Mom sat on her beige flowered couch next to my sister. My brothers and I sat in the three battered old armchairs that my parents carried from living room to living room over many years. I noticed, not for the first time, how Mom's noisily patterned couch clashed with her Home Depot oriental rug. I blame myself: I helped her choose that rug.
I self-consciously handed around the one-page spreadsheet I had prepared for the discussion and explained my rating system. Before I could start my lecture, my scrawny mother commandeered the floor.
“I hope everyone understands if I want to give Carol a little something to compensate her for being my caregiver,” my mother said to the group. Oh boy. Despite my self-admonition to remain calm, my heart rate increased slightly. A little something could be $1,000. On the other hand, it could be $20 for gas. It's always money, though. It's never a banana cream cake or a slice of tiramisu. Or a trip to the Bahamas. Or enough money to actually make a difference.
I was embarrassed. She could tell. “No, I just mean, you have done so much work!”
“My sister came all the way across the country to help you sort and pack up stuff,” I reminded her, trying to get the focus off me.
“Well, as my designated care-giver, the burden has mostly fallen on you,” she said. “That is why I want to give you something extra.”
Knowing that my sister plans on killing herself when she runs out of money in eight years, I said, “Can we talk about you, Mom? This family meeting is to support you in your decision to move.”
“Okay, okay,” she grumbled. The conversation turned back to evaluating the five retirement communities she and I had toured. My brothers asked rationale questions. We all agreed Mom and I would see a financial planner to talk about the relative advantages of selling or renting her condo. Then we ate Chinese food. My brother left to drive back to the coast. My younger brother went home to his zoo. Mom, my sister, and I sat in a row on the couch and watched a DVD of Singing in the Rain. Then I went home and collapsed.
I'm beginning to see my ongoing vertigo as a metaphor for my out-of-balance life. The vertigo started about the same time Mom made her choice of retirement community. She had told me, even before we all met, which place suited her best. In our family discussion, we all agreed she chose the best deal, but she'd already made up her mind. She chose the least expensive option, which oddly was the one that had the best food. She also chose the one that would allow her to rent a second bedroom in preparation for the time when she might need a live-in caregiver. (All eyes can now swivel toward me.)
The mere possibility that I might choose to give up my sacred sanctuary, AKA The Love Shack, to move in with my scrawny maternal parental unit has been percolating in my brain since she made her choice. Nothing has happened yet, nothing is different, but I think some part of my psyche recognized that the metaphysical rug is quite possibly about to be pulled out from under my feet. Hence, vertigo.
Of course, it could just be I'm more likely to get vertigo because I'm female and in my late 50s. It could have nothing to do with emotional stress and fear of the future. It could have nothing to do with the prospect of leaving my nest to orbit my mother and watch her die. I mean, how can you know if your emotions are killing you? I think we know in general stress has physical consequences, but how do you know that your stress is killing you? Could it just be random chance? Of course it could.
Life is constantly killing us. That's not random chance, that is 100% guaranteed certainty.
