PART IV: Whereupon Amy decides to leave her old life behind and move into an Assisted Living community (whether they want her to or not)

 

My role as "bright-eyed, bushy-tailed optimist" hit a bit of a snag today. My "bubbly," patient persona popped. It may have been the lack of sleep as I wrestled my Dad's chair, for what feels like the thousandth time, across the living room for an accessible outlet so I could rest, crunched up like a hard taco shell. It may be the lack of food as only residents are allowed in the dining facility while I subside on string cheese and vegetable straws. It may be the wild roller coaster of emotions I've been trying to balance as my mom valiantly struggles to adapt to this harsh transition of never having been alone in 85 years to now living "independently" while still under a microscope of watchful, controlling eyes. 

I've experienced small, isolated break-downs throughout the week (The night-shift staff found me curled on the corridor carpet bawling and gave me an impressive pep-talk) but this morning, the floating feather landed on the wildly wobbling heap of stinking trash that is my life, and I crashed. 

 Suffering from a poor night's sleep in a strange place with only thoughts of her family's betrayal to keep her warm, my mom emerged from her den like a ravenous wolf, armed to the tooth with plans for revenge with a rolled blueprint detailing her escape tucked under her arm. Surprisingly, she was nor receptive to my offer of tea. I won't tell you what she told me to do when I invited her to gaze out her window at the peaceful scene of geese and ducks floating on the pond. Let's just say that it was neither polite or anatomically possible.

Not knowing what was going on, my brother sent a helpful text wondering if perhaps I should be giving Mom some alone-time so she can start building up to the idea that she'll be on her own soon. As I'm sure you guessed, I found this suggestion very helpful and messaged him back my gratitude for his wisdom and insight. 

Of course, he didn't know that that has been exactly what I've been doing...that I, in fact had a schedule tentatively titled "Operation Amy Phrase-Out" (Sub-titled: How to abandon your loving mother to the care of strangers in 72 easy steps." Sub-heading 1:  "Your ticket to hell."). I've been lurking around this facility like Barney Fife trying to crack a case. Peering through the rectangular window of a cut-out newspaper. Hiding behind potted plants. Soldier-crawling over carpets.

This morning was scheduled for a half day of an Amy-free existence...which most people would call "living the dream." As I prepared to leave (aka "flee for my life"), I worried that, during my absence, my infuriated mother would MacGyver seemingly innocuous items in her apartment into a weapon of mass destruction but I couldn't worry about the plight of the world right now. It was time to save myself. 

In my panic, I managed to grab my grading because, after all, when one is fleeing for one's life, one must still bear in mind that report cards are due Friday. I failed to bring my car keys, cash, or a charger for my alarmingly low-battery phone. I escaped outside, taking a deep breath of that crisp, clear, 40 degree morning air and also realized I'd forgotten my coat. My husband chose this moment to call. Let's just say my first words were not "hello" and he immediately chided me for my salty language. I immediately hung up on him (to conserve my battery).

Walking around a college town sporting my own alma mater's sweatshirt turned out to be an invitation to comment from almost everyone I encountered. I lacked the necessary energy to defend my educational decisions to strangers. I peered longingly in cafe windows like the Little Match Girl and considered looking for a tin cup to shake for change but realized that my sweatshirt would repel charitable donations. I stomped like an angry, bitter troll across the metal lift bridge extending over the Erie Canal and, for the first time ever, failed to sing the stupid song. I cursed myself for my selfishness. My poor mother was dealing with the most traumatic time in her life and I was out here, throwing a temper tantrum. 

I trudged back.

It was almost lunchtime so I slipped into the downstairs lounge to see if my little bear would emerge for a meal. I watched as an aide led my mother into the room and set her, horrifically, in the chair next to mine. I froze. My little mother...my brave little mother...sat there compliantly, looking neither to the left or the right, shaking...not realizing that her daughter was within arm's reach...waiting to be told that lunch was ready. I sat there next to her with tears streaming down my face, 

I won't lie to you. I hate my life right now. I know it will get better, I know it will, But right now...