Caring for My Mother Without Running the Show

Yesterday, during meditation, I felt a conscious contact with a Power Greater than myself. I felt grounded and right-sized.

Then, before a conversation with another alcoholic, a few questions came up.

Are my motives pure when it comes to my mother? Am I doing God’s will?

Without a doubt, I want my mother to have the best experiences she can with whatever time she has here on Earth before moving on to the next dimension. I want her to have care, comfort, choices, and things to look forward to.

That part is clear to me.

But another question followed: Am I trying to exert my own will? Am I taking control? Is my ego involved?

Apparently, my ego also attended the meditation and hoped nobody would take attendance.

After prayer and discussion, I could acknowledge it: I am trying to run the show.

That is uncomfortable to admit, especially after writing so openly about my frustrations with my father. But if I’m willing to share my anger, I need to be willing to share my self-reflection, too.

I can deeply love my mother and still get caught up in wanting everything done my way. I can have good intentions and become attached to being the person who makes the decisions.

My concern for her is real. So is my responsibility to examine how I act on that concern.

I’ve written about money and control, and how I’ve experienced my father’s responses. Now I need to look at my own desire for control.

Whether my father is trying to run the show, appease his ego, or act from some other motive is not mine to judge. I don’t know everything going on inside him.

I am responsible for my actions.

That gives me plenty to work on without taking on a second job managing his spiritual condition.

For the moment, I’m going to relent. I’m going to loosen my grip on how this has to happen.

My mother has expressed that she wants assisted living. After that, the plan is Thailand with me for the 6+6. As long as her care and those plans are being funded, who manages the finances or makes the payments does not need to be the thing I fight over.

The resources need to be there. The bills need to be paid. My mother’s wishes need to remain part of the decisions about her life.

I can do my part: show up, listen, help with arrangements, ask questions, and follow through on my responsibilities.

Then I need to let God control the result.

I would love to report that I have mastered this and will never mentally grab the steering wheel again. Unfortunately, I know the driver.

This will take practice. More prayer. More honest conversations. More willingness to pause when I start confusing helping with directing every detail.

My boundaries with my father remain.

I have identified what I will accept in that relationship and what I won’t tolerate. Letting go of an outcome doesn’t erase those boundaries. I am still responsible for how I participate, what I agree to, and when I need to step back.

I won’t let fear of people or economic insecurity make those decisions for me. When fear shows up, I can bring it into prayer and talk about it honestly instead of giving it control over my behavior.

Today, I feel clearer about where my work is.

I love my mother. I want to help her have a life she enjoys. I can act with care and hold my boundaries while leaving room for things to happen without my direction.

I’ll do my part—and keep practicing the part where I let go.

Coffee Chats with Donna: I Should Have Brought a Notebook

Today’s coffee delivery was a small Dutch Bros Americano with vanilla and cream.

And I have an update: my friend has a name.

Donna Woods.

She’s the woman I’ve been getting to know while visiting my mother at the skilled nursing facility. Our previous conversations have covered burgers, sweet tea, prosthetics, and enough pets to require a separate address book.

Today, the conversation continued. My ability to keep up did not.

I learned that her husband was a trash collector and later built a Toys “R” Us. Before I could get all the details, we had moved on to pecan ice cream, a strawberry shake, coffee and donuts, and Pensacola, Florida.

I believe that was the order. There may have been a connecting flight I missed.

I was still mentally standing in Toys “R” Us while Donna was already ordering dessert.

She had to be talking 200 words a minute. That’s my unofficial estimate. I didn’t have the equipment—or the processing speed—to verify it.

But I was enjoying myself.

I’m learning that I don’t need to capture every detail to enjoy a conversation with Donna. I can listen, follow what I can, and accept that I may leave with questions about how we got from trash collection to a strawberry shake.

Then Donna had things to do.

The 11 a.m. Coffee Chats were coming up, and she was rounding up people. She was meeting new residents, saying hello to nurses, and making sure people knew there was somewhere to go and someone to talk to.

I don’t know whether she has an official role in organizing any of this. From what I saw, she wasn’t waiting for a title.

Donna was working the room.

Watching her, I got to see another side of the friend I’ve been writing about. I’ve talked about the importance of stopping to listen and making time for people. Today, I watched Donna doing her own version of showing up: greeting people, introducing herself, and inviting them into a conversation.

She had a full social schedule, and she appeared ready to help everyone else acquire one.

I came into the facility because my mother is there. Along the way, I’ve found myself looking forward to these conversations, too. Each visit, I learn a little more about Donna—and see a little more of the community around Mom.

