Today I am meeting with a social worker and a notary to sign a simple document stating my mother should not receive medical aide in the event of a catastrophic medical emergency. A DNR. Do Not Resuscitate. I believe in these. I think everyone should have one. I have one. I do not want to sign my mother's.
In 1993 my husband and I bought a house 46 miles from my parents, driveway to driveway. My dad is a retired engineer, choir director, composer, arranger, singer, piano virtuoso, Gold Life Award winning bridge player and the smartest man in the world. His most often repeated statement, "I could be wrong but I don't think so". My mom is an everything in it's place housewife, mother, piano quasi-virtuoso, great cook, knitting, reading woman out of the 1950s mold. Her most often repeated statement, "We better ask your dad".
When I moved to the city where I now reside my husband and I would meet my parents "in the middle" for lunch or dinner. Holidays were always at my house so mother no longer had to worry about menus and cooking a big meal. In April 2008 I called my parents and said, "Hey, let's meet for brunch on Sunday it's our birthdays". "Great!", my dad said. He LOVES brunch because that means champagne. Both mom and dad are "social drinkers". A couple of cocktails in the evening or a beer or two on the weekend. Drinking at breakfast is exotic. Sunday morning Bill and I are walking out the door when the phone rang. It was dad. "We can't meet you today , maybe next weekend, your mother isn't feeling well."
This call started a three month long excuse. "Not today, we're busy". "Not this week, your Dad isn't feeling well". "Not tomorrow mom is going to get her hair done". "Sorry, I know this is last minute but mom has a bad headache". Every single time I asked they said no or cancelled at the last minute.
I had told my dad several years prior that I thought mom had some form of dementia and should be taken to a doctor. I was wrong in his opinion, of course. "Old people forget things. You worry to much. You're too dramatic. She's fine."
In August of 2008 I drove to by parent's house unannounced. It was 11:00 a.m. My parents did not answer the door. They were asleep or dead. My parents who had been up before sunrise everyday of their lives sleeping? Must be dead. I rang the bell and called their phone until finally my dad appeared at the door. The smell hit me first. "Why are you here?", he asked. "To see you", I said.
I walked past him straight into hell.
The house was so infested with fruit flies I was breathing them. Dishes with nasty, dirty, roach covered food on every surface. Bowls of curdled milk sat on the floor. Lots of bowls sprouting science experiments. There were huge holes in the roof where animals had pulled off the shingles for access to the attic. Ceilings were water stained. Wallpaper hung in pieces on the wall. Piles of mail, newspapers, clothes and assorted junk were everywhere. Their adored little dog was filthy. Piles of dog shit were on the floor and the furniture. Empty beer cans and bottles of scotch littered the floor. I thought my parents were being held hostage by a fraternity.
A woman appeared in the hall way. A crazy looking witch-like woman. She was yelling at me to get out of her house. This woman with wild hair, filthy clothes, wearing two different shoes was my mother.
I began a journey I would not wish on my worst enemy.
Today my parents live in an assisted living facility in the locked ward for dementia patients. My husband and I tricked them into leaving their house and moved them six months ago after years of trying to be caregivers. My mother rarely recognizes me and can no longer remember how to walk. She needs someone to feed her, bathe her, dress her and change her diapers. My father's short term memory is gone and cannot remember on a daily basis what is wrong with his wife.
Today I sign a document I know is necessary for my mother's future care. I want her to die. My heart breaks every time I see her. She is no longer my mother just someone with her face. Yet I cannot get in my car. I cannot read the words that say, "let her go", and put my power of attorney to work.
I want my mommy.
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