I was clearing out my old files and found my mom’s medical records from the last time she was hospitalized, the first time she disappeared, that I wrote about before. Then I found my notes from that time. Notes on the state of her apartment, the missing persons report, her extravagant shopping bring me back to that time. I see all the resources, the mentions of power of attorney, conservatorship, all that was already there to be done that still isn’t done 15 years later.

Why is it still so hard to get her care? Well, she never agreed to make me her power of attorney even though I’m the only person in her life that she trusts. Conservatorship has to start for involuntary commitment and, even though she’s so disabled that she won’t sleep indoors, the law doesn’t think she’s gravely disabled enough. …

I hear him before I see him, with the louder, faster than usual talking. I am sitting in the window seat, knitting a hat, when he sits down next to me.

“I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t protect you.” fades back into unintelligibility.

I am thinking about my mother now, how much this is like my mother when she is in high mania. I run through the complex of feelings about her: sadness, anger, resentment.

“But I don’t want to wear a jacket,” he says, in a child’s voice.

I consider how to deal with this situation. Should I address him directly? Should I move from this seat? I feel guilty even considering, when I know how my mother must get treated in the streets. …

It’s Thursday morning and I have lots of work to do. I still haven’t read the writings my mother gave to me and I’m meeting her for lunch. I don’t want to read her writing and I know I have to.

I’ve already read the happy ones, the mini-memoirs of the happy events of her childhood. Now, I’m looking at a longer piece of “fiction” filled with her made-up code words that describe the experience of her mental illness.

I’m back where I was years ago when she used to send my all kinds of delusional writings through the mail. I read them every time. She deserved to have someone read her writing, I thought, to validate her experience. I needed to at least know what was going on with her. Until she sent me 18 pages worth, that is. …

What good can come out of this? This thing I can hardly talk about, but weighs down my every day. Isn’t that the thing? We want to know that whatever difficulties we’re going through, it’s all worth something.

I look at these last couple years since my mom reappeared, at all the time and energy spent trying to get her off the streets, dealing with my own overwhelm. I feel alienated like I’ve never before known. This city I have known and loved for so many years, I’m seeing its cruelty. …

I got a call from the police at 10:30 p.m. They found my mother in a park and saw the open missing persons report I made from the last time she disappeared.

They asked me about my mother’s history. We talked about involuntary commitment, which they said they did not have cause to do. I spoke with my mother on speaker phone. Like she has been consistently, she was adamant about not going to a shelter. I told her that I could not bring her to my home because I have roommates. I told her I’d get a hotel for her for the night. She said that wouldn’t help because it was only for one night. I said I would come see her instead, thinking maybe I could convince her if I talked with her face-to-face. She didn’t want me to come because it was so late and I was an hour away. …

I have made the calls, which was easier this time. It was easier because I know what city she’s hanging out in now. It was also easier because I’ve done this before and we were reconnected in time.

It’s become part of the process of my life now: mom disappears and I call the hospitals, jails, and morgues. Part of me thinks it shouldn’t be that easy, that it should gut me every time. Part of me is so grateful to be better at doing what I need to do.

Though searching for her is easier, my mother disappearing is still an overbearing concern. I have received medical bills from the emergency room indicating that there is an issue with her knee requiring a long leg splint to immobilize it. There’s no indication that she had been admitted and HIPAA laws prevent the hospital from revealing any information. …

So, I’m at the regular meeting spot on the appointed day and the appointed time and there’s no mom. Two weeks ago I missed our meeting because I threw my back out. As is our agreement if either of us misses a meeting, I came to meet her same place, same time, same day. No mom then. Here’s the second time in a row she’s missed, when the only time in the last two years when she’s missed a meeting is when she fell and was hospitalized.

And as I write this, I wonder why I haven’t started calling hospitals yet. I think I’m a bad daughter. I wonder if I should and, yes, I should. I wonder if I will. I have so much work to do. I’m a freelancer, if I don’t work I don’t get paid and I’m in enough financial insecurity. …

There is a dear friend of mine I had confided in about my mother after she disappeared the third time. She listened to my freakouts, my sorrows, and patiently supported and encouraged me. When my mother reappeared, she was in my inner circle. As I found my mother was homeless, understood the depths of her challenges, and struggled to get my mother the services she needs, this friend was there, kind and compassionate.

We had many things in common, loved ones with chronic mental illness who had also been homeless. After years of struggle, her family had gotten their loved safe and cared for. Hers was an early example to me of how these tragic events can be redeemed. …