Strike

For ten minutes I bent over the tub with my mom hanging from my arms unable to help me as I pulled her out of the water. All 170 pounds of her pulled in the opposite direction as she tried to pull her legs under her. Fear gripped her. Frustration came over me. She wouldn't follow directions. Or she couldn't. I don't know.

"Stop pulling!" she kept yelling in between crying about not being able to get up by herself.

Finally, she got up to her knees. I continued to hold on until I could get her up to her feet. Then I took her hands and helped her out of the tub.

"This can't happen again," I said immediately. "From now on, no baths. You can use the shower chair like dad."

I asked her if she needed anything else. She said no and started to dry herself off.

I am not equipped for this. When chaos rears its ugly head, I shift into project management mode. Every day, I am thankful for my 16 years as a manager. Immediately I ask myself, what is the task at hand, when does it have to be done, and how can I make it happen with no time and no money? So, while I feel compassion, it comes out of me like an order or a demand.

In addition to my seemingly brash communication, I have had a back surgery, three knee surgeries, and I need my rotator cuff repaired. I can't spend my days lifting old people out of bathtubs and off of the bedroom floor.

I have been icing and taking Aleve for three days. My poor dog would like a walk that stretches further than up the block and back. This morning after getting breakfast on the table, I decided I was feeling a little better. So, I went to the grocery store and bought more food than will fit in the refrigerator. I hauled the grocery bags in from the car and through the house, lamenting the fact that I have no children to do this stuff for me.

As I reached the kitchen, I passed the shower chair sitting in the hallway. Pausing, I felt a twinge of anger in the pit of my stomach. I turned to my dad and asked if mom had taken a bath.

"Yeah," he said nonchalantly.

"She got in the tub?" I asked again.

"Yeah, she did! But I was right there," he said excitedly.

"I thought we had an agreement. She is supposed to use the shower chair. No baths."

"Well, she wanted to get in the tub," he said.

I cannot adequately explain the fury I felt. Instead of responding, I cleaned up the house, put the groceries away and decided to go on strike.

No, I cannot get up and get you something to drink.
No, I cannot whip up a cheese sandwich and grab you some chips for lunch.
No, I cannot make your dinner.
No, I cannot do your laundry today.
No, I cannot carry your clean clothes up from the basement.
No, I cannot take the overflowing recycling out to the alley.
No, I cannot make the beds.
No, I cannot clean the bathroom.
No, I cannot water the lawn or clean up the dead tulip stems or trim the dying rose bushes.
No, I cannot run to the store and get more soda and lottery tickets.
No, I cannot get your pills for you or make your breakfast or get the mail or make another Costco run or do that favor your promised the neighbor you would do knowing full well I'd have to be the one to actually do it.
I can't.
Call someone else.
Do it yourself.
Maybe when you have to call 9-1-1 to get mom out of the tub, you will start to listen to me. But for now, I am on strike.