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Anyway it is all a big cover-up now, she claims she does not need care now and refuses to admit that she fell often in the apartment and is unsteady on her feet and is in a lot of pain. Trying to blame me and my sister for all her pain and inconvenience of being in the nursing home. Whenver I come to visit now, all I get are complaints and criticism about my appperance and my sister's appearance because we are moderately overweight and don't get ourselves all dolled up like she does. Then gets upset because we don't have boyfriends or not dating and then gets on my sister because of her divorce and criticizes her grandchildren. She has always been this way, trying to control us and now I have had it.
My sister wants us to have a third party guardian on her, but mom insists this is a family argument over control of her life and her finances. Guess I will just have to step out of this and let the court take over on Friday and hopefully they will see what is really happening with mom. Eventually mom will have to understand she can't take all her stuff and her money with her when she dies.
Before she moved in, when I was stationed at Camp Pendleton, CA, I'd send between $200-$300 a month on top of $100 for her birthday on April 11th and another $200 for Mother's Day. She claimed to have been laid off from work and was unable to pay rent and medical bills. I thought that with my help she'd get better, but the fact was she was getting over. Relatives in Puerto Rico (particularly long-lost brothers whom I'd never heard of) were always dying and she needed plane tickets. Guess whom she got them from. And every now and then she "couldn't remember" where she put the money I sent after she cashed the money orders, or claimed to have been robbed at knife-point. It turns out she had been on public assistance all along. I'm still somewhat resentful for allowing myself to be "played," but my anger stems from not being able to forgive myself for being such an idiot.
Old habits, however, die hard. Once in a blue moon, while visiting with my oldest sister, Mom begins her usual storytelling with whoppers like sending me money for my wedding in San Diego. The fact was that I sent her a roundtrip 1st Class ticket which she redeemed at Liberty Travel. The time when I supposedly gave her permission to pierce my sons' ears at the age of 10; and the "exact date" when Daniel Santos -- a Puerto Rican singer pickled in alcohol whose performances and drunken lyrics almost made women shed their clothes -- got on one knee and proposed to her. Weaving lie after lie comes naturally to her, and she can look into your eyes and do it so sincerely it still amazes me. No doubt: she's the undisputed Ernest Hermingway of BS. Her fabrications have been repeated so often they've become true over the years.
My sisters go along with the stories while I pretend to receive business calls on my cellphone just to get away from it all. Later, in private, I'd share my disappointment after the guests are gone. Ivette reiterates "She's your mother!;" Wanda, one of the youngest, says "I believe her;" Yvonne, the "cheche" (baby) of the family, says "I don't care, that's my mother and I love her." I love her too, I just hate the lies designed to help my mother live with her conscience.
At the end of the night, Mom insists I walk her to the taxi waiting outside. She begins talking about money, and my response is always "That's no longer an option, you know that." I open the door, give her a hug and a kiss, and tell her something my Dad always often said to her: "When you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything." Then I saunter to the bus station, whispering "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference."