Sunday started out pretty good. My family and my sister’s family all went over to walk Mom’s dog, who is such a crack up, we were all laughing at this goofy mutt’s antics.

I have to be honest. When looking at how my mom could simplify her life, I’d definitely considered she should not have gotten a puppy this year. This dog gave her a concussion (one of Mom’s trips to the ER) by wrapping around her legs while on a leash, and then bounding off running. Even so, after our walk, I had to admit the dog is worth it for being a sheer bright spot in the universe.

My little nephews have been scared of the dog, who has quickly grown to be much bigger than they are. But since my kids were not scared (no shade to Middle’s kids, size makes a big difference) and all the adults were laughing, the little boys made these brave in-roads to playing with the dog. Middle: happy! Mom: Happy! Everybody: cackling at that dumb dog.

After the walk, we again went to the park we’d gone to Saturday. Again, kids and adults played ball. I could hardly believe the perfectly mild weather for August.

Mom pulled me aside and gave me a copy of Dad’s will and asked I read it. Then she asked if I’d sign a DNR.

She directed me the section of Dad’s wishes on life saving treatments. It was about a page long, and pretty specific, stating he would not even want a feeding tube if his quality of life would suffer. “Medical care can prevent someone’s death, but not always extend their life,” he had told me once.

I’d seen the document before, probably have a copy somewhere in my house even. I knew the contents without having to read it. Here’s the thing that brought me to tears: The date and location at the top of the page. My father had signed these documents in the Midwest, when he’d still been a doctor, more than fifteen years and four moves ago. Probably also the last time he’d been completely in his right mind. Back when Brittney Spears had been in her denim dress wearing, Justin Timberlake shagging heydey.

I could hear my father’s voice in every word, speaking in coherent, thoughtful, complete sentences. I hadn’t realized how much of him I’d already forgotten.

“If this is what he wanted, you should do this,” I said.

“The DNR is different. It means if Dad had a heart attack, or was in a car accident, the doctors have to try and save his life, unless you have a signed Do Not Resuscitate paper you can show them. I want you to look at what your Dad wrote about end of life care, and tell me if you feel comfortable agreeing to a DNR for him.”

“What would the DNR cover?” I asked. “Just emergency treatment like ventilator or CPR, or does it mean stuff like dialysis?”

“Any major lifesaving treatment. All of the kids would have to agree to it. And of course, you could change your mind any time.”

That made me angry. “What does it matter if we sign then? When the shit hits the fan, one of us will break and revoke the DNR, right? If you call us to say Dad’s dying, one of us will want him kept alive until we get there at least.”

“That’s why I want you to all sign it now,” she said. “If something happens, I’ll have the papers with me, and I won’t call anyone until it’s over.”

Kids playing ball in the grass is so fucking picturesque when you are bawling and at once horrified by what your mother is saying, but also you know it’s the only way to do what needs to be done. One of us would definitely crack, right? But the idea of my dad dying alone is too horrible. I could be to their house in 4 hours. I might make it.

I agreed to sign a DNR for him. It felt like murder on layaway. I know it’s what he wanted. I don’t know what going through with it will do to me. Maybe that’s just the part of me that’s still a child talking.

My mom seemed oddly… smug? It made me angry at her in the moment, like she had brought the DNR stuff up on purpose to make me cry, to show I was weak somehow. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that’s not true. It doesn’t even make sense from a logical standpoint.

After, the conversation turned to Middle. Maybe I brought up my sister’s worry about Dad’s care. Although I’m fairly sure that morning Middle had texted Little and me, announcing Dad was on the wait list for several residential homes. It’s possible Mom was cc’d as well. What I’m saying is I know Mom was super pissed about Middle’s decision later that day. It’s possible she was already angry about it that morning at the park, but I’m not sure about the timeline.

“I don’t see how it’s any of her concern,” my mother snapped in response to me saying something about Middle’s stress. This shocked me. Caring for Dad in the event of Mom’s death isn’t Middle’s concern?! How could my Mom conceive this wasn’t a terrible stress for my sister?

My mother used to be the Queen of Empathy, looking at situations from multiple perspectives. The idea Mom would say this when her conversations normally involved a hundred layers of nuance like looking through the facets of a cut diamond, left me momentarily speechless.

“She’s worried about–” I started.

“She doesn’t pay our bills. I don’t ask her to take care of your father. She doesn’t take care of my house. What on earth does she have to worry about?” Mom said in a sassy-indignant tone, as if she’d read it off a support board, someone cheering her on in telling us all to fuck off. But how could Mom believe she had complete ownership over worrying about Dad?

“You are in the deepest realm of this Hell, no doubt,” I said, talking slowly. “But you’ve got to know there are other levels of Hell here. Having front seats to this and zero control has got to be hard on her,” I said, meaning that it was hard on me, but not wanting to have a knock-down-drag-out, so framing it mostly as my defense of Middle.

My mother snorted, rolling her eyes as if Middle/I had no idea what Hell was.

In retrospect, I have decided this is probably another symptom of her incredible stress. Perhaps believing her children are big whiners who don’t know what real pain is is better than understanding no one is making it out of this situation undamaged. Knowing what I do of who my mother used to be, it’s almost comforting to believe she loves us so much she simply cannot face that the horror happening to her is in any way touching us. Or, of course, there’s the possibility that her darkness is so much darker than I can even fathom, that by comparison, Middle and I are big whiny babies.

But in the moment, all I could do was look over at the rest of my family frolicking in the friggin’ dappled sunlight, and wonder why my mother had maliciously ruined my opportunity to enjoy it; I could have been playing ball instead of talking DNRs and defending Middle, who’d kept me up half the night before with her worries.

Sitting next to me, Mom’s eyes bright, her posture perfect, that smug satisfaction simmering in her skin.

What I thought was: she is energized by this.

Which has always been true of my mother; she lives for interpersonal interactions, especially the heavily emotional type. Meanwhile, I wanted to crawl into a hole and not speak to anyone for a month. Which has historically also felt true: my mom is not above forcing emotionally charged altercations to get that high.

So then this ugly thought, she made me cry for the boost.

And finally, horribly and shamefully, about the woman raised me and supported me all my life: I’ve got to get out of here. She is a vampire.