In continuing the discussion from yesterday, my brother called last night. My mother had called him to talk about my father. Of course. She mentioned hospice, but she thought it would hasten my father’s demise if she did that. To which my brother said, ‘Good’. Not to her, I assume, but to me–though not uite so bluntly. He’s in agreement with me that my father is deteriorating rapidly and that my mother needs help. he suggested getting people in to help her.
Here’s the problem with that. The way to do it in Taiwan is to have people rom other countries come in to help. Undocumented workers, which means the situation is ripe for abuse by the employer to the workers. I’m not saying my mother would exploit the workers, but she does have some very classist ideas of when it comes to domestic help.
Here’s the other thing. I’ve been reading stories of people who have watched loved ones waste away from dementia. To a person, they said that putting the person in a hospice earlier rather than later was the key. It allowed them to adjust before the inevitable end, and it was easier in the long run.
My brother couldn’t understand why my mother wouldn’t do it or get help in some way. I had to explain the intricacies of abuse (which is what my father has done to her for fifty years, emotional abuse, at any rate) and why even though she had complete power in this situation, she didn’t feel like she did. That wasn’t going to change just because my father was losing his faculties.
My mother was saying to me that she felt so lost because my father took care of everything (I think she meant financially), but I seriously doubt that was the case in the last five years or so. She has a financial advisor there and here, so she could lean on them if needed.
My brother asked what it would take for me to feel comfortable going there. Apparently, she brought it up. At Christmas, which he thinks is too late. He’s convinced that my father will die by then, but he’s been convinced of that for several years. His body is fine besides the common ailment of older people, and his parents lived to their late nineties. Counterpoint–all his siblings died in their seventies/eighties. He’s the youngest of five and the only one left.
My brother said I could wear an N95, but that’s not the point. Well, it’s kind of the point. I am not wearing a mask for 24 hours. I am not getting on a plane with recycled forced air and people who may or may not be vaxxed, and, more to the point, people who don’t believe COVID was real.
I don’t even got to Taiji class in person any longer. I probably will at some point, but maybe not. It’s not the classes themselves but the fact that I’d have to drive. My peripheral vision is shot, and I don’t think that’s something that will get better with time.
My brother asked what it would take to make me feel comfortable flying to Taiwan. The answer is nothing. That’s not just because of the fraught relationship I have with my parents. I would say that, regardless, because of the COVID situation and how messed up my immune system is. Let’s not forget that the whole medical crisis started with non-COVID-related walking pneumonia. I could not breathe because of it. And it triggered two cardiac arrests and an ischemic stroke. Within twenty minutes.
I think my family sometimes forgets what I went through. I don’t blame them because I forget myself from time to time. But it was a big deal. Bigger than you can imagine. I hate beating a broken drum (no, I actually don’t), but I died. Twice. I bounced back from it like it was nothing, but it was not nothing.
It’s not something I talk about, but it affects everything I say and do. It’s in the back of mi mind even if I’m not consciously thinking about it. I should not be here. I’m not saying this as a way of dismissing what my father is going through.Dementia is an asshole. A big, giant, flaming jerk who needs a kick in the ass. It doesn’t care about anything–only consuming the person it’s inside.
It’s a fuckhead. It’s brutal. It takes no prisoners. And yet.
I’ve said this many times, but it’s hard for me to separate the man from the diagnosis. My father has always been paranoid, thin-skinned, self-absorbed, and has never shown any interest in anyone other than himself. In fact, the last time my parents were here (well, the time before the medical emergency), my mother and I were discussing whether or not what was happening to my father was the dementia or just him.
He had a new CPAP mask and I had to sit in when he and my mother were meeting with the rep because my father couldn’t understand what the rep was saying. I don’t understand Taiwanese or Chinese, so it was me explaining to him in English after I listened to what the rep had to say–in English.
That night at home, my father came into the living room and asked me how to use the mask. As I explained it, there was no recognition in his eyes that he had ever heard it before. Every night they were here, he would come into the living room and ask me the same question. I would explain it to him in exactly the same way, and he would nod as if he understood me.
Then the next night, same question. I was pretty sure this was the dementia beacuse he was desperately trying to paying atttention to what I was saying. That was when I realized how bad the dementia had gotten.
But here’s the thing. There was a long time when it was difficult to tell what was dementia and what was justt my father being an asshole. In fact, it’s still hard to tell sometimes. And the fact that he has dementia doesn’t negate the fact that he’s also an asshole. An abusive asshole.
My mother wants my brother and me to go there. I can’t do it. To be honest, if I were not afraid of getting something, I would maybe consider going. But I don’t even go to Taiji class–I attend online. I know that it’s easy to overlook what happened to me, but it’s a valid reason for me not wanting to travel.
I haevn’t even done a domestic flight since COVID. This would be a 24-hour trip when it’s all said and done. I want to support my mother because she’s breaking, but this is not something I can do. I have urged her to put him in a hospice or bring in help, but she’s convinced that the former will hasten his death and he wouldn’t like the latter.
I’m trying to convince her that it doesn’t matter if he gets mad or not. Or rather, he’s going to get mad no matter what she does. That’s his M.O., and he’s used it like a cudgel for fifty years. His disapproval, I mean. He has made her believe that if she does anything against his wishes, well, the unthinkable will happen. I don’t know if she even knows what that is any longer. He probably doesn’t have to make specific threats because he’s God to her now.
I am doing the best I can. I only have so much I can do from here–and I’m limited in what I can say as well. It’s exhausting to me, and I’m at the end of my rope. I know it’s much, much harder on her, but…it doesn’t have to be THIS hard.
There are no words to break through the decades of abuse. There’s no way to just snap her out of it. To wave a magic wand and make her realize that she is in charge, that she has agency, that she is a powerful woman. Which she is.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. This is not usual for me, and I don’t like it.