Today, that community included an enthusiastic recruiter and an 11 a.m. coffee appointment.

Next time, I may bring a notebook.

Although at Donna’s pace, I should probably learn shorthand first.

Meditation, a Whopper, and Four Words of Wisdom: Make Good Choices

Tonight, I went to a meditation meeting.

It’s a new meeting, and this was my first time attending. I’d heard awesome things about it; I knew the person guiding the group, and after the last few months—and especially the last week—I figured, why not?

I could probably use a little more conscious contact with the Spirit in the Fourth Dimension to help me be of maximum use to all humanity.

Apparently, immediately afterward, humanity was waiting for me at Burger King.

The meeting ended at 8:00 p.m., which was already way past dinner for me. I hadn’t eaten lunch either.

Correction.

I had half of a King Size Kit Kat bar for lunch.

So, nutritionally speaking, I was thriving.

I was going to make my usual Harris Teeter stop, but then I saw Burger King.

The King was calling.

I safely crossed two lanes of traffic to make the left because, at that particular moment, I wanted to have it my way.

I ordered a Whopper Jr., fries, and—of course—a Coke Zero. I also ordered a Rodeo Burger because I love the onion rings and BBQ sauce combo.

I was sitting there waiting for my food when I heard someone yelling.

I looked ahead, and this dude was waving his hands, obviously trying to get my attention.

I don’t remember everything he said before this, but I definitely heard:

“I just got out of the pen, and I’m hungry.”

I assumed by “the pen,” he meant prison.

Well.

Welcome back to society. Apparently, I was his Burger King ambassador.

The timing was also interesting.

I had recently talked with Sam Taylor (https://www.facebook.com/sam.peralta.18041), someone I previously led on a Learning & Development team, about my dating adventures—including the woman who wanted help paying her rent and then, after one date, her phone bill.

Sam and I talked about something we both tend to do: we don’t typically hand people money, but we’re willing to buy something they need.

That has generally been one of my boundaries.

I’ve also had a roommate who frequently said:

“I’m one paycheck from being homeless.”

I’ve never forgotten that.

I get it.

Part of my recovery is trying to be useful to other people while still maintaining boundaries.

So I told the guy I’d buy him something to eat.

I got my meal and tried to get the attention of the Burger King drive-thru dudes, who, by the way, were really nice.

I asked if I could order another meal.

Nope.

Apparently, once I reached the window, the sacred Burger King ordering process couldn't be disturbed.

I had to drive around again.

That seemed ridiculous.

But okay.

I asked the guy what he wanted to drink.

“Sprite.”

I told him:

“Don’t move. I have to drive around again.”

He started thanking me and told me he had a gift for me.

I immediately said:

“It’s all good, sir. No gift.”

Meanwhile, inside my head, several possibilities were being considered as to exactly what kind of “gift” a guy who had just gotten out of the pen might be planning to give me.

I decided I was good.

No gift necessary.

I drove around Burger King again, ordered him a Whopper meal with a Sprite, paid, got the food, and pulled forward to hand it to him.

He thanked me and told me he would “pay me back on the back end.”

I’m pretty sure I’m never going to see this guy again.

And that’s okay.

I didn’t buy him dinner because I expected him to pay me back.

Before I drove away, I left him with four words:

“Make good choices.”

He looked at me and said:

“Those are some words of wisdom. Make good choices.”

I wished him luck and drove away.

Then I ate my fries.

For me, that was the unexpected lesson at the end of tonight’s meditation.

I didn’t solve someone’s life. I didn’t give away everything I had. I didn’t abandon my boundaries.

I just bought a hungry stranger a Whopper and a Sprite.

I don’t know if he’ll remember the meal or those four words. I don’t know what happens next in his life.

I only know that tonight, he wasn’t hungry.

And tonight, I received another reminder that being of service doesn’t always happen where I expect it.

Sometimes I find the Spirit in the Fourth Dimension through meditation.

And sometimes...

I find it in the Burger King drive-thru.

I had it my way.

And hopefully, both of us will make good choices.

Touring Assisted Living: I Have Questions—and I’d Like to See the Menu

I’ve been scheduling visits to assisted living facilities for my mother. After two strokes and her current stay in skilled nursing, I want to help her find somewhere she feels comfortable, supported, and happy to live.

There’s a lot to ask about. A nice lobby is lovely, but my mother won’t be living next to the decorative vase by the front door.

I want to know what daily life actually looks like.

Who is available when she needs help, including overnight? How do they support her mobility and help with everyday tasks? How are medications handled? What happens if her needs change?

