Rachel’s individual position statement, written privately with Mediator.ai. See the full example for context.
What’s happening
Mom fell in her apartment on March 22nd. Hairline fracture in the hip, concussion from hitting the coffee table on the way down. She’s in a rehab facility now, and they’ve told us she’ll be discharged around April 22, about four weeks. The discharge planner called yesterday and said we need a plan. Not next month. Next month is the plan.
Her neurologist was also direct with me last week: her cognitive decline is no longer subtle. She still has good days, but she left the stove on three times in the last six months, and that was before the fall.
I live 20 minutes from her. My brother Thomas lives in Boston, six-hour flight away. He flies out twice a year. He’s been wonderful on the phone.
What I’ve been doing
I’m not keeping score, but I need someone to see this clearly: I’m the one who takes her to appointments. I’m the one who stocked her pantry after her hip replacement two years ago and the one who called the paramedics this time because I saw the missed check-in on the camera we set up. I’m the one who knows which medications she’s on, which she skips, and who her friends are.
I have two kids, 11 and 14. I work 35 hours a week as a paralegal. My husband and I were supposed to drive our older one to a summer program in Vermont in July. That’s not going to happen.
I have been absorbing this for three years without saying so, because Thomas sends money and because he means well and because I was afraid that if I complained, I would sound like I was asking to be paid for being a daughter.
What I need
- Mom cannot go back to the apartment alone. Not in a week, not in a month, not reassuring ourselves that we’ll “check in.” Her neurologist said it; her doctor said it; her physical therapist said it. If we send her back, we will be having this same conversation after a much worse fall.
- I cannot be the full-time plan. I love her. I’m not willing to move her into my house with two teenagers, a husband, a 35-hour job, and no bedroom on the first floor. My marriage will not survive it and my mother will not be happier for it.
- The plan needs to name Thomas’s role honestly. Not “he’ll visit more”; we’ve said that for three years. Either he pays for professional care, he comes for defined stretches, or he moves her to Boston. Pick one.
- Whatever we do about Mom’s apartment, I’m not doing alone. I’ve been her health proxy for four years and I have not once asked him to help with an appointment. This is the last decision I’m going to be the only one executing.
What I’m willing to do
- Be the point of contact for local care (appointments, medical decisions, the person the facility calls first). That’s fine. I’m good at it.
- Contribute financially, not equally, but meaningfully. I have savings, I can pay my share proportional to income.
- Spend time with her. Weekly visits, dinners, the stuff I already do.
- Be the person who checks on caregivers and holds them accountable if we hire help.
What I won’t do
- Move her into my house full-time.
- Pretend “she’s fine” so we don’t have to make the hard decision.
- Be the only one losing sleep over this.
What I’m afraid of
- That Thomas will be reasonable on Zoom and then nothing changes.
- That we’ll choose a budget option that keeps Mom “independent” and someone will find her on the floor in three months.
- That if we hire a live-in caregiver, it will be me calling the agency when the caregiver quits, me training the replacement, me absorbing the 2am call.
- That I’ll sound selfish for any of this.
BATNA
If we can’t agree: I will pay out of my own pocket for a geriatric care manager to build a care plan, tell Thomas what share I expect him to pay, and he can either pay it or deal with his own conscience. I don’t want to do it this way. I’d rather we decide together.