The future knocks

There are times in your life when you just have to let go. Supposedly this comes easy to some people, though I’ve never met anyone who would admit this. Whether you’re letting go of your kids, letting go of a city you love, a married partner who needs help you can’t provide, or your parents, at some point you have to let them go. Some people do it even though it’s hard. Some people don’t do it until their hands are forced.

Self-doubt is probably the biggest culprit here, the achilles heel for so many people, as it is for me. How do I know that my parents can live without me? Was I right to let them stay at home, instead of moving them into an assisted-living center of some kind? Did I build enough of a safety net for them?

I decided to leave for two months and will probably move out when I come back.

Did I make the right choice?

Here’s what I know: I think my being at home, living with my parents, is becoming an emotional net negative for everyone involved..

My mom’s anxiety has gotten way worse, and I’m not reacting to it in a healthy way. Sometimes, the situation is silly and I can handle it well. Like when my mom once called me out of the blue, to ask me what to do about the front and back yards and “should we fix it now or wait until we die and then you and Roger can take care of it before selling the house?” Really, that’s what she called to ask.

What the hell do you say to that?

“I’ll talk with Roger about it and get back to you,” I mumbled, planning on forgetting about it.

That seemed to do the trick.

But other times, like when my mom asks me by phone, in person, by leaving me notes, for a total of twelve times, whether or not she can borrow two dollars.

“You’ve already asked me this…” I told her eventually.

“Sorry, I don’t remember,” she mumbled before walking away.

And then suddenly I felt bad for making her realize how poor her memory is.

Or when she calls me and asks if i plan to visit someone in New York, and I tell her that I don’t have that person’s number, and she tells me she can give it to me now, and I tell her that I can’t write it down while talking, and she says she can call me back later, and I tell her I can get it from someone else, and then she reminds me “but I can tell you the number now,” and I remind her that I’m in a restaurant with friends and can’t write it down and that I’ll get it later…

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have anything to write with and can’t type on the phone right now because I’m at a restaurant with friends,” I say, getting really exasperated. It’s also loud in the restaurant and I wouldn’t be able to hear her on speaker phone.

“So then how will you get the number?”

“I’ll ask my uncle later.”

“But I can give it to you now—”

“Mom!” I practically yell, “I’m eating with friends. I can’t get it now.”

“Fine, you take care of it,” she says, and I can tell she’s very upset, and sad.

Here’s what I know: When I first moved back, the first place I looked for help for my parents, for my mom specifically, was her church—one of the churches I grew up in. There was a time when she was one of the most recognizable people there, when she was known for serving others and serving others and even when she was dead and tired, still serving others—to the point where I was known to everyone as Auntie Laiyee’s son. Even when I stopped going and just dropped by to visit, I was Auntie Laiyee’s son. Sometimes, I still am.

And so I was disappointed, though not really surprised, that it seemed like it was difficult finding people who were willing to be a bit proactive about my mom’s situation. I was disappointed that they didn’t try to encourage her to take care of herself or to discourage her from doing things that weren’t in her own interest. I was disappointed that they let her serve in ways that were probably unhealthy for her (but hey, who else was going to do it). Then again, I suppose that almost everyone my mom helped has moved on, and I mean that literally and figuratively in that sadly they’ve passed into another life.

But there is a danger in being too quick to judge. I don’t know where they came from, or whether or not I had any real hand in making it happen, but a few folks have stepped up. One woman who helps drive my mom to various church-related activities and doctor’s appointments. Another woman comes by to go on walks with my mom now that I won’t be around. One guy who always waits with my dad when I go pick him up from church to make sure my dad doesn’t get into the wrong car—this guy’s offered to take them to church while I’m gone.

The best part about all this is that everyone involved considers seeing my parents as one way to check in on them. I see it that way too. The only person who doesn’t see it this way, is my mom. Which is perfect.

My mom has always needed a social circle, and I think she’s finally starting to get one again.

Here’s what I know: I’ve taken on almost all the logistical odds and ends of living, things like bills, taxes, so on and so forth. Someone comes to clean the house every week. All my parents need to do is to live day-to-day, cook, and have someone help drive them around for activities and to buy groceries.