I also want a clear explanation of the cost. What’s included in the monthly price, and what costs extra? I’d prefer to discover the additional charges before they become a recurring surprise.

I’m also asking about activities, transportation, visitors, and how residents spend their time. Can Mom make choices about her day? Who do I contact with a concern, and how do they communicate with families?

And as I walk around, I want to pay attention to how people interact. Are staff members taking time to listen? Do residents seem comfortable asking for things? I want to picture my mother actually living there.

Then we get to the most important item on my personal tour agenda.

The food.

Yes, I have questions about staffing and care. I also have questions about the chicken.

I’d Like to Schedule a Tasting

My mother says she’s a picky eater.

Her reviews of the food at the hospitals and now the facility support that. The current place was supposed to have good food, according to the Google reviews.

Mom has apparently declined to join the consensus.

Somewhere, a glowing review of a meal is waiting for my mother to discuss with the author.

So I had a thought: people do tastings before weddings. Why wouldn’t I ask to taste the food before helping Mom choose somewhere she’ll eat every day?

A wedding dinner is one meal. This is a much longer commitment to somebody’s mashed potatoes.

As I schedule these visits, I’ve been asking whether they can have food available for me to try—and something I can take back to Mom.

I can look at the room, ask about the services, and review the costs. But I’m not volunteering to approve six months of lunches on her behalf without bringing her a sample.

I have enough responsibilities. Becoming the defendant in Mom v. The Meatloaf does not need to be another one.

Please Don’t Make Anything Special

One place asked whether there was something special they should make.

I appreciate the offer. But I’m not asking for Hell’s Kitchen. Nobody needs to summon Gordon Ramsay or explain the emotional journey behind a carrot.

I told one place: let me know what’s on the menu. If there’s a choice, I’ll choose from that. Please don’t do anything different.

I want the true experience.

If Tuesday lunch is turkey, rice, and green beans, that’s what I want to try. I want to know what Mom can expect on an ordinary day, after the tour is over and the welcome folder has been put away.

A special meal made just for my visit wouldn’t answer that question.

I’m also interested in what happens when she doesn’t like the scheduled meal. Are there alternatives? Can she choose something simple? How much flexibility is there?

Because “she’ll eat it when she gets hungry” is not a dining plan I’m looking to purchase.

Mom Gets a Vote—and a Fork

Plenty about this process feels serious, expensive, and emotionally exhausting. Food gives us something concrete to talk about—and, hopefully, something to laugh about.

It also matters to Mom. She’s told me that clearly, and I’m listening.

She’s already dealing with a lot of change. I want her to have meals she looks forward to, choices she feels good about, and a place at the table where she feels comfortable.

I’m not expecting every dish to become her new favorite. I would, however, like lunch to have a fighting chance.

So I’ll keep scheduling visits, asking questions, and looking closely at what each facility offers.

And I’ll be asking for a sample.

The brochure can tell me about the dining experience. Mom can tell me about the potatoes.

More Than a Visit: Prosthetics, Pets, and Another Conversation

This morning, on my way to see my mom in the facility gym, I passed my friend—the woman who had already given me the rundown on burgers and sweet tea.

Today, I got to learn a little more.

She told me her son had a toe amputated in 2022 and is on his fourth prosthetic. I’m on my fourth, too. His socket has a dragon on it. Mine has a New York Yankees logo.

Different approaches to intimidation.

When I first stopped to talk with her, I couldn’t have guessed we would eventually find that connection. But that’s what I’m enjoying about these conversations: I keep learning something I didn’t know about the person in front of me.

There was also a chocolate Lab named Maverick in one of the business offices. I don’t know his official job title, but I’m comfortable assuming he’s in management.

That led to learning about the cats and dogs my friend has had over the years. There were enough that I can’t remember them all for this post. I would have needed a notebook, a family tree, and possibly Maverick’s administrative assistance.

Yesterday, I wrote about making time to visit and listen. This morning, I got to continue the conversation.

I’m starting to know this woman beyond the fact that we happen to be in the same room. I know where she likes her sweet tea. I know a little about her son. I know we have something in common that I never would have discovered by simply saying hello and walking past.

And now I know she has a lifetime of pet stories.

My mother’s recovery is what brings me into that facility. Along the way, I’m getting to know other people whose lives are unfolding there, too.

I don’t remember every detail. Thankfully, I don’t think friendship comes with a quiz.

But I’m glad I stopped. I’m glad she had more to tell me. And the woman I first described as another resident is now someone I call my friend.