The Liar

     About a week ago, my brother asked me to find my Mom a room in an Alzheimer's facility near me.  When he asked me, he said pointedly, as though it was a sales pitch, "I know it's something that you wanted".  Also, he said, he thought it would be better for her to be near me since we have a "better dynamic".  He wasn't being altruistic.  The truth is that he doesn't want the responsibility of being "the go-to" person any longer. 
 
     Getting back to the present, there is a wonderful place a couple of miles away.  I know this because I spent quite some time in the fall of 2010 visiting the facility and researching their Virginia Department of Social Services inspection records with the hopes of having my Mom and Sam move down here.  They didn't come.

     There is a long dramatic back story surrounding that outcome which I prefer not to share.  The importance of the back story is that it left me feeling very angry at my brother at the time.  I'm still angry because I haven't told him.  The last time I started to talk about it he shut me down.

     Unfortunately, they don't have any room now, but my mother is now first on their waiting list.  The manager there suggested an interim plan - to relocate my mother to their "sister" facility in Herndon, Virginia, which is at least an hour's drive from my home.  At first I had been excited about this option, and not only embraced it, but was ready to proceed and get the process going.  However, I changed my mind.  I'm very nervous about telling my brother that Mom is going to need to stay in the Memory Unit in Manhattan for an indefinite period of time.  


     This is the letter I wrote that I probably won't send to my brother.  I have not used names in this version of the letter to protect the innocent and the guilty.

Dear Brother,

     After some further thought, I have some serious concerns about relocating Mom to Herndon to wait for an opening at Potomac Place.  My first concern:  How would Mom react to being uprooted twice - first to Herndon, and then hopefully, to Potomac Place.  Since one move is traumatic, what would be the effect of two?  My second concern:  Believe it or not, I always tend to look on the bright side of things, and armed with my enthusiasj and eagerness, I sometimes agree to something that isn't in my best interest.  I was overly optimistic about the ease with which I will be able to visit her at Herndon.  It's really quite a hike , and involves travel on some high-volume highways.  I drive into the District to see Dr. B. Monday through Thursday mornings, and then I frequently meet with students in the afternoons near my home in northern Virginia.  Logistically, visiting her would be quite difficult for me.  My third concern:  After all these years, I am finally beginning to feel better, and have been going places, doing things I want to do.  Moreover, I actually want to do things.  I was psychologically paralyzed and imprisoned for most of my life.  I think my analysis has given me the freedom to finally live my life.  I don't want to twist myself into a pretzel having to squeeze these long drives off the beaten path into my (now) busy schedule.

     I'm still thinking about the Herndon option, but I'm leaning toward waiting for something to open at Potomac Place, whenever that may be.  Although you and Mom, and yesterday Dr. G, have all told me how miserable she is, I'm not sure visiting her is going to solve that problem.  Of course, I would visit her quite frequently at Potomac Place because it is so close to home, but I think she might very well be just as miserable and lonely there except (possibly) for the time that i am physically there with her.  Mom has never been able to function well when she feels alone, she doesn't let people in, and she has never been able to tolerate separations.  I'm not convinced her moving close to me will alleviate her pain and misery.

     I will meet with the admissions person at Herndon.  I am also going to speak to Mom's psychiatrist again to get his take on two relocations within a relatively short period of time.  In addition, I'm also going to address her separation issues with him to get his sense as to how much that contributes to her current depression.

     I want to restate that I totally understand that you have difficulty talking to or visiting Mom.  I don't blame you at all.  I'm not crazy about it either. Frankly, it's only just recently that I can tolerate her at all.  I can only speak for myself, but in my case, I believe it's because I've worked out most of my rage toward her.  She was a horrible mother, at least as far as I'm concerned.  She was never there for me when I needed help, when I was alone.  She always said, "Call me when you feel better."  However, if it turns out that she remains at The Classic for a few more months, I'll continue to call her, and will hope that she can relocate to Potomac Place when a space becomes available.

Love,
Your Sister

     The truth is I have decided to wait until there is an opening at Potomac Place.  The other truth is that I don't want my mother to move nearby.  I don't need her anymore.

DNR

                                                Christmas/Chanukah 1998


I can't sleep.  I am consumed with grief, regret, loss, and questions.  Earlier this evening, I was told that Sam is going to die.

My stepsister called after dinner to let me know that Sam will be placed in hospice care within the next few days.  At least that's the plan for now.  I feel ridiculous calling it a plan.  But there it is.

