Nobody said life would be easy. In fact, Mom said it was not easy. But she expected us to do the best we knew how. To be responsible and reliable, dependable. To be honorable.

I ponder the lessons of my growing up years, all the things Mom taught her children. She had high standards for us, and we tried so earnestly to work our ways through those youthful years of peer pressure (two wrongs don’t make a right and if those kids all jumped off Canton Bridge, would you jump, too?), bullying (that boy who tormented me 50,000 times a day in the corridors of David Anderson High School), and the problems at home (why did Dad do some of the things he did that caused extra issues?)

Mom insisted, “He’s your father. You will respect him because without him you would never have been born.”

Yes, Mom held us up to high standards.

I remember the day she said to me, “The time is going to come when you will have to put me in a nursing home. I know I am going to fight you about it, but you have to do what you have to do. I expect you to do what you know is right. When I need to go to a nursing home, do it. And when I don’t know you any more, don’t come to visit me because I won’t be there. I will be gone. There will be only a shell there in my place. I trust you to do the right thing.” She had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at that time.

I promised that I would always do the best I knew how to see to her best interests. And look at where we are now.

On Monday I said, “Mom, you wanted me to remind you to take a shower this morning.” She complied and I thought I had won that silent battle. However, when she came out of the bathroom, fully showered, she said, “It’s funny how I lived all of my life without you around to tell me when to take a shower.” Things escalated from there. I knew how long it had been since she had showered. But she would have none of that. I was a liar, she said, and had no business telling her what to do. Well, at least she had taken the shower and shampooed her hair.

On Tuesday she came to me. “Where is my checkbook?”

“Why?”

“I have bills to pay.”

“Your bills are all paid.”

“I want my checkbook.”

“Sorry, no.”

“It’s my checkbook.”

“Yes.”

“It has my name on it.”

“Yes. And Richard’s and mine.”

“You are living in my house.”

“I am staying at your house so you can stay in your home. But if you want me to leave, that’s fine. Here are your options: me, Bill, Richard or a nursing home.”

“I’m not going to a nursing home.”

“The time is going to come when you can’t make that decision.”

“I want my checkbook.”

“When Richard gets home we will talk to him. If he says to give you the checkbook I will give you the checkbook.”

“If you don’t give me my checkbook I’ll tell Richard.”

“OK.”

Not even two hours before this Day 2 battle (two days in a row) she had called to me, “Does my crocheting bother you?”

“No.”

“Bill didn’t like it because I crocheted.”

I ventured to the living room and sat down to talk. “He’s gone and you can crochet all you want to. Does it bother you that I spend so much time with my computer? Fred thinks I’m having an affair with my computer.”

“You can play with your computer as much as you want to.”

Her eyes twinkled. She was smiling and content. Well, maybe we were past the battles for the time being. Uh, now I see that twinkle and smile and contentedness and think, “She’s looking for something to fight about.”

She says, “I am so bored. I would like to do something exciting.” But she doesn’t know what she would like to do. When she said she wanted to go to see her brother, I took her. When my grandson has a ballgame, I take her. When my children and grandchildren have a cookout or family event, I take her. If she wants ice cream we go to the Dairy Queen or McDonald’s drive-thru. I took her to the community choir’s spring concert. By the time we get back home she has forgotten that we even went. I still take her, even though I know she will remember it less than a minute. At the concert she insisted that they had forgotten to sing two songs on the program.

“No, Mom. They did sing them.”

“I don’t remember.”

The time is come that my brothers and I have to keep the promise that I made to her that long-ago day. I can scarcely handle the idea. I cry every time I think about it. My grandmother took care of her mother in her home until the day she died at age 86. My mother took care of my grandmother in her home until the day she died at age 84. Shouldn’t I be taking care of my mother in my home until the day she dies? As far as I know, my great-grandmother never showed any violent tendencies. I was 10 when she died. I remember the day. My grandmother was docile as her days dwindled. She didn’t linger long because she didn’t want to be a burden to her family. I remember the day she passed.

But Mom is over-the-top angry in an instant. The episode on Tuesday—I had my back to her and remember thinking I probably should face her. She used to pummel my dad when he took her in the car until he told her, “If you don’t behave I will take you back home and I won’t take you in the car again.” My husband was with us, so I wasn’t as concerned as I might have been had it been just the two of us.

No, I am not equipped to handle my mother’s care much longer. And so we, my brothers and I, are looking at facilities in our area to place her. I know it has to be done. Why do I feel like a traitor?

© 2009 Cathy Brownfield ~ All rights reserved.