mother's money and how it should be used for her care.

When I asked about accessing information concerning money she had earned and saved, I heard:

“I’ll think about it.”

Later, I heard:

“Prove it.”

Well, I didn't exactly set out to turn this into a cliffhanger, but here we are.

The Power of Attorney is signed.

Now comes the part where I hand him a copy.

Cue dramatic music.

This Isn't 90 Day Fiancé

I've been trying to figure out exactly what kind of reality show my life has become.

It's definitely not 90 Day Fiancé.

Nobody is getting a rose, so The Bachelor is out.

I'm thinking we're getting closer to a real-life version of The Traitors.

We've got family.

We've got money.

We've got disagreements.

We've got questions about who controls what.

We've got people wondering what someone else will do next.

And we've got me standing in the middle of it thinking:

How did I get cast in this show?

Unfortunately, unlike reality television, nobody yells “CUT!” and sends everyone back to their trailers.

This is real life.

What Happens Next?

That's the interesting part.

I don't know.

I'm going to give my father Power of Attorney and see what happens next.

Maybe the document changes the conversation.

Maybe it doesn't.

Let’s move forward with figuring out my mother's finances and how her resources can support the care she wants.

Maybe we're headed for another episode.

Whatever happens, my objective remains the same: listen to my mother and advocate for what she wants.

The Power of Attorney isn't the finish line. It's another step in a much bigger process.

Stay Tuned

So that's today's update.

South Carolina Power of Attorney: signed.

Copy for Dad: next.

Dad's reaction: TBD.

And apparently, that's my teaser for the next episode.

Keep coming back to NielFlamm.com/blog because I have a feeling this story isn't finished.

Forget 90 Day Fiancé.

Forget The Bachelor.

Welcome to my real-life version of The Traitors.

Except there's no cash prize at the end.

Just family, paperwork, boundaries, and hopefully doing what's best for Mom.

Stay tuned.

My Mother Is a Horrible Patient

My mother is a horrible patient. The irony of the word “patient” is not lost on me.

When I was in the hospital, I hardly used the call button. Yesterday, during the roughly three hours I spent visiting my mother, she used hers four times. Clearly, we have different approaches to that button.

Today, I tried to explain that she’s in a facility where everyone needs help, and more people need assistance than there are people available to provide it.

She told me she needed help right away.

I pointed out that everyone asking for help probably feels they need it right away, too. Staff has to work through those requests. She needs to have some patience.

Now, I’m not suggesting she shouldn’t ask for help when she needs it. That’s what the button is for. But needing assistance and expecting someone to appear immediately are two different things. That was the point I was trying to make.

Apparently, a different message arrived.

When we got to her room, her roommate asked how she was doing.

My mother replied, “My son said I’m a bitch.”

“What??? I didn’t say that.”

There’s quite a distance between “You need to have more patience” and what she told her roommate. Somehow, my mother covered it in record time.

I explained to her roommate that I had said she needed to be more patient because she was in a place where everyone required help. That was the conversation. No name-calling. No insult.

My mother has always had a tendency to tell stories that, from where I’m standing, aren’t based on the facts. This time, I was right there to hear myself become the villain in a conversation I’d actually participated in.

I understand that needing help is frustrating. Waiting when you’re uncomfortable can feel endless. I can sympathize with that and still wish she’d recognize that the people helping her are also helping everyone else.

And I’d appreciate it if, when quoting me, she used something I actually said.

I went there trying to explain patience to my mother. By the time we reached her room, I was getting a lesson in how much of it I still needed.