Miles to Go Still

I know this seems an odd title for a New Year's post, but there you have it.

My partner is home after almost three months in a nursing home/rehab.

Money is hemorrhaging out of her bank accounts to pay for a private aide.  A Medicaid application has been prepared, to be sent tomorrow, that is, if I did the "Docusign" signature on my phone correctly (when I had to sign the document, I was not home at my laptop).  I signed my own name which I think is OK because I have a Power of Attorney.

There is still more work than I can cope with and a few weeks ago I had a meltdown of massive proportions. I am trapped in a situation with two choices that are equally damaging to my mental health.  Although only one is damaging to my moral sense, which means I know my choice.  I could not live with myself if I walked out on all this.  As it is, I am under constant stress, and as for my own life, well, let's forget that, although I did manage to sing "Rejoice Greatly" yesterday morning, probably a personal best, to an "audience" of less than 20 people.

I spent five days supervising a cleanup crew taking 60 years of clutter out of her apartment.  This included 20 bags of papers and documents (some almost 60 years old) to take to an industrial shredder.  I paid myself $100 a day, which was far less than the task was worth, but at least compensated me for the lost work hours (to pay my bills, now that I get Social Security, I need to work 20 hours a week copyediting, which I can do any time, usually early in the morning or late at night because the more tired I am, the better, as the work is mostly so boring). Mostly the payment to myself was symbolic, signaling to my partner the massive nuisance that I considered all this to be.

After that I was tasked with reorganizing all her bank accounts.  I got an email full of numbers and was told I had to do about five things in 48 hours with, of course, no help, because everyone was going on vacation.  I ended up making an enemy of the case worker because I screamed at her over the phone.  Any social worker who can't deal with a distraught client shouldn't be in that business, IMHO.

There are still a few monetary tasks left, mostly setting up a trust, of which I will be the trustee, so that I can pay her rent.

If she has Medicaid she can have 24/7 aides.  She can't sit up unassisted or get out of bed unassisted.  She can walk (barely) from one room to the next with a walker and the aide behind her.  She is looking better because the aide is cooking her three meals a day of her own choosing (the nursing home food was ghastly although she ate more there than she had been doing at home).

She will get physical and occupational therapy at home.

I hope Medicaid kicks in soon or all her money will be gone paying for the private aides.

The bitter irony is that now I have the vocal technique I always dreamed of but have no time to make long-term plans.  I do practice every day, but I had hoped to do more.  I can't really make any "BabyD-centric" long-term plans about anything.  There are days when I feel lucky to snatch some quiet time in front of the tv with my cat, although one blessing to having her in her home is I can sleep over and we can snuggle.  Maybe Heaven is how I feel drifting off to sleep holding her hand.  On the other hand, Heaven is feeling the way I do singing "Rejoice".  Couldn't I have both?

I didn't make any New Years resolutions other than trying to love the situation I'm in.  Overseeing all these moving pieces so that my partner's last years are as comfortable and pleasant as possible.  Some people would love that, being a big mover and shaker, even in a family situation.  The problem is that's not my calling.  I do it because I love her, not because I want to be Big Momma.

Years ago (or so it seems) I was chastised for envying the young singers I meet who don't seem to have much to worry about other than choosing material for a recital or an audition, buying gowns, and having head shots taken.  (I actually got one for free at the church, which I will post here). They have fun with their musician friends, and probably the worst thing they have to endure is an icky day job, which at least they can leave at the end of the day.  But really, is it any wonder I wish I could click my heels together three times and be 30 (and sing the way I do now)?