I’m Headed to the US Tomorrow to Betray My Mother
Moving my mom with dementia to assisted living
“Mary, I hear you’re coming for a visit. How nice!”
Mom’s voice on the phone is cheerful, a far cry from ten days ago when she hung up on me while crying.
My brothers broke the news after dinner on Easter. The doctor says it’s time, Mom. You aren’t safe to live alone anymore.
She didn’t take it well.
Why would she? In her mind she might be a tad forgetful, but she is an independent woman raising several special needs children despite the fact my dad never seems to be around to help with anything.
Sitting around playing bingo and doing jigsaw puzzles while other people cook your food and clean your bathrooms may be all well and good for other old people, and sure, maybe a day will come when she’s ready to rest, but not today and not anytime soon. After all, who would take care of her babies?
So why are her adult children ganging up on her? She’s heard of this happening to other people but never believed it was possible her own offspring would turn on her this way.
She’s pretty upset, my brother texts. Insisted I bring her home and leave her alone. You should give her a call.
“I can’t talk right now,” my mother sobs. “Your brothers are trying to put me in a home. Are you part of this too?”
“Well, Mom, your doctor says — ”
The line goes dead. My sweet, affable mother has hung up on me.
Do you think she’ll go with you tomorrow? I ask my brother.
I don’t know. She’s pretty angry but she could wake up in the morning and have forgotten everything.
The tour is my idea. Why not use my brother’s Easter visit to get Mom inside the building again, soften her up for the move, and build familiarity?
I took her to see our chosen facility last time I was in town.
“You complained about how Aunt Millie’s kids moved her to a place she didn’t choose. Let’s go look now so you can see what the options are for someday.”
The irony is this is the exact facility where her sister spent the last six months of her life. Mom was here just a month ago silently holding her sister’s hand for an hour. Aunt Millie died the next day.
I hold my breath when we walk through the doors, but Mom doesn’t recognize the place. Sometimes dementia works in our favor.
The building is well lit, nicely decorated, and full of smiling staff members, nothing like the old people’s home Mom was imagining. She pushes her walker through the hallways and smiles.
“Could you see yourself living here, Mom?” we ask.
“Sure, someday, but I’m in no rush.”
My brother and I start the paperwork.
Mom woke up cheerful on Easter Monday. She was surprised but not distressed when my brothers arrived to pick her up for their visit to the assisted living facility.
She smiled as they stood in her future room and discussed which pieces of her furniture should be placed where. They reminded her I would be coming out in two weeks to help her make the move.
“What do you think, Mom?” they ask on the drive home.
“Oh, it’s a nice place, but I’m not ready yet. Maybe someday.”
“Your brothers took me to visit an old people’s home,” Mom says to me on the phone, her voice calm and cheerful.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I’m not going, though.”
“Well, Mom, when the doctor says it’s time…”
“Of course, when the doctor says it’s time, I’ll go, but my doctor isn’t saying that. I’m in great shape.”
I don’t argue. What’s the point? Agitation exacerbates dementia, and no issue remains settled when so many of Mom’s neurons are no longer firing.
My siblings and I agree. We’ll gently bring up the move when appropriate in conversation, but mostly we will let Mom consider it something happening in the future.
Tomorrow I get on a train to go to a plane to drive to Mom’s place, an ocean away from where I currently live. She’ll be thrilled and surprised to see me walk through her door. She always is, no matter how many times I tell her I’m coming.
Friday, I’ll grab a Sharpie and start writing her name on all her clothes the way she did ages ago before sending me off to summer camp.
Saturday, I’ll take her out to brunch while my siblings pick up a few chosen pieces of furniture and the boxes I will have packed the day before. When even the waitress is tired of refilling our coffees, I’ll drive her to her new room where all of her things will be arranged in as close to a familiar layout as my siblings can manage.
It will be like the worst surprise party ever.
Will I tell Mom what’s happening each step of the way? Maybe? Probably? A little bit? Not at all? The various scenarios chase each other in circles every time my head hits the pillow. I haven’t slept much lately.
Like every other step in this dementia journey I didn’t sign up for, I’ll make the best choices I can in the moment given the crappy hand we’ve been dealt.
Imagining the future in all its possibilities and permutations is what my brain is hardwired to do, but I can’t see any road ahead where Mom doesn’t feel betrayed and blindsided.
My siblings and I are united, which is a comfort, but I feel the weight of this decision.
I’m the one who called it. I’m the one who said, we can’t let her stay in her house anymore. My siblings 100% had my back — when I said jump, everyone jumped — all of us are all in on operation move mom. But I started it. The buck stops here.
I think back to taking my eldest child in for her first vaccinations. My firstborn, a cautious, skeptical child, looked around the room, taking in everything but showing no fear. Why would she when the person she loved and trusted most in the world was holding her?
I’ll never forget the look on her face when the needle penetrated her skin. Shock, disbelief, betrayal. Mom, how could you? I trusted you.
I’m bracing for the same look on my mom’s face on Saturday. How could you, Mary? I trusted you.
I know, Mom, I’m sorry. We tried so hard. We brought you back home two years ago when the hospital and doctors said you needed a nursing home. We got you the help and support you needed to stay as independent as possible for as long as possible.
You fought us along the way. How can you do this to me, you cried when we no longer let you drive, or carry your own credit card, or go to pick up nonexistent foster children. I don’t want this, you said when we hired people to clean and do your laundry.
We let you win as many battles as we could, Mom. No one wanted to honor your independence more than the fiercely independent children you raised.
But we love you, Mom and it isn’t just time; it’s past time. Someday is here.
“It’s so nice you’re coming,” Mom said on the phone last night. “I can’t wait to see you.”
I can. I wish I could postpone this trip forever, but sometimes even mothers and daughters run out of time.
