Make A Difference (Roxy)

November 30, 2017

“Roxy~ Make a difference.”  Those four words were the only ones written on a card attached to a floral arrangement delivered to my classroom 10 years ago.  They were from the woman who was my 6th grade teacher.  She was an amazing human being.  Always in control, always had it together.  She had an agenda for each day, and if we didn’t get through every task on her chalk board, it became homework, which she taught me to write neatly in my agenda. That agenda was the first tool I used to gain “control” over my life at the young age of 12.  It quickly became a security blanket of sorts.  Having the agenda meant I always had something to do, and I liked keeping busy after school.  Still do!  It gives me a sense of purpose, and a sense of control.  

As an adult, I’m guessing I’m not alone when I say I like doing certain things myself.  Other people are capable, but no one else will do it exactly like me.  I’m going to go ahead and blame Margie and Jim for this one.  You see, my mom’s expectations were so high it seemed like she was never satisfied. And my dad had a “better way” of doing everything from peeling an apple, to mowing the lawn, to tying a necktie.  

Newsflash #1 This just in…

I have officially become my parents! It’s as if the good Lord took two of the biggest control freaks in the world, melded them together, and... Boom!  Welcome to ME!

I think I’m going to require some sort of support group now that I have realized this.  Control Freaks Anonymous, here I come!  I can picture it now.  Me.  Attending weekly meetings.

“Hi Everyone.  I’m Roxy, and I’m a control freak.”

“Hiiiiii, Roxy!”

Seriously though, my issue to control life is probably why I feel like no substitute teacher can manage my 5th graders.  I spend hours writing out lesson plans including every little detail of what I want to happen in Room 203 while I’m away, only to find upon my return, most tasks did not go as planned.  

My need to control life is also most likely why I despise flying on an airplane.  I don’t know the pilot.  Did he pay attention during flight school?  Was he drinking in the airport bar before take off?  If anything goes wrong, it’s not like I can take over and fly the plane.  I have no control.  

I also like to control how other people do their jobs.  Don’t even get me started on the waiter in a restaurant who takes my dinner order without writing it down before leaving the table. What is he thinking? Is he trying to impress someone? He is sure to screw it up!  I like a lot of things “on the side”.  It’s a little silly; I know.  

I do realize other people accomplish tasks like teaching, and flying, and taking food orders every day, but they don’t do it how I would, and that drives me crazy!

Even as I type right now, I’m sitting in a massage chair, drinking complimentary coffee, while my car is being detailed.  I’m thinking, “Finally, I have a few minutes of peace, and I’m still checking off an item from that ‘to do’ list!”  I am mentally patting myself on the back celebrating this win/win situation, when I suddenly hear a break in the suction from the vacuum followed by a sound that can only be the clink of several quarters (my quarters) from under the seat rolling up the tube of the vacuum hose.  And I’m thinking, “I knew it… I should have done this myself.”  Ugh!

Newsflash #2-  Being a Control Freak is exhausting. It’s also not practical. Control is like a mirage.  You think you have it.  It’s right there.  You can see it. But then something changes, and it’s just gone.  No more control.

I think I was probably 37-years-old before I learned that I was NOT in control… of anything, really.  It did not matter how many “to do” lists I checked off, or how much I accomplished on a daily basis.  I could try my best.  I could have a good attitude.  I could pray.   But I could not control the actions of people and situations around me.  Sometimes you learn the hardest (and most valuable) lessons through life experiences.  It took losing my mother, for me to learn this one.  I don’t have control of the things that really matter, and I never will.  

My feisty mother was active her whole life.  I mean she was coming to my Tae-bo classes until she was 73-years-old.  Kicking and punching like all the others who were much younger.  She rode her bicycle around the park until she was 75.  She really didn’t slow down until she had her third knee replacement.  (Yes, third.)  When the new knee in her right leg prevented her from walking, she had a second replacement!  My mom was determined to keep moving.  She endured a lot, but her pain tolerance was getting weaker with age.

It seemed like the instant Mom turned 80 her whole body declined.  She got sick, really sick. She was in and out of hospitals and nursing homes for 12 months.  She had breast cancer, heart disease, atrial fibrillation, C-Diff, sepsis, MRSA, and bed sores that required multiple surgeries.  She contracted anything and everything one could catch by being in the hospital. She fought, and fought, and tried to hold on but she couldn’t.  I tried to hold on too.  

