you love her more!
a diary of my mother's stubborn resistance to accept help
17 February 2025:
At my mother’s home this morning I had one goal... get her medication on auto-refill and mailed to her home. Of course, there is no guarantee she will take it. I can only do so much. Before I arrived, I phoned her to tell her the plan, and to set a time.
Honestly, per the instructions of the social worker, I’m trying not to do too much for her because she claims she is self-sufficient and if I keep picking up the pieces she can pretend she’s got this, she can believe she’s humming along just fine.
When I arrived at 10 she was in bed. Her dog had not been outside. The house smelled like food gone bad. With only an hour to dedicate to her today, we wouldn’t make it to CVS. She screamed at me to get out. She told me her home smells terrific. “I’ve got this!”
She is a wreck. I am a wreck.
My husband went by later and ignoring her verbal abuse (fuck you! don’t ever come back!), he emptied her trash, while she screamed, “You love Natalie more than you love me.”
“Yes? And?” he said. “Of course I do.”
Dear Reader, my mother has heartbreakingly always competed with me. Meeting Joel, my then boyfriend for the first time, she answered her door at the agreed upon time in a bikini, slathered in coconut oil, with a tequila sunrise in her hand. When I married she told me I wasn’t allowed to play Pachelbel Canon in D Major (remember we all wanted that song!) because it was to be her song if she someday married. She wore white to my wedding (I know that seems petty to complain about now, but 35 years ago it kinda meant something to me, the young bride). And now, at 85 she is upset because my husband loves me more? It’s all so sad and ridiculous. I wish my mother knew that sometimes love looks like emptying your trash, organizing your meds, getting help in your home.
