So here’s an embarrassing confession:  In the midst of baby death and dementia and my own middle age, I’m actually kind of happy.

My children are all in school full time this year.  I worried about empty nest angst, or that I’d develop a laziness so severe I’d watch TV until the fabric of the couch melted into my skin.  But!  None of these things are happening.  Instead, I feel like I am going back to 20.  Which is the last time I can remember having this floating sense I can do whatever I want.  At least, I can until 2:30.

I should also confess that prior to Little’s stillbirth – way back in the summer months – my parents rented a beach house and stayed for a month within a few minutes drive of me.  Everyone was pretty nervous that moving houses for a month would kick Dad’s mental legs out from under him.  I was scared seeing them face-to-face for thirty days would be depressing as hell and perhaps uncover How Bad It Really IS, a truth I figured physical distance had protected me from.

In the week before they arrived, and into their first week here, I had Honest to God heart arrhythmia– the fluttery, heart rolling in my chest kind.  Even Dr. Google attributed this to stress, so I felt free and clear from impending death.  But I had to sit back, kind of amazed as it happened two, three even four times a day.  Holy shit, that’s a new level of stress for me.

But it actually turned out fine.  My dad didn’t fall apart.  My mom perked up.  It was stressful for my kids as my parents are care-worn to the point of raggedness, but I could limit their exposure to small doses during the day.

Middle decided she wanted to bring her kids down to celebrate their birthdays.  Then Little wanted us to throw her a small baby shower since we were all together.*  So in one weekend, we were all crammed into a tiny beach house, eating birthday cake and playing baby shower games, kids running around in circles in the backyard with bubble stuff.  My dad wandered in and out, generally looking pleased.  The weather was perfect.

Once, I went over to their house at 9:00 in the morning, with the plan to take everyone to the park before it got too hot.  My sleepy eyed father got up, and poured himself a morning OJ sized glass of wine.  I’m not sure if he understood it was wine, or just figured it was a drink in the fridge (in a box with a spigot after all).  He drank it along side a breakfast of oatmeal and went back to bed.

*that we did this feels perfectly balanced between good and horrible.  I’m so glad we got to do this to honor Little’s baby, but it breaks my heart to think of it.

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After Little’s stillbirth, it became disturbingly clear to Middle and me  that there is no plan about what to do with Dad if something happens to Mom.  My mother has been fastidious about getting our names on power of attorney notes, and as co-signers on all their accounts.  We have been named as trustees and given instructions about funerals and end-of-life choices.  So when she said, “put Dad in a home” in the mix of all those other instructions, I’d nodded, eyes kind of glazed over.

Now it’s clear that “put Dad in a home” is ridiculous.  What home?  What kind of care does he need?  How do I convince him he needs to go?  I know he won’t want to, especially if Mom is gone and the house is the only thing he knows.  Is there a service that provides burly moving men to physically  remove an angry demented man his own home? Can I watch that happen to my father (under my order, even) and keep my heart intact?

Middle and I ganged up on Mom, and said, “Hey, at least pick out a home,” because (as Mom reluctantly told me in the midst of refusing to chose a home) Dad’s limited to facilities that can inject insulin and have a dementia wing.

(Which I guess is some fairly specialized combo of higher level care… which I can’t quite wrap my head around, since aren’t they calling dementia Type III diabetes in some circles now?  I mean, seems like diabetics with dementia should be a thing.)

But my mother will not.  “What if there’s even a month’s waiting list to get into a home? (And that’s after figuring out exactly what Dad needs, deciding on a home, etc.,)” we demanded.  Mom didn’t answer.

I kept expecting a solemn email, or a hushed phone call from her after the shock wore off.   Eventually, I realized she wasn’t going to ever tell us.   Not so much as a “Here are the multitude of drugs your dad now takes, here’s his schedule, here’s what to watch out for” blurb.  You know Break Email In Case of Emergency.

None of her kids have the ability to spend a month in her house, taking care of a father whose medical needs are a mystery to us, waiting for burly men to drag an excessively reluctant Dad to a place where they know how to take care of him.

My mother has always been there for us, and known what to do.  It is very strange to come to the limits of her abilities.  Like standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.   Now I guess it is only a question of how we’re going to do it without her.

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Last confession:  After my parents went back home at the end of the summer, I could sense my mother going back into that depressed place.  With each phone call, she receded to that disconnected and awkward tone, as if my father sat in the same room listening to her every word, or her high pressured speech about daily tedium of bicycling ten miles each morning with Dad to wear him out, or the whispered confession of how mean my dad can get when he thinks Mom’s lording her normal brain over his damaged one.

The past few years, I’ve called her every week, trying to draw her out and keep her connected. I figured she would finally see that she needs help to take care of him, and then I would be there to support that process.  When Little delivered her stillborn, I thought for sure my mother would finally see she can’t crawl onto my father’s funeral pyre — the rest of us need her.  I guess it broke something in me that even the death of a grandchild could not bring my mother back.

I’m starting to let go.  Instead of calling each week, it’s slipping to every ten days.  Instead of emailing her to say something small and lighthearted, I think twice and close the note.  It’s a relief to not go into that dark place where she stays.  I know to be a good person, I should keep holding on to her, but I don’t know if I can.   I feel equal parts ashamed and self-righteously angry and relieved.