“We suggest you back off for two weeks,” the Memory Care Director advised, when I dropped my mom at her new apartment. “She needs time to settle into her new routine.”
It’s been a week since I’ve seen her. I get daily updates. Meet with the staff frequently. Their reassurance that she’s doing well and has new friends helps.
But I waver between freedom and fear. It’s the closest I’ve been to regaining my life, the furthest from the mother-daughter bond that encircles us like the flourishing vines of bougainvillea in my backyard.
“She keeps talking about the bank owning the house,” said yesterday’s text from the Memory Care director. “I told her not to worry. She thinks that since I’m the attorney, I’ll make sure everything is taken care of.”
I may be distant, but the worries aren’t.