Except for one last thing I need to do. The one problem with my ‘beta test’ was with my dad and the car. And I need to solve it. And on my last day before taking off, I do.

My dad doesn’t need to drive anywhere. He shouldn’t, drive anywhere. But he needs to see the car, and have a key, to feel like he could drive somewhere if he wanted to.

People believe I have a mischievous smile. People rarely believe I actually am mischievous. Oh, but I am; I have a deep pocket for cunning moves. With an assist from my brother, I buy a key that looks exactly like our Honda CR-V key. Actually, it is a Honda CR-V key. It’s just not the key to our Honda CR-V.

When my dad was in the hospital, I took his key away and gave it to my brother. When my dad looked for it one day, I simply told him that he’d lost it.

Now that I’m about to leave, I put the fake key in my pocket and approach my dad, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Dad,” he looks up at me. “Guess what I found.”

I pull the key out of my pocket.

“It’s your car key. I found it! You lost it, remember?”

He looks it over, fidgeting it with his fingers.

“Oh, good. You found it?”

I nod, and smile. Mission accomplished.

Or so I think. Because then my dad speaks up.

“Does it work?” he asks.

I freeze. I was hoping he would just accept that this was the key and let it be. My heart rate jumps a bit.

“Yes,” I lie.

It’s like he knows to be suspicious, but his brain can’t seem to connect why. So he gets up and shuffles towards the garage. My brother and I exchange nervous glances.

“Maybe try to swap it?” my brother suggests.

I plan this out in my head. The car is at least unlocked, so he can get in. But the key probably won’t actually go into the ignition. I decide, that when it doesn’t work, he’ll show it to me, I’ll look at it, and out of sight, swap it with my key, and then tell him to try it again. That’ll do it.

I watch my dad through the passenger window. The key doesn’t go in. But the dashboard does light up. I guess that if the ignition detects metal, the dashboard automatically lights up, whether or not the key gets inserted.

My dad waves me away, and then gets out of the car. I breathe a sigh of relief. He seems to have bought it.

So really, mission accomplished.

“Just be sure to drive it a little when you come over,” I smile at my brother.

And with that, I ask myself one more time. Did I make the right choice?

You can’t really know. You can’t ever really know. You just make a choice, and live a life assuming it was the right one until enough evidence shows up to prove you wrong. That might mean that some things fall through the gaps. But that’s the risk; that’s the risk of choosing to pursue my own life. To pursue is to risk, even if that’s in the pursuit of a life that involves my parents, instead of a life that is only about my parents.

And the reality is I have spent the last seven months making sure that even if things do fall through the gaps, I have built a safety net for my parents. I have to trust that it will work. And that when it doesn’t, maybe my brother can help. And maybe I will come back to play a much more minor role in the future.

I’ve planned for two months to travel and figure out what will come next, whether I stay in the Bay Area to still help my folks in some capacity, whether I move away somewhere else, or something else entirely—to take two months to find my own voice between all the billions going through my head.

In the past few weeks, I’ve started looking up places I could live in the Bay Area. The thought strangely excites me. I could be close by, I could still check in on my folks and still be around to help take them places, still take them to dim sum. But then I could go home. And that last part is important.

I could have friends over.

I could avoid hearing my dad watch five hours of news.

I could shield myself from my mom knocking on my door to ask me the same question five times which might make me upset.

I could take my finger off ‘pause’ and live the life I want to, and maybe include caring for my parents as a part of it, if that’s the life I want. And I think it is.

It’s now been 223 days from when I moved from Seattle. More than seven months.

Honestly, I doubt this is the end. We’ll find out. But regardless, as I once again head for the airport, I think back to what that lady told me, the lady who I met at Oregon, the phrase she told me that stuck with me on my drive.

“What are you taking time off to do?” she’d said.

“I’m going to take care of my parents for a bit.”

“Oh that’s nice. You’re not going to regret that.:

“No,” I’d said. “No I’m not.” The lady was right. And so was I.