I found my mom (alive, I won’t bury the lede) in the kitchen last Thursday morning after she hadn’t been answering the phone. I knew things were bad when I saw the papers, packages, and mail piled up outside the front door. I could have checked on her sooner when she didn’t return my last few calls, but she could have been out Christmas or grocery shopping. Also, the last few months she’d been shorter and shorter with me on the phone, and I thought maybe she was just avoiding me and my hovering ways. Finally, when my dad (who was traveling for work) asked me if I’d heard from her, I got in the car and went over and let myself in and found her barely conscious, slumped over backwards on a chair, with the television, ashtray and a cigarette butt on the floor.

Over nearly seven hours in the E.R., we learned she had rhabdomyolysis from lying on the chair/cabinet door for 16+ hours. She was severely dehydrated, maybe pneumonia (or something else tbd with her lungs), kidney stuff, plus a scan showed a past stroke that had never been flagged. However, anyone I’ve spoken to over the last few years can confirm I’ve had my suspicions by the way her personality and lifestyle had changed drastically, from a dynamic, active, social, lifelong learner to a quiet, frail, slow-walking old lady who wanted to get off every phone call ASAP and had stopped going to the symphony, to alumnae club meetings, to her golf club.

More than grief or fear, I had this strange sensation of I-told-you-so. I have been nagging my parents for years to investigate assisted living, to get her a neuro exam, all the things, but they did not. I knew it was a matter of time until the big one forced their hand, and here it was, like I always predicted! I feel weirdly relieved that after years of dread and worry, we are finally here with the hands having been forced and the medical professionals involved. She hasn’t smoked or had a drink in a week, so there’s that. I had my dad round up her leftover cartons of Carlton Menthol Green 120’s so I could take them away.

There is a witchy tie-in here: the “advice” around taking care of your old parents reminds me a lot of the advice about taking care of newborns. You can read all the books and listen to all the podcasts and take all the careful notes you want, but that doesn’t mean the human you’re caring for gives a shit about your diligent preparation. There is all this advice out there about how you, as an adult child, can get your aging parents to make it easier on you/them as they transition to a new stage of life and need. But all that advice is worth shit if your parents are not willing to play ball — with you or each other. Over the last few week I’ve learned that:

• My dad didn’t know what, if any, meds my mom takes.

• My 77-year-old mom doesn’t take any meds anyway. She has been completely freeballing her health, apparently, for years.

• My dad never once spoke with my mom about her advance directive wishes

  • Despite knowing her since they were in middle school together

It’s just wild!! And after all this, I am still tempted to tell people to get lists of their parents’ medications in case you too discover your parent slumped over backwards on a kitchen chair, but again, that piece of advice means dick if your parent won’t respond, or responds suspiciously, “Why do you ask?”

I was going to take a holiday newsletter hiatus under the best of circumstances anyway, but now you know why if I don’t return promptly after New Year’s and why you won’t hear any “Not Right Now” podcasts for the rest of the year (I apologize to /say thank you to those of you who sent in holiday podcast questions.)

She’s supposed to be discharged to rehab for a week or two tomorrow, and after that, who knows. A lot of change. My dad’s got a whole new life and marriage in front of him. One thing at a time.

We have a lot of support at home right now and so I don’t need anything although I always welcome funny/random/distracting links like the photo of someone’s golfball-sized wad of discarded contact lenses I saw recently on Reddit, or a video of your kid playing beginner cello along to a robot Santa who sings “Low Rider,” or social media posts like this one a friend shared in our chat:

I’m keeping comments turned off here because logging in to check any seems a bit exhausting for the moment. You’ll all be proud to know that I canceled the holiday luncheon for 3 dozen I was going to host this Saturday, and it only took me about 24 hours after finding my mom to decide to pull the plug. On the party, to be clear!

Shout out to my husband through all this. Not witchy, but he has jumped in to handle all the kid/school bullshit, including many basketball games and parties. I am grateful I married a man who doesn’t have to ask when school lets out, or how to find the basketball schedule, or is expecting me to do the Christmas shopping from my mom’s hospital room.

I hope it won’t be too deep into the new year before I can pull together some of the stuff I’ve been working on for the newsletter and string together a few more cogent thoughts.

Thanks for your support as always. Keep your family safe if you can, but if you can’t, I for one won’t blame you.

End credits

You know the drill. Thank you for reading and being a pal. If you know me/my mom IRL (or we are even just good internet friends), feel free to forward this to anyone who would want to know, or hell, anyone whose parents are also Boomers aging ominously and irresponsibly.

Happy holidays. Let’s hope 2026 is less of a clusterfuck.

One witchy thing

From a friend, post-holiday cookie exchange: