Solo in the HOV Lane

That won't work...

Reading The Pissed Kitty this morning has inspired me to bitch. No, not about Kitty. Kitty is hilarious, a daily read for me. But reading about her mother caring for her grandparents...

Here's the thing, kids. Most of you have parents who are, well, MY age....and probably out playing golf or taking gourmet cooking classes or paragliding and nowhere near being frail or decrepit. At least I hope that is the case, and God bless you and them. But if you live long enough, and your parents live long enough, eventually they will be old people (or O.P.s), and you will be in the position to either have to care for them or else duck the responsibility with the agility of a Chinese gymnast (have I mentioned my brother? but I digress...).

PU2 and I have spent countless hours the past few months researching living arrangements in Cali for my parents. They are still in Arkansas, though all the rest of the family has left there, and their health is deteriorating rapidly. They are in "independent living" now, but they probably should be in "assisted living," and they undoubtedly should be nearer one of their two children. That means me. Bubba simply can't cope. Mom is NOT an easy person to deal with. But I digress again.

So we are looking at choosing between a regular apartment with hired help to come in a few afternoons a week or assisted living. The difference in cost is huge (reg. apartment x 3 = assisted living), and frankly, they can't afford any of it. Arkansas is cheaper, but they can't take being alone.

So PU2 and I research and visit places and call Mom with the latest recommendation. Usually PU2 and I are all excited because we think we have found JUST the right place...nice apartment, attached garage, fireplace, overlooking nature trail, near shopping....and then, the bucket of water on the top of the door crashes down. "I just don't think I can live in an apartment. I need more support than that. I need assisted living."

OK. Back to square one. We research assisted living. We visit three places (mind you, these visits are time consuming..."this is our dining room, this is our card room, this is our laundry facility...."). We find it. A perfect place. For an additional cleaning deposit of $1500, they can even smoke in their apartment! We call Mom, all excited. Bucket of water, door. "I just don't see how I can afford assisted living. Besides, if I can't ride my scooter there, how will I get to the dining room? That just won't work. I need something cheaper. I think I will just get an apartment here in Arkansas." (#*%^^#*!~~???) "Mom, if you are going to get an apartment, you need to get one out HERE where I can look after you. I'll look at apartments."

Back to square one. But they know me there, and there is a chair with my name on it. So we look at senior apartments and at regular apartments, apartments less than a mile from our house, apartments apartments apartments. Have recommendation. Call mom. Bucket, door. "I just don't know. I just don't know. I am afraid we just can't get by in an apartment...."

I have maintained my patience thus far, which has required more control than I even knew I was capable of, but I think it is time that I loosed my temper. And that is not a misspelling, thank you. I am going to have to make a decision and call her up and say, "I have a deposit on an apartment, and the movers will be there to pack you on --fill in the date--" Otherwise, six years from now, I will still be doing this, with my head dented from the bucket.

I pulled out the sheaf of materials that I have accumulated from all these site visits last night to look through them, and PU2 let me have it. "Put those up!" she said, sternly. "Don't spend another minute on that stuff until SHE commits [SHE being her grandmother, my mother, Mrs. I Don't Know]. You have GOT to stop stressing over this!" I protested. I really don't think I HAVE been stressing. I am just doing what I have to do to live with myself and not feel like I have abandoned them (have I mentioned my brother? But I digress....) She would have none of that. She loosed HER temper on me for about five minutes, telling me to get a spine and quit opening the door and complaining about the bucket.

Oh, by the way. There is a father involved in this too. My dad is the world's most wonderful man, funny, charming, beloved by everyone who knows him. He sits in his recliner and says, "Whatever you want to do, dear." I adore my dad. I truly do. And getting him out here closer to me is motivation enough to keep me going. Unfortunately, I have to deal with the three-headed hound of hell Mrs. I Don't Know.

Oh, Lord. I feel guilty now. What an ingrate I am. But that was fun. By the way, to my brother, in case he reads this....I'm sorry. I don't blame you. OK, I do. But I understand. OK, I don't. But I forgive you. OK, I'm trying to. But I love you.

Oh, and PU2, you are the BEST!!! I can't believe how you have hung in there with me. I PROMISE I will NOT do this to YOU! :-)

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Tuesday, September 14, 2004