18 June 2010
 
The Great Escape


There are maybe a couple dozen thousand families in this great land who are going through the same sorts of things that we are.
 
I happen to know three that are in some sort of loopy parallel with ours, and I was looking blankly at the big screen as the National Basketball Association resolved its long intricate riddle.
 
It was an intensely physical game, from what I could tell. I have given up on watching the whole game, since they are either decided by lay down before the fourth quarter, or the hopes of the eventual loser are dashed as they were by the Lakers and Kobe Bryant.
 
In this case, the Celtics dominated through three and a half quarters but watched the championship slip away in the final minutes.
 
I can’t bring myself to care that much, with nothing invested in either the Celtics or the men from Los Angeles, though there was happy rioting after the victory.
 
There would have been regardless, and I wouldn’t have had he energy to stream into the parking lot and happily strike someone in the nose, as I saw on the television highlights.
 
Talking about family is always dicey. First, who am I to try to put perspective on things? I struggle, as we all do, with attempting to impose will on the process of entropy, and hav been wandering around the same rosebush, seeing a brief glimpse of he back of my head for months now.
 
Things are a lot clearer now, just like they are in the NBA.
 
A pal is waiting on a parent who is on the mend. There is the possibility that the Quacks will give her a clean bill of health, though the last few months have been a real and piercing dual with the Great Mystery.
 
Without his assistance, the Mom had climbed stairs, showered, dressed and participated in the small rituals of the day. Today, my pal is hoping there will be a pronouncement of a clean bill of health, and a respite from the great struggle.
 
I have followed the battle with interest, cheering the victory, which will be as gratifying as it is temporary. As you know, I have been wearing the hair shirt of penance on return from the Northland, happy that I was back in my own bed in my own place and guilty for feeling that way.
 
Accordingly, when the e-mail came in from my brother that Dad had escaped, I was both startled and a little exhilarated. According to the nice lady who lives next door, he had crafted his break for a moment when Mom was not watching. He slipped the moorings that tethered him to the house, revving his mental motorcycle and roaring toward the wire. He was later brought to heel by the stalwarts of the hospital security force who patrol the campus next to our little compound.
 
In its way, this escape is as significant as Steve McQueen’s was from Stalag Luft 3G in the movies. It makes things crystal clear.
 
Mom cannot supervise him alone.
 
That puts us on the same parabola as another pal, for whose mother I have a great deal of fondness from the old days. I got a note that described the situation as having moved from "assisted living" to "containment."
 
My pal said Mom had walked a few miles from the group home to appear in the driveway as the car was being loaded for the weekend.
 
"Flight Risk" is how this phase was termed, and the management said they could not deal with the potential liability. That is where we are with Dad now, and maybe have been longer than I thought.
 
Suddenly this is easy. Mom cannot handle it, and anything except moving forward would be irresponsible. The break point has been reached with The Great Escape, and now we must go forward regardless of how unpleasant this is going to be in the short term.
 
Anything else would be irresponsible.
 
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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