I'm Almost At My Wit's End

I never imagined any situation or circumstance that would bring me to say the title of this post. I learned to stand up for myself, to be independent, self-reliant and self-sufficient when, in my mid-thirties, I found the strength and courage to get out of an abusive second marriage. After eight terrifying years, and after allowing my confidence and self-image to be reduced to their lowest levels, I realized that in order to survive, I had to face my greatest fear: my husband, who was no more than the bully I shared my home with. Friends, neighbors, and co-workers saw him as a loving husband who worked hard to give me everything I wanted. We seemed like the typical family who had a nice, new home complete with the station wagon (yes, it was that long ago) and a Volkswagen sitting in the garage, and the 36 ft. camper and a boat parked in the driveway. In public his sense of humor made people laugh; in private his violent nature made me cry. Out of fear and shame, I hid our private life from everyone, even my family, and somehow managed to hold down a full-time job at the town bank.  

I was worn down to skin and bones but an intense will to survive enabled me to draw up every little once of strength and courage that I had left. When the moment came, I stood up straight as an arrow in front of him, looked into his cold, chillingly empty eyes, and told him I wanted a divorce. Then came his about-to-blow signals that had always terrified me most: tightly clinched jaws, twitching facial muscles, arms poised rigidly at his side with clenched fists. And then, through gritted teeth, came the words that always made me back down: “If you leave me, I’ll kill you.”

That time I didn’t back down. I moved in even closer to his face and told him to go ahead and do it if that’s what he wanted to do because I would rather be dead than live another day with him. Then I turned and walked away with the sound of my frightened heartbeat drowning out every other sound around me, expecting him at any moment to attack me from behind. Fortunately, he didn’t, and I know it was because, for the very first time, he saw no fear in my eyes, only contempt and determination, and a glaring stare back that said I was as determined to go as he was to make me stay. He’d lost, and he knew it. He started crying, and I'll bet he is probably out there somewhere crying to this day. That blubbering bully had held me captive in a miserable relationship for eight years, all because I was afraid and allowed him to do it.

Talk about a life lesson, and also my first real lesson of what a slow, and late, learner I was. I vowed then to never be afraid to meet my fears head on and to always stand up for myself, and others, when I knew it was right. I went on with my life and have never failed to live up to the promise I made myself that day. And I have never regretted it, not for one moment. I’ve tackled every challenge that’s come my way, some of which I probably shouldn’t have, like publishing a community magazine when I didn’t have the first clue about what I was doing. Fortunately, that worked also, but I paid the personal price for that decision in many ways. With that, as with all challenges, I held to the thought that I’d at least try and if I didn’t succeed, well, I’d just always wish I had. I’d do my best and that’s all asked of myself. I usually succeeded, and if I didn’t, I came close and I was happy.

But I can’t have that devil-may-care attitude about the challenge I’m facing now. And I won’t be happy if I only come close to succeeding because not succeeding means failure, failure at the most critical challenge, and important responsibility, of my life. Mother placed her life in my hands almost nine years ago when she asked me to make her medical decisions when she no longer could, and to please take care of her and not let her end up in a nursing home. That’s one heck of a serious responsibility, and one that I took, and take, to heart. Living every day she possibly can is obviously important to her or she wouldn’t fight so hard to hang on. That makes it doubly important to me because I promised to help her as long as she wanted to go on. As a result, I’ve fought hospitals, doctors, nurses, nurses aides, x-ray technicians, phlebotomists, any body and every body who didn’t think her life or her care were important enough to take decent care of. To do less is unconscionable. Boy, I use that word a lot lately.

She deserves that, and like I keep saying, so does every one else. She may be old and her mind may not be what it used to be, but she’s a human being whose life and care is just as important to her and those who love her as the middle-aged or young person’s down the street. You don’t just push old folks to the back of the bus because they’re old. You take care of them, comfort them, show them compassion and respect like you would anyone who is not well. Get rid of the damned attitude of just “keeping them comfortable”, at least until they’re at the end of life and there’s nothing else you can do for them. Mom’s not there yet, so I fight for her life every day, and for her right to live it until she and God decides it’s time for her to go.

But I’m losing the fight. I’ve tried every way I know how to find a way to earn a little living so I can supplement the loss of income from a loan, secured by our condo, that was promised by a family member, and promised to continue until Mom died or the condo sold. They changed their mind, so as a last resort, I came up with the brilliant idea of starting a blog, hopefully building a readership, then directing them to my new Web site that would contain an Amazon aStore. I spent untold hours, and into the wee hours of the mornings, getting this blog set up, which I now have a hard time posting to. The Web site and aStore are in the early stages of completion and I haven’t had time to work on them for over two weeks. In the meantime, aides, which were my only chance of ever having time, keep coming and going; the dust is so thick I could write my name on the tabletops; laundry is piled up; the cupboard is bare because I can't get to the grocery store; things are just totally out of control. And I’m tired, beaten down, and almost void of hope when it comes to pulling us out of this downward spiral that will end with Mom in a nursing home and me destitute. Such a deal. I can’t stop asking God why everything I need and have tired to do to save us remains so far out of reach, and why now at such at important juncture of Mom’s life, and of mine. I’m mad, and frustrated, and broken hearted. I go to Mom’s bed and look down into her sweet face and those trusting eyes and I can hardly bare it. She depends on me. We’ve grown old together, and the difficult times we’ve shared have only brought us closer. And I’m failing her. It’s killing me.

She’s been calling me for the past few minutes and I keep asking her to give me just one more minute so I can finish writing my thoughts. She has, and for only one little minute, and then she fusses again. A moment ago after a short silence I heard, “Honey”. Yes, Mom. “I love you.” If she could have added, “Do you love me enough to come here now?”, she would have. Ouch. She hooked me on that one. So I’m going to her now and I’ll talk to her and hug and kiss her, or reposition her, or feed her pudding, whatever I have to do to pacify her. And throughout it all, I will be looking at that sweet face and into those trusting eyes, and my heart will break. There will surely be nothing left of it before this is over, not one little piece.

Till next time,