Elder Care 101: Up Your Xanax Rx

What I’ve learned taking care of my ailing mother over the past six months

This past October, my 77-year old mother moved to an assisted living facility near me from upstate New York where she grew up — and lived for the past 20 years. She chose to move back to her childhood home where she experienced alarming trauma because that is the definition of healthy living.

Her health took a nosedive last Spring creating insurmountable chaos for my sister and me — who very intentionally live thousands of miles from Upstate New York.

And by Upstate New York I’m not talking about the charming, bucolic landscape of the Hudson Valley where you can munch on homemade foie gras while tending to your beautiful 300-acre waterfront estate. Oh no. This is the Upstate New York where the meth heads roam and fashion, technology and dreams died in 1982.

My sister and I drew straws to determine if our mother would move to California where she lives — or Austin, where I live. You know by the title of this piece who “won.”

Growing up, my mother was a basket case. She suffered from crippling depression that went untreated — and many other mental ailments that went undiagnosed. How glorious the ‘80’s were — complete with big hair bands, Reaganomics and an utter lack of mental health awareness.

Unsurprisingly, she was not the most available or loving mother one could have.

My sister and I survived our childhood as many do, and went on to be productive, successful adults in our own rights. Do I think we deserve a medal for that? Damn skittles I do — but instead of a medal, we now get to manage the care of our ailing, ornery, unstable mother… and by we I mostly mean me given my geographical “advantage.”

Winner winner, Xanax dinner.

Here are some key takeaways from this exciting journey to date:

Sibling personalities come out to play out on center stage. My sister is a very nonchalant, go with the flow, let it roll off your back human. I always thought I was too, but I am definitely not. It is also easier to be calm, cool and collected when you are not the main contact for your mother, her army of doctors and caretakers, bill collectors, banks, bizarre neighbors and curious relatives.

Me: Shit, Mom isn’t take her meds. Sister: And? Me: I’m pretty sure that’s what’s keeping her alive at this point. Sister: And?Me: Well, she has to take them! Sister: Why? Me: Because she’ll die if she doesn’t! Sister: And?

Throw all the money at the problem. It doesn’t matter whose money it is. Rob a bank if you need to. Outsourcing her care to the extent her finances allow has been my saving grace. I do not have the patience, time or desire to be a chauffeur to her countless doctors’ appointments. It may sound cold, but see above about her charming disposition that has only grown more charming with age.

Make shit up to justify above expenses to your ailing mother. That’s right. I have about six part-time jobs right now. It doesn’t matter if these are all unpaid. My “jobs” include: walking my own dog, chauffeuring my children, cleaning my own house, showering, short-order cooking and homework tutor to my kids as I cry into my lukewarm glass of Chardonnay. That’s right — I have six part-time jobs, and that’s all she needs to know.

Beg your doctor for Xanax. The endless to-do list of life is enough to keep anyone awake at night. The endless to-do list of elder care is enough to make you question why humans must live so damn long these days. Call your primary care doc, explain the situation, and run to the nearest pharmacy to win back your sleep.

Laugh. This isn’t always the easiest, but it is by far the most cathartic on this list. My sister was just out here to help me move our mother from one facility to another and was flabbergasted by the amount of crap she had acquired in a very short period of time.

My mother has been a life-long hoarder, though I thought living in such a tiny space with minimal opportunities to shop would limit that. How wrong I was. There we were, tossing countless saltine, sugar, mayo and ketchup packets when our mother was distracted. She was clearly planning to host a party at some point. The menu would obviously be open-faced ketchup and mayo saltine cracker sandwiches with a sprinkling of sugar for added crunch. Yum.

Used, crumb-filled ziplock baggies she intended to re-use were scattered everywhere. Chicken-scratch notes decorated every square inch of the tiny room. We discovered 60 used plastic utensils in a desk drawer that she had every intention of bringing with her to her next abode. We discovered she has 12 pairs of identical black sweatpants that she claimed were stolen by the staff.

Without my sister, I would have felt enormously overwhelmed by the situation and angry that my mother is the way she is — that she made so many poor decisions along the way that led to her rapid decline.

With my sister there, however, I was able to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I was able to take a step back, breathe and recognize that this is my mother’s life — it is not mine.

It may spill over due to the responsibilities I’ve been saddled with — but we are in fact separate entities.

Her fate will not be mine — and if it is, I will grant my children permission to make a run for it and never look back. But leave my ketchup packets alone.