The following is a piece I wrote for a Storytelling event . The theme of the evening was “The Seven Deadly Sins”, and my sin was wrath:

A dear friend of mine sent me a chain email for Mother’s Day. (Don’t get me started.) It was a letter from an aging mother to her daughter asking for understanding, patience and love in the face of the trials and tribulations of aging. It asked for the same loving support that was given to the daughter as she grew up. The mother concludes by saying that all she really wants is to be with her daughter and enjoy her company. Well, that’s a lovely sentiment but, REALLY?

While the message was sweet in a sentimental, maudlin sort of way, this idealized vision of the complex mother/daughter dynamic struck me as fantasy. It made me feel in equal parts annoyed and sad. I found myself mourning for a relationship that never existed.
My mother is an emotional terrorist. (She moves through the world in a metaphorical bomb vest that might detonate at any moment, spraying anyone in the vicinity with emotional shrapnel.) And a raging control freak. There are only 2 ways to do something: Her way and the wrong way. Period. If I don’t understand what she wants done then it’s my fault. If I argue, she will argue longer and louder. And the less control she has, the worse she behaves.
She repeatedly read my journal as a teenager and said it was my fault for not hiding it. I wanted to get married in her backyard but had to change the location of my wedding because she refused to allow my stepsiblings in the house and I wouldn’t disinvite them. This is not a product of old age. Old age has just exacerbated the trait. For years, my husband has taken a certain devilish pleasure in imitating my mother by cutting me off repeatedly in mid-sentence for several minutes by repeatedly saying, “You’re wrong.” As in, “I think –“You’re wrong”. “but – “You’re wrong”. “It’s just – “You’re wrong”.
Yes, I managed to develop a sense of humor and even some peace after I was able to put 3000 miles between us, and the giddiness of living without the threat of emotional violence had become normal. Then her physical and mental health failed. And I discovered, in spite of it all, that I have the heart of a devoted daughter. I don’t know if it’s a Jewish thing, or just some sort of annoying moral compass, but I’m all she’s got and I won’t turn my back on her when she’s helpless.
So suddenly, here I am, an only child completely responsible for managing the care of my bed-ridden, partly demented parent who, while she loves me deeply, is stubborn, petulant, petty, manipulative, narcissistic, abusive and sometimes cruel. And then she doesn’t remember any of it. I could be frothing at the mouth with my head about to explode and she’s moved on to the next episode of Law and Order; SVU. I am often torn between compassion for her ill health and isolation, and rage at her bad behavior.

Now, granted, it would be difficult for anyone to adjust to being completely dependent on others, especially if you have always been fiercely independent. I cannot imagine requiring assistance to bathe, dress, sit up, and eat. And the humiliation of diaper changes…. Not to mention having a stranger in your home 24/7. That would make a person cranky. However, the extreme level of vitriol directed at these women who are just trying to do their job is another matter.
It takes a rotating team of 3 women to provide 24 hour care for my mother. I have lost count, but I think she has gone through about 25 aides in the last 3 years. I kid you not. According to her, they are alternately dumb, dirty, slovenly, speak poor English, don’t pay attention, pay too much attention, are too rough, don’t have any training…Let’s just say I’ve gotten weary of the litany.

The saga with the nursing aides started when she was in residential rehab for a few months after a fall shattered her shoulder. It was clear that she’d be too much for the regular nursing staff to handle, so I found a woman named Ruth whose business is being a health care manager for the elderly. While in the rehab my mom went through half of Ruth’s roster of aides. She was so nasty and abusive that they just refused to stay. Or she decided they were incompetent and fired them.
Back in her own apartment, the revolving door of three women had to pass through the 7th circle of hell in order to keep their job. It wasn’t long before Mom went through the rest of Ruth’s roster, basically alienating the entire Filipina nursing community in New York. It was like trying to find a forever home for a fighting dog from the Pit Bull rescue.
In addition to the aforementioned inexcusable offenses, one was accused of being a hypochondriac. One was dismissed for wearing a lotion that made my mother sick. One brought food that smelled disgusting. One went barefoot. Several were fat and wore clothing that was too tight. They couldn’t be trusted to shop for groceries or cook or manage medications. They ate all of the candy and cookies. They were either bossy and argumentative, or passive and lazy. They were nosy, thieving liars. They were incapable of engaging in conversation. They had too many problems in their own lives. They hovered, or hid in their room and had to be called.
I was present for some of the abuse during my monthly visits and it was awful. She would scream at them and order them and complain loudly about them in insulting or racist terms while they could hear in the next room. She railed about one poor woman whom she insisted made the arm rest on the silk chair dirty with her hair oil so she was banned from the living room and my mom hid the remote for the TV. (Never mind that the chair had been used by friends and family for 30 years.) It would start within a couple of hours of their arrival. I started to feel like the Yankee daughter of the plantation owner. I could do little but offer sympathetic looks and the occasional confidential apology to acknowledge my embarrassment, which was extreme. I would try to explain that it wasn’t personal, but it sure seemed like it was. How were they to know that she was nasty to everyone? It was exhausting, but I was determined. My soul was bruised from a lifetime of this shit. I was fighting for my life.
Ruth finally told me there was nothing else she could do for us because all of the women talk and they all know about my mother. Mom simply wondered how Ruth could run her business if she didn’t have any good people.
I tried an agency, but my mother threw the woman out and refused to pay her after getting in a screaming match about lying, so that was the end of that.
Just when I thought I would truly lose my mind and my ability to sleep through the night, I finally lucked upon a relatively stable situation with three women who are going to be up for sainthood. In the evening a spunky, smart Irish woman who doesn’t take any crap cajoles her with charm and humor. She only has to spend a couple of waking hours with my mom watching crime shows before she goes to sleep. I interviewed the new weekday woman myself and gave her frank and fair warning. I also gave her detailed instructions on how to properly scramble an egg. She is sweet and gentle, with infinite patience, and seems to have won my mom over by simply never arguing with her. The weekend woman is calm and strong and completely unflappable in the face of insults and some serious abuse. She saved my mother’s life with the Heimlich Maneuver when she was choking on vitamins. Of course, my mom complains that her ribs still hurt from that episode because she was too strong.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed and buy them very nice birthday gifts. While I am eternally thankful that she can afford private care, I have witnessed first hand that sometimes you can’t pay someone enough to put up with being abused. And if they don’t stay, her wrath becomes my problem again and again and again. I am at the mercy of her temper, even when it is not directed at me. I guess, in the end, I’m in the same boat as the aides. Except I can’t quit.