I'm Not Mother Theresa

I'm a sober daughter, a work in progress trying to do the next right thing

Why am I still here?

If I could, I’d been gone, baby, gone. This country took a sharp right turn into I don’t want to be here anymore. If I left, what would I do with Mom? I won’t put her in a facility. Promised both of us that.

But, I’m no saint.

I don’t know about good, but decades in recovery have helped me become more right-sized. My problems are no longer the most important or the worst. I’m not the biggest asshole in the room, the worst daughter, neither irreplaceable nor irredeemable. I do, however, own being a condescending run of the mill jerk at times. I’m not most adjectives ending in -est anymore. That includes bestest daughter.

I’m not the best daughter.
I’m her best daughter—also her only daughter.

The night shift

Mostly, I work the graveyard shift—I’m all night or on-call. Like agency night-shift aides, who (frequently) show up loaded with snacks, on the phone, then plop themselves in front of the tv—

I’m a warm body in the vicinity should something go wrong.

Mom falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, between 4:30 and 5:00 pm, sleeping through dinner. I’m bedside for an hour or so, playing Connections on my phone and hoping she stays asleep.

Come morning, she craves company and talks to the invisibles—I stream podcasts into her room because the voices assure her. A good person, a good daughter, would sit with her.

I let Ira Glass babysit.

I watch the clock, counting down the minutes until the aide will arrive and I can turn the baby monitor off.

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Sleep

She’ll wake somewhere in the vicinity of any god-damned time between 4am and noon, then the day is divided by meal/times and med/times and bed/times.

She’s always had a special relationship with sleep. She’d drop off stopped at a red light while driving. In any dark theater, we fed M&Ms to her—one at a time—to keep her awake.

Today, it’s more unpredictable.

Today:

• She’s snoring. You sneeze—or blink and she’s already half out of the bed talking to someone you can’t see. Then, she’s snoring. Or not.

• Mumbling & slumbering, an hour into deep sleep, tiptoe into the kitchen to eat, stopping the microwave before the ding, the moment the food is plated, she’s up.

• Dead to the world when the aides leave so quietly you can’t hear the door close. Mom senses a disturbance in the Force and Pop goes the Weasel, she’s up. Then she’s down again. Or not.

Clap on! Clap off!

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I’ve promised I wouldn’t drug her for my convenience. I haven’t, but really, it’s not fair (::stomps foot petulantly::); she gets to have drugs I loved and she’s not even enjoying them.

• Morphine

• Benzos

• Anti-psychotics

• Ambien

• Cough syrup with codeine

I think about dosing her so we I can have a quiet night.
I think about stealing just a taste, just to take the edge off.
I don’t do either.

I’m still no saint.

I don’t process stress like a normal human by crying, screaming, or running. I don’t always recognize feelings. Rather than have feelings, I used to drink all the drinks, take all the drugs, and wake up too many mornings next to all the strangers.

Then I got sober, and those three coping strategies (drink, drug, fuck) morphed into:

Hives / Herpes outbreaks / Chronic Ulcerative Colitis / Cortisol Triggered Itching / Emotional eating.

Thankfully, not all at the same once, but understand this—

I don’t know a situation is stressful until it literally bites me in the ass and I’m bleeding somewhere I’m not supposed to bleed.

So no good girl points on my saint card

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It’s a gentle spring day, we’re in the park watching kids play. An elderly man says Hi to her, then turns to me, “That’s my friend.”

Really. You wanna push her around, old man?
I didn’t say that, but I thought it. I used to be shocked at a friend who’d hand her newborn off to just about anyone, then walk away to talk to this one or that.

I get it now.

I’d happily give my mother to a man I’ve never seen before. Not forever, but you know, for an afternoon.

Close to lunch, a young mom collects her kid from the bench near us. As they walk away, Mom mutters, “Bitches.” Her mumbles are stage whispers you can hear in the back row. Without amplification.

I move us nearer the icey truck and the nice icey lady we’ve seen for seven years. She kneeled down to smile at Mom. In my peripheral hearing (is that a thing? it should be a thing), I hear Mom, in her best Linda Blair/Exorcist voice, “I’ll kick you!”

