Taking Care...or Not?

My father died in 2001, and we took care of my mother for five years.  She was an unhealthy diabetic who didn't care well for herself.  It was easier for us than most, we were able to hire people to be at her house-- at first during part of the day and the night until she went to bed.  Later we had someone in the house with her at all times.  For awhile, we had two major caretakers, Erin, the young, talkative woman who came during the day, and Mary, the calm, kind, dependable woman, who came in the evening. 

Erin wasn't the brightest bulb, as I especially noticed when she brought my mother Crispy Creme doughnuts so she wouldn't "need" her insulin.  Erin, I think, really liked being with my mother and treated her like friend, of sorts.  She brought her things and talked to her a lot.  She drove me crazy-- she pretty much did what she wanted-- bought a lot of junk food, and didn't always follow the rules.  In some ways, that was good for us.  She helped my mother take her insulin injections when she really shouldn't have.  At any rate, at some point I felt Erin was getting overinvoved and not doing a good job, so I asked that she not come back.

After a string of temporary people, we found an agency who had someone who would live in the house with mom, with someone covering her on her days off.  I don't remember her name, but she was a small, gruff person.  It was hard to like her, and her demeanor with my mom was much different than Erin's.  At the time, I thought this was better.  This lady turned out to be kind of lazy and not at all to mom's liking, and, was, in the end, the cause of her death.

My mother had several falls at night, both with Erin and the new lady.  My question was always, "Why didn't they hear my mom get up?"  She couldn't have done it quietly.  One winter morning my mother, who could barely walk around or do anything on her own, in her nightgown, unlocked the front door, pushed open the heavy screen door, went down the step she usually had trouble with, and ended up falling in the driveway, where some passerby found her and brought her in.  Where was her caregiver all of that time?

This incident put her in the hospital, and was, what I believe was responsible for her life ending.  She was never comfortable after that.  I blame her caregiver, and, to some extent, myself.  In retrospect, I think I may have deprived my mother of the one friend she had, the one who kept things light and interesting for her.  Perhaps I was jealous that she had more of a link with my mother than I had.  For some reason I thought my mother needed "tough love," rather than enjoyment and flexibility. 

I carry guilt-- for not loving her enough, for not having a close relationship with her, for perhaps precipitating the events that led to her death.  I think she was ready to go.  She sometimes talked of seeing my father.  She didn't have much, if any, enjoyment of life.  I don't know if I said goodbye.  Goodbye, mom.