I tried to control the situation by being there for her.  I tried to be everywhere.  I would drive my kids to school, go teach all day, and race to the hospital or the nursing home as soon as the last student left my classroom.  From 3:00 pm until bedtime most nights, Brian would take care of our kids while I sat by my mom’s side.  I tried to control her pain, and prevent more bedsores by giving her hour-long oil massages.  The doctors said the more movement and blood flow she had the better, and since she was too weak to move her limbs, I did it for her.  I tried to make a difference in her life by being present so she would know she didn’t have to be sick AND lonely.  I wasn’t alone in this effort.  My five siblings, my father, and I were with my mom pretty much around the clock.  We tried to let her know how much she was loved.  I tried to control her diet by spoon-feeding her pureed food.  I even ordered surgery to place a feeding tube when she could no longer swallow.  I did this for myself, more than I did it for her because she didn’t want any more medical treatment at this point. She was throwing in the towel after a year of being bed-ridden, and I can’t say I blame her.  But I didn’t want to lose my mom.  None of us were ready to let her go.

I tried to control the nurses by checking up on them, thanking them, and even bribing them with baked goods in hopes they’d take excellent care of my mother.   

And when their over all care didn’t meet my satisfaction, I helped my sister interview new facilities with different staffs.  It was another chance to gain control and attempt to get my mom’s health back on track.  We moved her SIX times, between four rehab centers and two hospitals.  It didn’t make a difference. Maybe I had a false sense of hope.  Maybe I talked myself into thinking something would change if only she had a better team of doctors.  It was one last attempt to turn the situation around, I guess.  But the simple fact was, Mom was 81, she was sick, and nothing was making her well again.

When I realized I couldn’t control her health, and she wasn’t getting any better, I grasped for anything I could control.  So after talking to my  sister, I agreed to be the one to tell the doctor to remove her feeding-tube.  This broke my heart.  My sister Paula was in charge of making the decisions as the Power of Attorney for my parents, but every time she started to even consider removing this “life line” she broke down in tears.  She physically couldn’t say the words to me, let alone a doctor.  She just couldn’t do it, so when she asked me to... I did.

My mom and I were holding hands when I told the doctor to remove the tube.  She could still speak at that time, and seemed to be cognizant, but legally she couldn’t decide for herself.  I looked at her and asked if she understood what removing the tube meant.  Mom nodded at the doctor, then looked at me and said, “Thank you.”  She felt like she had just been set free.  I felt like vomiting. It was the most horrible thing I’d ever done.

When I started sobbing (which I don’t do). She said, “Roxy, it will be ok.”  And she squeezed my hand a little harder.    

I couldn’t believe that I had just ordered her death sentence and she was comforting me. Maybe that was my mom’s way of keeping control, her final way of making a difference.

The irony of the whole dramatic situation is that my sister and I were a tag team, a force to be reckoned with.  Where I was weak she was strong and vice versa.  My sister was in more pain than I was, so I thought I was being Paula’s hero by giving the doctor those orders.  But after I did, he informed me politely that my signature was no good and by law she had to be the one to sign the papers.  Terrific!  Now, we both felt like shit!

Mom’s wishes had always been for us not to use any extreme measures to prolong a life where she wasn’t thriving, so it felt like the right thing to do.  She was tired of fighting for her life and we were exhausted from watching her lose the battle.  It was out of our hands now. Out of my control.  

When my mom died, I’m ashamed to say it, but I felt relieved.  Trying to deal with those emotions was mentally and physically exhausting. Writing about it helps.  

As I look back up to the top of this page, I reflect on my need to control things.  And I’m starting to rethink my words.  I think what concerns me most isn’t that the substitute teacher won’t do a good job, or that the pilot can’t fly the plane safely, or the waiter will get my order wrong.  I’m not even upset that despite my best efforts (and hers) I wasn’t able to keep my mom alive.

I think what concerns me the most is thinking the substitute might actually be a better teacher than me. The pilot will fly that plane and take some lucky passengers to all kinds of places I will never get to see.  The waiter?  Well, ten bucks says he still forgets to put the dressing on the side, but that’s not really the point.  

I finally learned that my anxiety wasn’t about a lack of control as much as it was about the fact that the world would CONTINUE ONCE I’M NO LONGER IN IT.  

I’m replaceable.  

That scares me.   It’s humbling and horrible all at once.

My mom died.

Everything is different.

I thought the sun rose and set with her permission, but I was wrong. I have finally learned I’m not in control even when I think I am, and the people who could always understand and protect my feelings are no longer a part of my daily life.  It’s not like I never have good days, but even when my hand is on the wheel, it’s a loose grip at best.  

Sadly, I have lost control.  Since we buried my mother, I have lost control of my emotions, my temper, my ability to think and process.  On some days I even lose control of my desire to connect with others socially.  I used to be a “people person”, but now I can take a three-hour nap in the middle of the day and not care what I missed.  Maybe that’s why I’m choosing to write about my feelings rather than talk about them.  I have lost part of myself, but one thing is for sure.  I refuse to lose hope.  

With a little help from above and a strong community of people who are willing to share and heal together, I know I can get through this.  On the days when I can’t control my own healing, at least I can hope that for someone, somewhere, I can possibly make a difference in theirs.