Power of attorney
"She won’t give us a power of attorney," I say. My sister, her partner and I are discussing my mother’s increasingly unruly papers. "At least, not to either one of us alone." My mother is afraid, quite reasonably, that my sister will try to ‘put her in a home’.
"But I’ve got a power of attorney for Dad," my sister says. I glance up at this, and the air between us bends slightly, like metal on a summer’s day.
"He, ah, he thought you might be sick," she said. "He said, what if she’s in hospital?" It’s been seven years, but hey: I wouldn’t want to give a crazy person dispositive power over my life, either.
I am perfectly aware that I am being unreasonable, illogical: if I faced up to being diminished, if I accepted that I no longer quite count as much as the others, I would feel calmer. But it cuts: that he has done it, and that he has never told me.
It really only makes us equal: legislation allows clinicians to consult with family in the case of a compulsory admission, and I have have told the sorceress, in a small concession to general encouragement to make an advance directive, that I do not want anyone taking my father into their, or my, confidence. He would only do whatever he thought was good, was *in my best interests*, but, if you have escaped from a violent abuser once, you are reluctant to go back.
And so we circle each other, subtly, warily, pretending to shake hands.