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.

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.

I Brought the Coffee. They Brought the Conversation.

As I’ve shared, my mother has had two strokes in three months. She’s now in a skilled nursing facility, with the goal of getting to assisted living and eventually becoming mobile enough to get to Thailand.

One step at a time. Literally.

Before heading to an afternoon recovery meeting, I stopped by and found her eating lunch in the day and activity room with several other residents.

I brought her Dunkin’ coffee because the world runs on it, and medical facility coffee usually makes me question whether running is still an option.

While I was there, I found myself thinking about my old call center training days.

In a previous life, I would role-play phone calls with my classes. I played the aggressive caller, the caller with an accent, the soft-spoken caller, and the caller who was older than me.

For that last role, I would talk. And talk. And talk. And talk.

I could turn a simple account question into a scenic tour with absolutely no estimated arrival time.

But I did it for a reason. I wanted my classes to understand that a phone call might be about more than whatever appeared on their computer screen. For someone who didn’t get many visitors or have many people to talk to, that call could be a welcome chance to connect.

I wanted them to hear the person, even when the conversation took the long way around.

Today, I was reminded of that lesson.

I met a woman who told me she had lived in Pensacola, Florida. I learned that her favorite burger was from McDonald’s and that the best sweet tea came from Bojangles. And that was just part of the conversation.

I arrived with coffee and left with restaurant recommendations. A productive visit by any reasonable standard.

I don’t know how often she gets visitors. I don’t know whether she had already shared those stories that morning or had been waiting for someone to tell.

I just know she wanted to talk, and I had the chance to listen.

It made me think about how often I can get caught up in the purpose of a visit—the updates, the next steps, the things that need to get done—and forget to leave room for an ordinary conversation.

My mother’s recovery has plenty of goals attached to it right now. Skilled nursing. Assisted living. Mobility. Thailand.

But there’s also today. Lunch in the activity room. A decent cup of coffee. A conversation about burgers and sweet tea.

I’m sharing this as a reminder to myself as much as anyone else: if I have time to scroll through my phone, I probably have time to use it to call someone.

And if there’s someone older in your life, I hope you’ll make that call or stop by for a visit, too.

I don’t need a perfect thing to say. I can bring some coffee, pull up a chair, and listen.

Apparently, I can also plan my next meal.

When Guilt Feels Real: Recovery, Delusion, and Making Amends

The Down a Hole podcast is back.

In this episode, Fish and I explore a complicated question: If someone feels guilt over events experienced during psychosis—even when those events never actually happened—does making amends still have a place in recovery?

We discuss sobriety, mental health, accountability, vulnerability, and the importance of seeking guidance instead of facing difficult thoughts alone.

Watch the full podcast at NielFlamm.com/blog.

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.