Oh Fran...you do make life interesting

Last week my Uncle Henry had a heart attack. He was in the hospital for a few days and moved into a nursing home this past weekend. My mother assured me he was fine, the heart attack was minor. I didn't need to drive up on Thursday to see him -- it would be fine to wait for the weekend.

I would call home everyday and check on him, check on his condition, and also check on my parents. My mother has gotten completely absorbed in taking care of Henry, as I've reported in recent posts, and then playing the sympathy card for herself. All along she assured me he was fine, doing well, responded positively to the idea of assisted living, etc.

Imagine then, my surprise, when I actually saw him in the nursing home on Saturday afternoon. Unshaven, hands and face bruised and cut from when he fell the night of his heart attack, his eyes glazed over, weak. He was alert enough to know who I was, to talk to me, to tell me to be careful driving back to Ithaca, etc. But he was not the same man I saw a month ago when I went up to get some stuff from my aunt's apartment.

My mother showed him the layout of the assisted living place, where he'll be going after the nursing home. He seemed disinterested, kind of a "whatever" attitude. Also in direct contrast to the way Fran had portrayed it to me. "He said he'll go wherever I tell him."

So I pulled my sister-in-law in the hallway and asked if he was okay with going to the new place. She said, "I don't think he has a choice." Well, maybe not, but he should at least think he does. And it bothered me that my mother is speaking to him as if he's a child.

He mentioned that he was going to take a nap after we all left. That quickly got translated into, "you finish your coffee and snack and then we'll put you down for a nap before we go."

Put you down for a nap! This man is 91 years old -- not two.

And she keeps rationalizing his moving to the assisted living facility. "I don't know how much it upsets him to open his door and see Aunt Marion's apartment right across the hall. It upsets me."

First, of all, I'm not exactly sure how often he actually opens his door, unless he has someone coming to visit. Secondly, this is not the first person he's lost. His wife died and he was able to manage living in their house for another 10 years or so.

So now my poor Uncle is turning into a shell of a man, because my mother is treating him like an infant, because (probably) he feels like he has no control or decision-making powers over his own life. And my mother is the master puppeteer. Scary, indeed.

She's apparently been going to her head-shrinking sessions, and in the car the other day, asks, "When you were growing up, did you think I put dad ahead of you kids, or you kids ahead of dad."

I didn't even really think about it. "Us first."

"Hmmmm....that interesting, because Sammi said that she thought I put dad first."

"Well, that makes sense. All the older kids say that they were raised by a different man than I was. Why are you bringing this up?"

"Oh something that came up with the doctor the other day. He said that dad is sarcastic because that's his way of being heard, because I put you kids first."

I let it go at that. My father is sarcastic, because that's his personality. And I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one of the eight of us who feel that she put us ahead of my dad. The next youngest was five and in school when I was born. All the other kids are only a year or two apart. Different circumstances, different issues, different hardships.

What any of this is going to accomplish in her therapy is anyones' guess -- it's just one more way for Fran to be Fran, and Fran to play the hero or the victim, or whatever role she feels will get the most mileage out of.

Note: I know this sounds terribly harsh. I do love my mother, and I do worry about her -- but at the same time, she brings so much bullshit on herself, so much drama, and there is so much manipulation. It's one thing when she "frans" one of us -- it's another when she's playing with someone's life.