There is no hope that he will recover.  He is, as my stepsister said, "in limbo".  Per his request, she is honoring the papers he had signed stating that no extraordinary measures be taken to prolong his life.  Since he cannot swallow, and since his only source of nutrition cannot remain in place for longer than two weeks, once that life-sustaining NG tube is removed, no further action will be taken other than to "make him comfortable" and try to ensure that he doesn't suffer.

But I will suffer.

I had no idea I would be so devastated.  I am sick at heart.  I am in mourning before his death.

Up until the past few days, I didn't realize how deeply Sam has affected my life.  I didn't know I loved him.  Even though he has always been a bitter reminder of my father's death, and has never been a replacement for my father, he has been a part of the fabric of my life and psyche since 1967.

I'm not a religious person.  I don't believe in God.  This is a great disappointment to me, but it's true.  However, last night, before I went to sleep, I said out loud:

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord Sam's soul to keep.  If Sam should die before I wake, I pray the Lord Sam's soul to take.

I'm going to say it again tonight.

I wish Sam could hear me.

The POW

                                   POW Camp in Remagen, Germany



My stepfather of almost 47 years has suffered his third stroke.  This massive one  has affected most of his right brain.  The other two happened with the past couple of months.  Each has successively and significantly impaired his mobility and mental faculties.  This last one has rendered him speechless and "lethargic".  I've learned that's a euphemism the medical community has invented to denote endless sleeping.  My brother sent me a photo of Sam from his hospital bed yesterday.  He is almost unrecognizable.  Sunken closed eyes, mouth agape, shriveled.  All I could think of were the stories that Sam used to tell us about his six months as a POW in a German camp after The Battle of the Bulge.  He's ending his life as a POW.  His body is his prison.

Sam is not my father.  He tried to be my father.  I'm trying to be his daughter.

The Bully

Yesterday, thoughts about Mitt Romney gave rise to my subsequent blog about altered memory.  Mitt has inspired me yet again.

Do we all have a bully inside of us waiting to come out?  More to the point, have I ever been or will I ever be a bully?  Given that I have always tried to be conciliatory and accommodating, being mean in any manner constitutes bullying.

It's very hard to admit that I have felt mean, and that I have been mean.  I'm not always mean.  But sometimes, particularly lately, I'm aware of sometimes being unkind and spiteful.  At least I feel unkind and spiteful.

I have previously written about being angered by a member of my family:

"A family member enraged me today.  She is not a blood relative.  Her intent was to give me professional advice regarding my mother.  In fact, she stipulated that she was writing as a professional and not as a family member.  I would have preferred to hear from a family member.

It was unsolicited advice and most unwelcome.  Although I'm sure she would disagree, her letter seemed heartless and condescending.  She attempted to convince me to stop calling my mother in the Memory Unit, but she failed to make a persuasive or a cohesive case for her position."

Since then, without going into particulars, I have won the war.  We are all calling my mother, and some of us are visiting her.  I wanted to call the source of the unsolicited advice and yell, "I was right, and you were wrong,  and by the way, you are a horrid person and I've decided not to get you the birthday present I had promised you".  I wanted to be a bully.

Instead, I wrote an email to all of my family members to say how happy I am that we are all having some kind of communication with my unhappy mother.  Still, I must confess that I felt rather triumphant and vengeful when I pressed "Send".

However, I still am angry, and I still feel mean.  Yet,  I intend to send the offender the particularly special birthday present that I had previously promised her.

Maybe Mitt Really Doesn't Remember

Most of the pundits on television are astonished that Mitt Romney can't seem to remember the details of a nasty event that happened during his last year in high school.  They are absolutely sure that they would remember doing something so dastardly.  I'm not so sure.

If the event did happen, and if the the account in the Washington Post is true, I think it's entirely possible that Mr. Romney has either sublimated the memory, or remembers it in an altered way,

As my step-father declines, my brother and I seem to be revisiting and reliving the death of our father in the summer of 1965.  He will have been dead 47 years on August 22.

I was recounting the last days of my father's life in analysis and told Dr. B. that the last time I was with my father was after he had been admitted to the hospital.  He was in a coma by the time my brother and I went to visit him.  He died that evening.  Alone.  No one was there with him.  Not even my mother.

He was in a coma by the time my brother and I went to visit him.

The thing is, my brother wasn't there.  He wasn't even at home.  He was hundreds of miles away at summer camp.  My father died before my brother was able to get home.

And yet I was so sure that my memory was correct.  I was so sure that I wasn't alone with my father.  I don't remember anyone being there other than my father, my brother, and me.  I'm not sure what this means.