My family drama – the conclusion.
Seven weeks after the first case of COVID appeared in the United States, my 88-year old mother fell and broke her hip, propelling her into a rehabilitation facility largely occupied by the elderly. You can read that story here.
That accident alone would have taken up my rapidly depleting bandwidth as my workload increased in proportion to the spread of the pandemic, but the incident also thrust me into communication with an estranged sibling, and my mother’s care plan became the tug of war between us, with me holding tight to one end – wanting her recover in my home to safeguard her from COVID – and him on the other, concerned that an early discharge would mean she might not walk again. You can read that story here.
My brother is my mother’s power of attorney, so he won. Not only does my mother complete her entire stay, it is extended by 3 weeks, which is when she catches COVID.
Meanwhile, she begs me during our daily calls to pick her up from rehab and take her home. By “home” she means my home.
The calls become increasingly painful for me, as my brother eventually informs me that he will not consent to letting her live with me. Maybe a visit, after she’s cleared of COVID at her assisted living facility, he tells me. Her assisted living facility also has COVID.
To be clear: There is no path that leads my mother to my home without her first being isolated for 14-days and testing negative – and by isolated, I mean in a place where no one is coming and going, which does not include her assisted living facility. We are in lockdown. There is no “visiting” anyone. I haven’t been within 5’ 11” of a human being besides my wife since mid-March.
The tug of war between my brother and me becomes a tug of war between the Therapist part of me that thinks I need to surrender to the situation – My mother has COVID. She’s made my brother her POA. He won’t let her wait out the pandemic living with me. Let it go. And the Jersey Girl part of me that finds it unthinkable that a woman who is still competent is not being allowed to make her own decision about where she will live.
Anyone who’s spent 5-minutes with me would accurately predict that the Jersey Girl wins, so I draft an email to the owner of the rehab asking him if there’s any legal reason why my mother, who is completely alive and oriented, cannot decide for herself what her discharge plan is.
An hour later the owner emails back saying he’s on it, which I’m content with because now that my mother’s got COVID, there’s nothing more for me to do.
All the action I’ve taken in previous weeks – manically trying to find a single family home to rent that’s large enough to fit both my mother and an aid – none of it’s relevant anymore, except for the fact that I actually did find a home and did sign a lease, so now we’re headed off to a house we don’t need for an event that may never happen. But I knew that going into it.
The next morning my landline rings around 9:00 a.m., which might as well be 4:00 a.m. in my home. It’s the owner of the rehab.
I shake myself awake and put him on speakerphone, worried I’ll miss something in my fog and figuring Steph’ll wake up eventually if he’s talking in her ear too.
He tells me I’m right: My mother has no legal guardian. She’s alive. Competent. And she can make her own decisions regarding every aspect of her care, including where she goes when she’s discharged. If she wants to live with me, it’s her choice. There’s nothing in her Power of Attorney that would revoke her right to make her own decisions.
Here I’ll resist the temptation to ponder my brother’s motivation to bang the Power of Attorney like some gavel or cudgel. He alone will live with the consequences of his choices. But I’ll be dipped in shit if I’m playing into the family insanity of blindly accepting the words of whoever yells the loudest.
Later that day on the phone with my mother I tell her what the owner of the rehab center told me: She can make her own decision about where she’s discharged to. If she doesn’t want to go back to the assisted living facility, she’s free to choose to come to me.
She listens intently as I add a couple caveats:
I tell her she has to tell my brothers. This isn’t my fight. This is hers. Mine was about ensuring that her right to make her own decisions is honored. If she wants to come to me, she can do it, but she has to tell them.
Finally, she has to resume responsibility for her own finances – something she’s claimed to have had no control over since the first hip fracture two years back. I tell her I refuse to play the role of the divorced wife who has to beg the ex-husband for money every time an unexpected expense pops up for the kid. As much as I’ve missed my brothers – especially the one who was a father to me – the peaceful reconnect we initially enjoyed disappeared as fast as it came. In its place is a series of curt, increasingly hostile text messages that I ultimately stopped responding to.
He’s an angry guy, and I don’t want that in my life. If dealing with him is the price of providing my mother with a few months respite from social isolation – even at the end of her life – I won’t do it.
She’s quiet after hearing my terms.
“I’m not gonna worry about it now. I got enough problems right now without having to worry about things like that. I’m sorry. That’s the way I feel.”
“That’s OK. I just wanted you to know that you are wanted. And if you decide that it’s too much heartache to go against what [my brothers] want, I will respect that and understand that and there will be no hurt feelings.”
“Ok. Good. Good.”
The call ends and I ease onto the couch of the rental home we’re now living in. I reach for my glass of wine which was cold when I poured it an hour ago, and I take a long swig of the lukewarm liquid.
The therapist in me whispers, Well done. She can’t play victim anymore. And she also won’t come live with you no matter how much she claims to want to because she’ll never go up against your brothers.
To which my Jersey Girl says, I don’t care what she decides to do. As long as we’re all clear that it’s her choice, and her human rights are being respected.
Here’s a picture of Steph and me speaking to her a few days after she was discharged from the rehab. We’re in our rental home. She’s in her assisted living facility. It was her choice. On her terms. Which is an ending I can live with.
