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 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.

When Caring for Mom Becomes a Battle of Wills

When I'm sitting here writing posts for the blog, I often keep the Facebook Reels open in the background. Sometimes it's entertainment. Sometimes it's noise. And every once in a while, I come across something that hits surprisingly close to home.

Tonight, it was this Reel:

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1Gg6CPpZ9D/

As I watched it, I thought, I'm experiencing something similar.

I've written before about my mother and her time in a skilled nursing facility. I've also mentioned that she wants to move into an assisted living facility.

After 56 years, she's had enough and wants some time away.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking about a different kind of change in my own life. My plan is what I call 6+6 — part of the year in the United States and part of the year in Thailand.

But before any of that happens, there are much more immediate decisions to make.

Assisted Living Isn't Free

Assisted living facilities cost money.

A bunch of money, I anticipate.

This week, I'm touring two assisted living facilities. I want to see what's available, understand what they provide, ask questions, and, of course, find out what everything actually costs.

Then comes the question of how to pay.

That's where things get complicated.

I have Power of Attorney over my mother's assets, which allows me to handle her financial matters and use her assets to pay for her care.

There's one problem.

My father has voluntarily declined to provide me with information about my mother's employer 401(k).

And that has created what may become a battle of wills.

Living Under the Same Roof Without Talking

I haven't spoken to my father in more than a week. It might be closer to a week and a half now.

Here's what makes the situation even stranger:

I still live in the house my parents both own.

My room is on the second floor.

Yet I haven't spent much time at home lately.

There has been dialysis. There have been visits with Mom. There have been recovery meetings. And I've been trying to find some fun somewhere in between it all.

Today was the exception.

Today, as I wrote in another post, my body essentially told me that I wasn't getting out of bed.

So I didn't.

I spent the day upstairs.

There is something sad about being in the same house as someone and having that much distance between us.

The Last Holdout

The entire situation is sad.

From my perspective, my father has gradually alienated the nuclear family.

For a long time, I was the last holdout.

I kept trying.

Now I'm reaching a point where my primary concern isn't winning an argument or proving who is right.

It's figuring out what happens next for Mom.

She has said what she wants.

I have two assisted living facilities to tour this week.

I need to understand the costs.

I need to understand the resources available to pay those costs.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this is a 401(k) that I still don't have information about.

So that's where this story stands tonight.

Mom wants assisted living.

I'm preparing to tour the facilities.

I'm thinking about my own eventual 6+6 life between the United States and Thailand.

My father and I aren't speaking.

And we're still living under the same roof.

Families can be complicated.

Money can make them even more complicated.

Add aging parents, caregiving, decades of marriage, Power of Attorney, retirement accounts, and decisions about where someone wants to live, and suddenly life starts producing storylines that even the Facebook Reels would have trouble making up.

Follow along to find out what happens next.

I have a feeling this chapter isn't finished.

Some Days Moving Forward Means Staying Still

In a previous post, I wrote about visiting my mother in the skilled nursing facility—spending time with her, seeing what her days are like there, and trying to navigate everything that comes with figuring out what happens next.

Today, I was supposed to visit again.

My body had other plans.

Today my body said, “I'm not getting out of bed.”

And I listened.

I didn't finally get out of bed until about 5:30 p.m. Eastern Time.

I was awake earlier in the day, and once I realized I wasn't going to make it, I messaged the family group text. I let everyone know I wouldn't be there and asked if the brother who was in the area could let Mom know.

They were there hanging out with her, so she wasn't alone.

Still, I felt like I was missing something.

I didn't get to hear from Donna Woods today—or try to keep up with Donna Woods. That's become part of these visits, too. There are the people I originally go there to see, and then there are the people I meet along the way who somehow become part of the story.

And that little community around Mom may be changing this week.

Her current roommate, Jenny, might be leaving tomorrow. If she does, Mom may be getting a new roommate.

Donna Woods may be leaving on Tuesday.

It's strange how quickly these temporary communities form. People enter a skilled nursing facility because something happened in their lives. They become roommates. They sit in the same hallways. They eat meals together. Families begin recognizing one another. Personalities emerge. Stories get shared.

Then someone gets better.

Someone moves.

Someone goes home.

Someone new arrives.

And the little world rearranges itself again.

Maybe that's part of what I've been watching while visiting Mom: life continuing to move even when, from the outside, it can look like everyone is standing still.

Today, I was the one standing still.

I always feel some guilt when I don't make it to see Mom. I want to show up. I want to be involved. I want to keep things moving forward.

But sometimes my body gets a vote, too.

Today it apparently had veto power.

So I stayed in bed.

Tomorrow begins another week, and it's time to push ahead again.

On Tuesday, I'm touring an assisted living facility as we continue exploring what the next chapter might look like for Mom.

The timing feels especially interesting now.

Jenny may be leaving.

Donna Woods may be leaving.

Mom may have a new roommate.

And I'm going to walk through a completely different place and try to imagine whether it could eventually become Mom's next home.

I’m not sure this facility is the right one. I don't know what Tuesday will bring. There are still questions to ask, things to see, decisions to make, and probably a few surprises nobody has thought about yet.

But that's where things are today.

Yesterday's plans change.

Roommates come and go.

People recover and move on.

Some days I visit Mom.

Some days my body tells me I'm staying in bed until 5:30 p.m.

And then another week begins.

So I get up, push ahead, and take the next step.