Chapter 11 - I Could Not Simply Take Mom Away
My first instinct was:
Move her.
New facility.
Private room.
Best memory-care unit money could buy.
Rachel stopped me.
“So you’re going to solve the problem exactly the way you solved it last time?”
I stared.
“With money.”
I hated her briefly.
Then understood.
Mom still had preferences.
Some days she knew where she was.
Some days she knew me.
Some days Luca.
Some days neither.
A geriatric care manager evaluated the home.
We installed independent caregivers.
Medication management moved to a pharmacy blister-pack system.
Dr. Hargrove coordinated with psychiatry to taper unnecessary sedating medication safely.
No abrupt stopping.
No dramatic overnight awakening.
That mattered.
Mom improved somewhat.
Less daytime sleepiness.
Fewer falls.
More clarity in the mornings.
She still had dementia.
The disease was real.
Medication had made it worse.
Isolation had made it worse.
Fear had made everything worse.
Luca moved out under an interim agreement after the forged-document investigation progressed.
Wendy went with him.
He fought the restriction.
Then stopped.
I stayed.
For three months.
Cancelled contracts.
Lost a client.
Missed an awards event in Dubai.
Nothing collapsed.
That embarrassed me.
I had spent six years believing absence was demanded by success.
Sometimes it was demanded.
Sometimes I simply preferred it.
Mom asked the same questions repeatedly.
“Are you staying tonight?”
“Yes.”
Then twenty minutes later:
“Are you staying tonight?”
“Yes.”
At first I answered with patience because I was determined to be good.
By week six, sometimes I sounded tired.
By week eight, once I snapped:
“I already told you.”
Mom looked frightened.
I went into the bathroom and cried.
Caregiving did not turn me into a saint.
It made me understand Luca in ways I did not want.
Repetition.
Exhaustion.
Loss of privacy.
The endless work nobody applauds.
Understanding him did not excuse exploitation.
May you like
It made judgment more precise.
That was different.
