Book excerpt from "Designated Daughter: The Bonus Years with Mom"
There comes a crossroads on this journey when our mothers need more help than we can give them. We Designated Daughters try to let go of our illusion of control. Our boundaries shrink again as our mothers are confined to home. Mom is afraid she is turning into Nana—which, of course, she is—with her phone, her reading material, her remote, her calendar, her address book, her glasses, pills, and a bottle of water on her table within cockpit reach of her chair. With plenty of books lined up to read, safe harbor doesn't feel so confining at all. "This is exactly what I thought I'd be doing in old age," she told me from her chair in her teal-blue jogging suit.
We spent low-key time. We tested the fax part of the printer/scanner/fax that Tim sent Mom for Christmas and—surprise of surprises—we couldn't get the faxes between our houses to work.
I called her in the morning. "How are you?"
"Fine."
"Liar."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"Well, white lies. I'm fine, but I feel like shit."
"Energy?" I asked her.
"Fine."
"Lie lie lie lie lie lie. This has been going on for six weeks."
"I'm just as happy to sit," she said.
Helpers come and helpers go, doing the things that Mom can't do. When she bends over to put dishes in the dishwasher, her back hurts so much she screams.
And where am I? Ms. Dishwasher Raison d'Être of the early days? Driving back and forth, feeling guilty. Feeling that I'm not doing enough. Feeling that I am not enough.
Mom talked about hiring "a companion."
"Who could that be except me?" I asked.
"I need you to keep my laughing," she said. "That's what you're here for."