My mother has been characteristically uncooperative about all this, when, of course, she is the person who needs the care, attention, and move to this type of facility the most.
Today I decided that I would try a different approach with her. Le me explain. My mother has a reputation for being ornery, cantakerous and downright narcissistic and mean. My father has been giving in to this behavior for years for what reason none of us seems to really understand. He will say, "after 65 years together, I love her so much and I don't want her to be upset." Who can argue with that? I mean, two marriages later, I never even made it past 14 years.
Back to Betty (my mom). Betty is difficult. And my poor Mom is losing her grip on her world with every passing day. So on this visit, I decided that I would only approach her with love. Each time she disagreed or said she didn't want to move, or didn't want to cooperate in any way, I simply held her hands and looked her in the eyes and said, "Mommy, I love you so much and I'm just trying to help." Even when she tried to move away, avert her eyes, or ignore me, I persisted with my assertion that I and all the rest of the family are just trying to help because we love her so much.
While I had her attention, I asked for her trust. Trust is not a concept that my mother understands. She never learned to trust anyone. From day one, her environment was simply untrustworthy - unprepared parents, too many siblings, the depression and then her marriage to my father. Instead of the storybook escape from her family and its limitations that she conjured in her imagination, she landed in what she interpreted as the hostile environment of an Italian family in Brooklyn that had absolutely no language for communicating with a little white anglo saxon protestant girl from Rhode Island. And she had no emotional language to communicate with them. I don't remember my parents being really happy, and as I got older, they seemed unhappier. But I digress.
So today, as the window of opportunity to really communicate with my mother is closing quickly, I reached out my hands and tried to touch her. I believe that my mommy is in there, behind that well defended and bitter woman. I've seen her softer side when the two little great granddaughters are around.
After we went out for dinner at a slightly more upscale restaurant than they usually frequent, and which she seemed to really enjoy, I was taking my leave to come home. As I helped her out of the car, she grabbed my arm as if to ask me to wait for a moment. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful. It meant so much to me to hear you say that you love me. I love you too. It's just that it's hard for me to give up my independence. I don't mean to be a pain in the ass."
I was so touched that I barely could breathe. I'm struggling with my own aging process and can't even imagine what it will be like for me when I'm in her 87 year-old shoes. I just took her hand and gave her a hug and said, "Don't worry about it Mom. I'm sure I'll be just as much of a pain in the ass when I get there." She smiled and I wasn't really sure that she heard what I said, but the essence of the exchange was more positive than anything I've had with my mom in years.
