changing rooms

The parts of my childhood that I remember (and I don't really remember all that much from the early years) don't lead me to believe that my mum and I got on all that well. It may be an illusion and I only recall the bad bits in that regard but that's how it seemed to me. We were definitely at odd throughout most of my teen years. I always loved her, we just didn't get on. I left home as soon as I was able, to "get away from her" (as I put it then).

During my early adult years, I was busy gaining qualifications, getting married, having babies and setting up home. Our only contact during that time was (what I call) the duty area. Birthdays, Christmas, births, deaths. Most times it was Mum who initiated things. It didn't help that my husband found Mum's company trying (and made it obvious). She was my Mum and my kids Grandma and we loved her but we didn't really have much to do with her. It seemed like that was just the way things were meant to be.

When we moved over here, I was very aware of her pining for the kids. I kicked myself in the arse and made a concerted effort to keep her in the loop. I took masses of photos of everything we did and sent them over to her. I got the kids to ring her when they had any news (merit awards, scout camps, test scores etc). We made the trek across the plain twice (my god that was a nightmare with a station wagon full of bored kids) and they came to visit a couple of times. It was not unpleasant, (the demands of kids and my father's failing mental health kept us too occupied to rub sparks off each other) but still a duty.

Things changed pretty dramatically when my father's cancer was diagnosed.

Dad's health failed fairly quickly and he was in and out of hospital a lot. I made several trips over in the 11 months it took the cancer to kill him.

During that time, I had some huge discoveries about my Mum, and my Dad and the nature of their relationship. What I learned was a real eye-opener.

I learned that, since the first days of their marriage, my father had maintained absolute and total control of their finances. My mother been given a housekeeping allowance and had to survive on that amount. Even when she was working, her wages had gone straight into my father's bank account. The only money Mum ever had was what he gave her.

She had absolutely no idea what their financial status was. She had never had access to any of their money. Dad had paid the bills and allocated the funds and run the bank accounts. She wasn't even a signatory on the accounts. She owned nothing, the house, car, everything, was in Dad's name. She had no credit rating. Financially, she didn't exist.

When Dad got too sick, Mum had to take over the finances. She had to learn and she had to learn fast (and she did a mighty fine job). She also learned that, whilst she had been scrimping and saving on her meagre housekeeping budget, Dad had been sitting on a very comfortable nest egg.

Over the months of my father's illness, and the time afterwards, I discovered that his financial constrains on Mum were just the thin edge of the wedge. He had controlled almost every aspect of her life. And mine. Mum had never had any say in any important decision. His word had been law and Mum had hidden it from my sister and me for all our years. We had both constantly blamed Mum for the many nos we got during our childhood. It wasn't until I was in my 40s, and watching my father die, that I discovered the truth. I am not saying that my Dad's way of doing things was necessarily wrong, just that Mum had no say. In most cases, she would probably agreed with his decisions, given the chance.

As Dad got sicker, Mum blossomed. She became strong and decisive and capable. And independent.

She started to defy him. Just in little things at first, like wearing a red jumper when he had decreed that red didn't suit her or buying a cheap tin teapot to replace the expensive but crappy pourer that he had selected. As she grew more confident in her abilities, she pushed it even further. She got rid of the blanket on their bed and replaced them with the doona which Dad had, for years, refused to consider. She put photos of the grandkids on display in the lounge room even though Dad thought it was tacky. She stopped drinking the traditional before dinner sherry that Dad enjoyed and had a glass of white instead. She bought (and used) a microwave.

By the time Dad died, Mum was running things very capably and doing it her way. After he died, she displayed an assertiveness I found amazing. Despite huge pressure from (nearly) all around her, she handled things in the way that made her feel comfortable. (For example, she shunned the church funeral that was assumed, much to my sister's disgust, and opted for a family-only scattering of the ashes on a beach.) These were giant giant strides for my Mum. For a woman that had spent the last 50 years being told what to do, she had blossomed into someone that, not only knew her own mind, but acted upon it.

During that time, and in the years since, I have met my mother for the first time. Not the person that she was told she should be, the person she is. And I like that person very much.

This is just a preamble to what I am really thinking about.

Last week, I had a call from my sister. Kat and her hubby had been to visit Mum (and to collect some antique furniture that she was giving them) and were both dismayed at her frailty and breathlessness. The breathing problems are not new but they have been, in the past, associated with stressful situations. The frailty has been increasing over time.

I rang Mum the next day. She immediately asked if Kat had called! (She knows Kat sooooo well.) We discussed the issues raised and cleared the air.

But it got me thinking.

M and I talked about it quite a bit over the last week. And we came to the same conclusion.

The time is coming (fairly rapidly) when Mum can't live alone. She is steadily going blind with the macular degeneration. This is limiting her mobility and, as a result, her musculature is shrinking. My sister is right, Mum is frail.

The idea of her moving over here into a unit and/or house close by is a stop-gap measure. Before long she will need assistance on a reasonably large scale. Moving into a retirement complex is, again, short term unless it is attached to a nursing home type facility. And a nursing home would kill Mum. Having so recently rediscovered her independence, to have it taken away again.....

And we have four empty bedrooms.

Mum doesn't need care, she needs assistance. And who better to give it than me? But she still needs independence. And she can have that here.

We have looked into the logistics and it will be easy to make her comfortable here. I have a builder coming next week to see about knocking down the wall between two of the smaller bedrooms and making one large room. It would be a comfortable bed-sit size so she could have her telly and an armchair for some privacy. She could have her own little nest but still have the support and company of a shared home.

I rang Mum yesterday and put our idea forward. I told her it was a joint decision and we both wanted it to happen. I asked her to just think about it as an alternative to other plans on the table.

The ball is now in her court.