Nice icey lady apologized, “I know she doesn’t mean that…”¹

—Yeah, but she might, so if I was you….

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The truth is, it’s easier than you think to be the “sole” caregiver when you can afford full-time aides, 8 hours a day, 7 days a week.

That’s privilege² .

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I’m on autopilot: Feeding, toileting, and walking Mom (walking: pushing Mom in a wheelchair while she complains, “This is too much walking.” Really? For whom, old lady, because you’re just sitting there.)

I’m no Mother Theresa.

1. I have paid help.
   If we could afford more hours or had a bigger place, we’d have live-in help.
   I miss my life.
   I miss long, hot showers.
   Hot meals that are still hot.
   Uninterrupted poop time.
   I don’t remember what I did when I had free time.
   I don’t remember free time.

2. I once tied her to the wheelchair.
   On the way home from anywhere, she drops her foot—a biological parking brake—ending forward motion. Place her foot back on the footpedal, walk two, maybe three steps.
   Foot down.
   Repeat.
   Occasionally, she yells “TAKE ME BACK!” which is where you were headed anyway because it’s almost 2:30 pm, the witching hour when morning meds start wearing off and you want to get home before someone becomes a screaming pumpkin…too late.
   Foot down.
   “TAKE ME BACK!”
   Neighbors pass, most know I’m not hurting her as I unlace my sneaker and tie her leg to the wheelchair while she thrashes, yelling “Help! Help! Ow!” because it hurts when your leg is tied to something and you try to struggle free. Yes, it does.

3. I scream back, repeating whatever she says, because it doesn’t matter what I say, but I really need to scream.

4. I walk fast, anxious to slip the lunchtime anti-anxiety meds into her pureed papaya.

5. I tiptoe around in the morning so she doesn’t know I’m there, hoping she’s not fully awake until the aide arrives.

6. I do the same thing at night.

7. I covet her drugs.

8. I resent all the things (see list below) that have to be done at night when I’d rather be on the couch, sleeping, or gallivanting with friends. I still have a few. Friends that is. And there are still have one or two gallivants left in me.

   1. Personal calls³

   2. House cleaning⁴

   3. Physical therapy

   4. Writing

   5. Reading

What qualifies one as a secular, no miracles required, lowercase saint, you ask?

saint /seɪnt/ ●●○ noun
informal someone who is extremely good, kind, or patient.

❌ I’m not extremely good.
🤗 I try to be kind.
🔜 Patience is a virtue I’m working on.
💥 I was created using the instant gratification template.

What I am is a sober alcoholic. A work in progress.
I struggle to be a worker among workers—while still believing I’m the smartest one in the room.
A work in progress, I no longer throw things at someone, just near them.

Right-sized

The 7th step of my 12-step recovery process involves developing a realistic view of myself, getting honest with myself about my life and place in the world. We call that being right-sized. It’s kind of the key to everything.

Next Right Thing

1933, a woman asked Carl Jung for advice on how to live. From Marginalia, edited by me because I’ve already gone on too long.

There is no single, definite way for the individual ... If that’s what you want you had best join the Catholic Church, where they tell you what’s what. (Q)uietly… if you do with conviction the next and most necessary thing, you are always doing something meaningful and intended by fate.

With kind regards and wishes,
Yours sincerely,
C.G. Jung”

That’s all I got.
It’s all I need, I think.

With kind regards and wishes,
Yours sincerely,
J. Sh. Doff, a human work in progress

For more info about the Kevin the Cat’s veterinary tribulations….

1. She once put her foot in the middle of my back as I turned to leave and pushed me half way across the room. She found that hysterically funny.

2. And the frugal planning of a Depression era Mom

3. I don’t have much to say because almost every day is the same as the last. It’s Groundhog Day meets the Golden Girls. But, I do want to hear what fun things you’re doing. Are you having escapades? I used to have escapades. I was the escapadiest.

4. But seriously, I’m not a cleaner. I’m more of a neatener, a putter-awayer.