Mom lost her credit card. Again.

Photo by Simran Sood on Unsplash

October 20, 2020

Today was an especially hard day. I’m going on three days now of the deep pain. It hurts, my whole body hurts. Tears are there, at the surface, every time I stop to recognize the pain. It’s pretty constant. I only forget it for a few seconds at a time. It’s unrelenting.

Mom lost her credit card. Again. She loses it several times a week. Just about every time she goes out alone and uses it somewhere. She just sticks it somewhere in the car, in the center console, in the door pocket, in a purse pocket, in her pants pocket. She loses it all the time. Constantly. Then becomes extremely anxious. Terrified someone is using it. I drop everything to look for it. I look everywhere. Half the time we don’t find it. I have to involve my brother. We aren’t on good terms. He’s her power of attorney. I am not. I have no power. He calls for a replacement. Invariably, we find it the next day.

This time, I went ballistic. Way overboard. I started crying, hard, then went upstairs screaming, “I can’t take it! I can’t take it!” Take what? Mom losing her credit card? Living with mom? Being mom’s caretaker? Just mom?

Then I laid in bed, just feeling the pain, and I called to try to get an appointment with the psychiatrist.

“Are you okay? Do you need to talk to crisis?”

“Yes… I’m ok… Never mind,” and I hung up.

The office called me back and I declined the call. I listened to the voice mail later, I’m set up for next week.

I came back downstairs. Told mom I was having a very difficult time controlling myself, that I’m very depressed. For some reason, my outbursts don’t seem to impact her much. Maybe because I’m contrite? Maybe because I explain? I don’t know. But she’s not frightened by me. Thank God.

“I know you are depressed,” she replied. “I found my card. I went back to the bank and they had it!” She laughed. “You know my mind.”

“Mom, I’m begging you, please put your credit card back in your wallet right after you use it. Please. I really need you to do that,” I pleaded.

“Ok. But you know my mind. I forget,” she said.

Yes. I know her mind. She forgets. But maybe with me losing my shit over it, maybe she’ll remember next time? Does it really matter? If it does matter, why?

Did I lose my shit over her losing her card? Or did I just lose my shit? If I did just lose my shit, why?

Why?