My Least Favorite Thing to Do

Let me be perfectly honest: My least favorite thing to do is to spend time with my mother. She requires daily attention in the running of errands, consulting with doctors, interfacing with Medicare and healthcare administrators, taking her to appointments, providing her only social contact. She is an anchor about my neck, and I don't know what to do about it.

She was never there for me as a child or as an adult, so no real relationship was ever established. There was no give and take, no heart-to-hearts, no fun, no laughter, no shared interests, in short, nothing on which to establish a relationship. The only relationship was that when she needed something, I was there. And so when she wasn't bathing or eating or drinking, I rescued here and brought her to California. Hardly a day goes by without me regretting that decision.

Not that I know what else I could have done since no one else would have taken care of her, and the nursing home to which she was discharged after her hospital stay in January would not release her to independent living. Even if they had, I would have had to run back to Wisconsin for the next big drama.

I have been so eager to leave So Cal for so many years. It is increasingly difficult for me to find freelancing work. Cal State has cut my classload. Things are drying up. I would like to leave in December, after the fall semester has ended. But what to do with Mom?

Two weeks there was a mix-up with her meds at the assisted living facility. She didn't get her pain meds, and she was going into heavy withdrawals when I arrived at her apartment about 9 p.m. She was spasming and twitching and shaking like I have only seen in movies about heroin addiction like "Sid and Nancy." I took her to the ER, where she was diagnosed as having had a mild heart attack. No surprise, as the spasming was more exercise than she's had in years.

She's now at a skilled nursing facility where she gets physical therapy. The therapist got my mom to tell the truth, whereas she is always lying to me. For months I have smelled her from time to time and have asked about her bathing. Turns out, as I suspected, she was lying to me, as she lies about so many things--something which also does little to build a relationship. She actually hasn't been bathing.

Yesterday when I left her, I checked her dirty clothes bag. Only one outfit in it, despite her having been at the facility for a week and a half. I had thought the outfit hadn't changed, but that was sometimes hard to tell, as she always wears a jacket. Even though I had brought about a dozen outfits for her, she had only changed clothes once.

Add to this mix the fact that all her investments are tied up in Freddie Mac, Fannie Mae and Countrywide mortgages. Yikes! I am working with a broker to sell these off, but they're in very small bundles, which is not attractive to most investors. I am hoping for the best, but if all her investments go belly up, then my mother will be underfoot round the clock, living with me in my small one-bedroom apartment. That situation would make me do something I have skillfully avoided all my life: Take a corporate job that will get me out of the house for at least 10 hours a day. Yikes, trading one hell for another.