I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why I feel so compelled to share this with the world. My friend gave birth to her son the other day. As she was welcoming her baby boy into the world, I decided to place my mom in an assisted living facility. It’s the beginning of the end in my book. It’s a downward spiral. Thing is, we can’t care for her 24/7. We can’t keep her safe. We don’t have enough resources. I am numb. Maybe the percocet I took 72 hours ago is still working. I can’t feel a thing right now. Maybe I’m just too tired. Maybe my nervous system is systematically shutting down. Good. I don’t want to feel anything right now. I have felt enough this last year… I have cried enough this last year. I am done, but I can’t stop—even though all I want to do is stop… and then run away. Despite feeling numb, I know emotion will find me soon and it’ll overwhelm me when we actually leave her at her new home. I can’t even wrap my head around the idea of leaving her alone, scared, afraid, confused and left to the care of others. The day is coming up fast. Maybe sometime next week. She has no idea. She sat there looking at me as I called a list of homes to see if they had a room and would take our Medicaid. I looked at her and smiled. Numb. I should feel terrible. I do feel terrible, but I have to keep going. I can’t stop. I have to get through this. I have to do this. It’s for her safety and ultimate wellness… and her daughter and husband’s state of mind.
I am running through an emotional mine field.
I have found a few places that might work. One place in particular. Fingers crossed. Now, I have to figure out what to say. What do you say? How do you spin this terrible situation? I need a PR person to give me some talking points, please. I already know she’ll try to leave because she’ll want to feed her damn pigeons. Yes, she feeds pigeons—that was a fun fight. We quickly capitulated. She’ll be scared. She’ll ask for “My Davo…” her husband, Dave. She won’t like it. When she’s upset or antsy, she’s like a child: nothing can please her… “no. no. no.” Then my mom will plead like a little girl… she does this when she wants something, “Mi hijita, why you do this? You help me? I luf you. You came from me, mi hijita. I luf you…”
I’ve never been in a fight. I’ve never been physically threatened. I can’t imagine a punch to my face. But I do feel like I’ve been emotionally kicked in the gut—repeatedly. Some days, I feel weird, not normal. Cold, angry, frustrated, unsure, filled with doubt, insecurity, loneliness, and fear. Other days, I can laugh. Laughter is my salvation. Make me laugh. Still, I feel like people look at me like I’m insane. I want to wear a T-shirt that reads, “I’m like this because my mom is demented, you dick!”
I hope that if life ever feels normal again, I won’t feel this way. I wonder if I have children, will I feel numb or detached, or will I love them? Most days, my heart feels like its encased in a hard, crusty calcium-covered shell.