Three Weeks of Hell

It may sound like while things weren't happy, everyone was getting along well and as a family we were heading in the right direction. I wish I could say this would continue. The following three weeks were difficult in the extreme. 

My brother and I arranged a conference call amongst all four of us for Tuesday evening. I had spoken with  my mom about what she wanted after leaving rehab. She had a simple list: her own bed, her own recliner, and her husband in peace and quiet of their own space. I knew at the Garden that could be arranged. 

I knew our conference wouldn't be perfect and that likely my parents wouldn't want to make the move. 

I had not anticipated either the amount of push back on the idea or the lack of cohesion in thinking originating from my dad nor the anger I heard in his voice, a surprise from a mostly mild manner dad. This meeting was the first of a series of rattling conversations he and I had, some with my brother involved, some on my own. 

He insisted I was moving too fast. No matter the ticking time bomb of mom's discharge, it was too fast. He insisted everything didn't have to happen at once. He argued that mom should go home and then they could make a decision later. Let her have a trial at home. 

When pushed back with the medical advice against this, that he could not help her anymore, he couldn't come up with anything. He denied that he had been told about mom not being able to go home. 

We asked for the reverse, we have a big opportunity in the Garden and the large room you would be in, give it a fair try and if it doesn't work you can come home. I asked if he wanted mom to end up having to live all the time at the rehab in skilled nursing, shrug. 

My brother pointed out that the previous summer, he had visited them in the week of mom's strokes and Dad had insisted to him that the symptoms my brother saw were how Mom was. (It took four more days of presumably ongoing micro strokes before my mom fell and couldn't get up and ended up in the hospital.) My brother was concerned about Dad no longer being able to care for mom. On these points my Dad had no arguments. 

Further he denied much of what he had said about the Garden to me. 

After a long conversation, he agreed to give the Garden a try and the following morning to add me to their bank accounts. We agreed that mom would get to see it prior to moving into the room. 

After the conference call, I called my brother to debrief. He and I were still on the same page, but he thought maybe, contrary to what we had though initially, my dad was the one resisting the move. 

Now a year later, I can relate this quietly mostly without emotion, but that day and throughout this period I lived walking on eggshells waiting for explosions and backtracks. I often felt as if I was a rubber band wound to its tightest tension.