I'm a liar, but it's too late to give my Mom what she wants; She's in good hands as I kiss her goodbye
There's no place like home
I had no idea how quickly Florida would overtake my senses, my heart, and absorb into my soul when we first schlepped south from New Jersey to Brevard County in 2010.
By the time you read this, I may already be back where I belong in Viera.
The land was developed by the Viera Company, a subsidiary of A. Duda and Sons, which owned the property formerly known as Cocoa Ranch. On August 4, 1989, they broke ground in this unincorporated area for the new community of Viera.[7]
It is derived from viera meaning 'faith' in Slovak, in honor of family patriarch Andrew Duda, who immigrated to the United States in 1912 from what became Slovakia.[8] Starting in 1990, the Duda family started developing a new community with a mix of land uses, including a variety of housing types, offices, medical and industrial parks, shopping centers and recreational facilities.
I've been gone too long.
My mother needed care in NJ and I answered the call for what I supposed would be a few weeks. I am returning home to Florida, in just a few days, after 9 long months. She is not well.
My mom desperately wants to be back in her home.
I more than understand the pull she feels to be in her comfort zone a mere few miles away.
We are caught in a loop and most of our conversations turn to the same plea.
“I just want out of here.”
Her eyes lock with mine in a tug-of-war of opposing thoughts.
Assisted living, in her generation, equates to being institutionalized.
No matter that the spacious room is lovely and bright, sprinkled with her favorite furnishings - a far cry from a cold facility.
I added a small desk, a tiered plant stand, family pictures, her dresser, and her recliner from home, with any personal touches she would allow.
It is not enough.
I know what she wants — to be home and 65 years old. A body and mind that cooperate from the old days.
“Lisa, I have lived alone for 25 years just fine.”
She wants to be blanketed in her memories and surrounded by a lifetime of accumulated trinkets.
My mom aches to plant perennials of purples and pinks, overflow her garden, and freely stroll the neighborhood with her dog — stopping to chat with friends.
She would stand back to assess the fresh flower arrangement she created with a critical eye.
Her mind is comforted by conjuring visions from previous decades.
Crab feasts in her backyard filled with laughter (Please stop slamming the sliding door!), baking cookies with and for the grandkids, and creating festive meals with overwhelming aromas that meet guests at the front door are the occasions she wants to relive.
I want that for her, too.
In stark contrast, my mom is 85, a fall risk, currently plagued by short-term memory loss, and requires nursing assistance for pop-up medical oddities that, left unattended, can quickly become deadly.
I give the reassurances she craves and watch her agitation soften.
Then, I lean in for a quick kiss goodbye before I leave her downstairs in the dining hall.
We have a routine.
Once I reach the reception desk by the front door, I slowly turn.
She looks like a million bucks. My mom takes great care — an impeccable dresser who never forgets her lipstick. Her hair has filled back in with soft rounded curls.
I too am fooled by her image and in a flash, I believe she is 65 years old again, too.
Our eyes meet. Hers sparkle in anticipation of my next action.
I reach my arm up and wave.
My mom smiles along with her outstretched hand.
Several eyes dart around the lobby setting; a few reflect glassy disconnects — an unsettling vacancy.
A wake of loneliness trails behind their every shuffle as metal walkers drag against the rug runners.
I imagine that I replace their daughters who maybe can’t come by as often, or at all.
Those eyes track me and activity grinds to a halt.
Like clockwork, a sea of hands wave back.
“Bye, Miss Betty. See you later, Mr. Jack. Take care, Charlie.”
Love you, Mom.
Most days, I feel accomplished when I go — satisfied that I am keeping her safe, healthy, and socialized.
Nurses are updated, insurance claims filed, her wish list is filled from the local market, and I’ve stowed Dove chocolates in her room.
On other days I leave defeated.
The emotional elephant in the room sits on our chests — a suffocating reminder that my departure day rapidly approaches.
My mom knows Florida is my home, close to a thousand miles away from her, and she agrees it’s time.
She understands homesickness.
Too well.
We openly discuss the plan on a surface level with cut-and-dry facts.
Our facts have very different faces.
Somehow, she took my departure date as hers, too, from assisted living.
“I am leaving, Mom, not you. Not yet. Even when you get the all-clear from your cancer team, there are additional hurdles to conquer first."
"And then, when you're ready, you'll come to stay with me. I'll wheel you through The Avenues - first stop at Chico's."
She jockeys for her position, and I for mine. Anxiety lies just under the surface, ready to boil over for both of us.
She wants to go home.
But she needs care.
What she wants conflicts with what she needs. An awful position, really, and a difficult time to be a caregiver.
Tremendous guilt builds inside me when I break stride and open my mouth.
“Before I go, I will move your guest room bed here. Who knows how long you’ll need to stay.”
“You’ll be more comfortable on it than on this narrow hospital bed from Medicare. Even if the bed is only here for an hour, a day, or months before you leave, you deserve it.”
Her eyes spark. “Don’t you dare bring in another thing! I’ll be home soon; I am fine,” she insists.
After all, that's what she wants.
What she needs is care.
We playfully go back and forth on the bed issue to avoid going too deep where the painful realizations simmer.
We set aside vastly different opinions for the moment, both thankful to divert to mundane topics.
Tomorrow her dialogue will shift again.
I am grateful for the tomorrows we are given.
She gathers her purse, phone, and room key for lunch, checking several times to ensure she has them.
“Did I get my key? I need my key.”
It’s in your purse, Mom.
“And my phone?”
To prove her capabilities, she moves too fast and her foot catches on the end of the bed.
We lock eyes again as I state the obvious — obvious to me, not to her.
“Your physical therapist clearly said that you need to use your chair or walker. All the time.”
Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
She fires back that she knows that and always uses them. I slowly retrieve her walker from the other side of the room and slide it toward her.
“Do you think I sold my car too quickly? I’d really like my car.”
I escort her to the dining room into a sea of many friends from her past and new ones to meet.
A kiss goodbye.
Once I reach the reception desk by the front door, I turn.
We lock eyes once again; hers sparkle in anticipation of my next action.
I reach my arm up and wave. “Love you, Mom.”
Grateful for the tomorrows we are given.
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This is so hard, so complex and so perfectly expressed. The awful predicament of loving someone but desperately needing to have your own life, of wanting them to be happy but knowing they cannot have what would make them happy. Love and duty, inextricably bound together. I am sorry Lisa, this is excruciating, for you both.