Rocked, Felled & Directionless

Saturday, my sister's and my days of inquiry, visits, calls, and researching care homes for the elderly ended, found us in his living room saying, "I'm gonna put my mom in your care, into your hands."


He paused, asked, "Well, I would like to meet her, first, talk to rehab staff, see how she's doing, and you are going to tell her who I am and why I'm there?" and I agree to all.


Sis and I discussed the imminent need to break the news she's not coming home, that Mom will meet a man into whose home and care she'll be placed, and we released Saturday from its calendar hold to dissipate as steam into dry air, venting pressures passed.


Monday morning about 11AM, I call Jonathan and the care-home owner pledges to get back to me within a half hour with his arrival time estimate to meet us and our Mom at the rehab facility.


At 11:40AM, the compass points of my thoughts and emotions are suddenly ripped from their gimbal, their stressor-numbed dormancy of temporal relief is gone, hearing "You may not believe this because I almost didn't and it's never ever happened before but a woman who left here went to hospice, failing, was gonna die, and I got a call outta the blue asking me the address so she can return, here, and I hafta take her back because I have her money, a contract I have to honor, and I'm really sorry."

Relief from the search declared over Saturday, groundwork laid with Mom, anticipation of the multi-layered burdens seemingly weighted with the force of of ten thousand Gs and hope for lifting shatters with my controlled and stiff-lipped reply, "And you had this contract, knew this yesterday, and didn't mention it, and my weekend's gone with no search time left before her discharge," and I terminate the conversation to sit--then, and now--iced in disbelief, while fires of frustration rage and internal screams of all manner echo in unfamiliar, darkened canyons off the walls of 'What now.'