The Good Daughter?

"You are such a good daughter," I heard from a client the other day. In conversation it came up that my mother lives with my husband and me. Most people don't know that about me. Mom's been living with us for the last three years. I could go through the laundry list of why she is here with us but the only thing that really matters is that she needed me. In American culture we don't like to deal with family, especially parents. And rightly so. Family can be a pain in the ass. Family can be toxic. They can take advantage of you. They're the one group that you can love and hate at the same time. Sometimes you just hate them.

When I first realized that I needed to have Mom here, I was barraged with a multitude of opinions. Most of them were negative. "I can't believe you'd want your mom to live with you!" or "Just get her an apartment nearby!" However, there were also words of encouragement. "You're doing the right thing," they would say. I'm not sure what the "right" thing really is. I don't have a disposable income so getting an apartment was not an option. All I understood was that she needed me. Cliff and I braced ourselves and moved to a bigger space to accommodate her. 

Having a bigger space was just the beginning. We secured a storage for all of her stuff, and I mean ALL of her stuff. My mom is a Baby Boomer and they like to keep their stuff. They think it's super valuable ( I looked on Ebay at several items. Let's be real Baby Boomers, you all saved your stuff so it's not worth much now ). My heart strings pulled at me. Many folks gave me advice. They said, "Just give her a room and whatever she can fit in there is what she keeps!" The logic in me agreed with that advice. The heart side of me felt the sadness and loss of a life that once was. In that storage unit was 64 years of a life that had been lived. There were boxes of memories and totes full of years gone by. 

In an argument about her stuff one evening she said, "That's my life in there! That's me. It's all I have." My heart sank and my throat knotted up. Yes it's just stuff. It's junk really. But to her, it was all she had left of an independent life. Now she had moved to Texas to depend on her daughter. She was living with her kid. I'm sure  most parents don't want to live with their children. 

So the adjustments continued. I had to learn to deal with this person in my house. In the years we had lived apart, I had become a grown up. With acting, daily salon life, writing, and trying to be a wife, my schedule had no time for the old lady my mom had become. We would have to adjust everything. Privacy became a word that sounded like a magical kingdom in a land far away. Our "married" time became limited. It was like having a kid, only bigger and more cantankerous. Poor Cliff gets resentful some times.  But he handles it well and with grace. 

Six months after she moved in, something happened that made me grateful to have her here. There were no words of wisdom and Hallmark moments. Three weeks before Christmas, I was showering on a late Monday morning. It was one of the days I had off and had the luxury of taking my time. I was going to meet a friend for coffee and enjoy my day. Cliff had just left for work and I was basking in the glow of a hot shower. I was running conditioner through my hair when I heard heavy breathing outside of my shower curtain. I pulled the drape back and looked into the face of my mother. She looked pale and slightly green. Her eyes were wide and she had a slight grin. In her hand she held her vapor device. 

"Yes? What do you need?" I asked her. 

"I'm supposed to go blah ble blah," she replied. 

I asked her again and she repeated the same phrase over and over. Then she said she needed to lie down. I noticed her legs were a mess as she left the bathroom. 

"Mom! Have you been outside?" She didn't answer me. She kept on muttering and collapsed on my bed. I jumped out of the shower and threw my bath robe on. With out giving all of the gory details, I realized that she had lost control of her bowels and she had no idea where she was. She wouldn't even let me touch her. I called Cliff and told him to come back and then made the first 911 call in my life. 

"I need an ambulance," I said with calm confidence. "My mother collapsed and she's still breathing."

Before I could tell the operator what was happening, she went into a series of questions that had nothing to do with the situation at hand. I got desperate and started to panic. Then the operator said, "Mam, I need you to be quiet and listen to me."

Full panic mode set it in. This bitch as asking me questions and I needed an ambulance. I cried and started a series of swear words that is probably still hanging in that apartment today. About that time the paramedics arrived and Cliff showed up too. 

As soon as the paramedics carted her out, I ripped my robe off and got dressed as the last paramedic realized he had been flashed heading out of the door. I braided my goopy hair ( Remember I hadn't rinsed my hair ). I cancelled my coffee date and called family while following the ambulance to the hospital. In that moment the small child within realized that my mommy was mortal. She could die. I cried the whole day. I will spare you the details of her hospital stay. All you need to know is that she was septic and had to stay in ICU for a week.

So you would think that this incident would make me more patient. It did for like 10 minutes. Once she got out and things went back to normal, she got on my nerves again. Some days are a huge effort to be nice. I have seen more doctors and specialists on her behalf. They talk to both of us as they diagnose and treat every medical situation that she has. In my hectic life, I have become a care taker at 39. There are many days that I resent her. I get angry because she won't eat healthy. When she texts or calls me to pick a prescription up, I get pissed off. I shouldn't but I do. There are many days when my patience wears thin. 

Then the guilt sets in. This is my mother and she won't be here forever. I will regret every harsh word and every moment that I didn't spend with her. I marinate on those thoughts and then I get a phone call that we need butter and coffee. That woman drinks way more coffee than any one human being should. She could go get it herself but why leave the house? Who cares that I spent the day working? I'm again. See? It's a vicious cycle and now I feel guilty again.

My reprieves are nights away from home with Cliff every so often, my acting class, and the fantasy that Rob Thomas and I will sing a duet one day.  ( One day it will happen, I've seen the man in concert 5 times! ) It's the little things that get me through.

I love my mom and I wouldn't change the decision I made to have her here with me. And Cliff is a saint. I don't want to be told I'm a good daughter. I'm not. I'm just trying to pay my bills and get through life like everyone else. I'm taking care of my family. I'm not a good daughter. I'm just me.