A small detour

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” – Allen Saunders

When we arrived at the hospital we were told to wait for the ambulance in the emergency waiting room. I was sure it would beat us there since her place is about 5 minutes from the turnpike and about 10 more minutes, at the most, to the hospital. We waited for about a half hour and no mom; I asked at the desk if they had any information and they didn’t. I called the director at mom’s place and confirmed that she was being taken to Mercy Hospital on Memorial Road and the ambulance with her in it had left over 40 minutes ago. We waited for another 30 minutes. Did I have the wrong hospital? I didn’t want to call back and ask but the way I had been operating the last few months really had me questioning my mental reliability (I think that’s nicer than using the word “sanity”) and honest to God, how long does it take to drive this particular 6 miles? Answer: 12 minutes. Thank you, Google.

After an hour and a half, a police car pulled up to the door and 2 officers got out and went over to the desk. The receptionist pointed in our direction and the officers turned and started walking toward us. This could be interesting. Or horrible - have you ever tried to read a police officer’s face as they're walking over to talk to you? I was trying my best but they were stony faced and serious. This wasn’t looking good at all. They made their way over to us and asked who was responsible for Patricia. I replied, “It depends on what she did” since sarcasm is my default go to for uncomfortable situations. They told me there had been an “incident” on the turnpike with the ambulance but everyone was ok. Alright, so what happened? I was told I’d have to ask the ambulance driver. For hell’s sake, I have never had such a hard time trying to get a simple answer in my life -  they weren’t budging so we sat and waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Finally, I see the ambulance pull up and they unload mom; she looked ok and they looked ok so that’s a plus. I started wondering if maybe mom went rogue and the driver had to call the police to report a violent patient but that made no sense - what could a wheelchair bound 75 year old woman with a broken hip really do other than repeatedly tell them she needs a restroom and annoy the crap out of them? I followed as they wheeled mom into a room and, once they got her into a bed, I asked the driver what had happened. No answer. The police were there to take a report from the ambulance driver so I just listened in since no one wanted to talk directly to me.

From what I overheard, the ambulance had a mechanical problem while on the turnpike and pulled over to wait for another ambulance to take mom the rest of the way to the hospital. While they were moving her from one vehicle to another, someone rear ended the first ambulance. It was a clear day on a straight road with light traffic and the big ambulances with the bright flashing lights were pulled over to the side. How in the hell do you pick that particular time to wander out of your lane and smack into the only obstacle for miles? I’ll never get the answer to that since A) no one is talking to me and B) the idiot wasn’t hurt badly enough to have to share a ride with mom. It could have been so much worse, I know. And yes, I’m thankful that mom made it in pretty much one piece but come on, we’re all adults here and I’m mostly reasonable and she is my mom. Shouldn’t I be part of the conversation?  Maybe they were worried I was going to try to sue someone? I’ll never know - refer to item “A” above.

I went over to mom and asked her if she knew what had happened on the ride to the hospital. The only thing she remembered was being on the side of a road on a gurney. She didn’t even remember that she was at the hospital now because her hip was broken. I asked her if she was in any pain and she said she wasn’t, good thing because we had a couple of hours of admitting her into the hospital ahead of us.

You have no choice, you have to choose

There are times when all the world’s asleep, the questions run too deep...Supertramp, The Logical Song from the album Breakfast in America

Mom seemed to do well enough in memory care but to me, she seemed far less “lost” than most of the residents. She was uneasy around those who were nonverbal and was alarmed at the ones who would shout obscenities and racial slurs at the staff. It alarmed me, too. Any time I was there for meals I left with my stomach in knots; mom seemed to get used to it or at least block it out. She had her friends and was settling in and finding her way.

We arranged for a physical therapist to come by a couple of times a week to help her transition from a wheelchair to a walker and to say she was unhappy about it is a vast understatement. I thought I would be there with mom and the therapist the first time he visited and after that just leave them to it -  I didn’t want to get in the way or be someone she felt she could talk into not doing the work. I didn’t call that one well at all. As soon as he arrived, she would try to wave him off with any excuse she could come up with; she didn’t feel like it, it was too warm outside (really? Because all your therapy is inside so...no), or she was too tired.

We decided together that it would be best if I was there. He was very patient with her and great at deflecting her excuses but, with me there to tell her that she wasn’t sick or being picked up or having her hair done soon or whatever excuse she could come up with, we were able to get back to work a lot sooner. We tried to explain to her that everything would be so much easier if she wasn’t in the wheelchair. She didn’t care.

On the first day of therapy it was as if all of a sudden I was the mother a petulant 5 year old child whose main focus was embarrassing the hell out of me for thirty minutes straight. I know how I used to handle that kind of attitude with my kids -  I’d stun them with lasers shot from my eyes, haul them out of earshot of the general public, and tell them to straighten up RIGHT NOW.  I knew better than to do that with my mom, but I had to come up with something she would understand and couldn't argue with me about. I leaned in and quietly told her that she wasn’t being very nice. No threats, no long drawn out explanations, no bribery. Just the facts, ma'am.

With each session she made a little more progress and started to look forward to the therapist's visits. Around the third week, he told me he was concerned that she wasn’t making more progress and her left leg was turned out even though he had been working to correct it. She didn’t seem to be in a lot of pain and by this point she was pleasant for most of the sessions. He put in a call to her doctor to stop by and take a look at her hip.

June 20, 2014 was a Friday. Bill and I had plans to attend an event downtown and then stay overnight. I was looking forward to it - we were going to have a chance to do something for us and I had a new dress and new heels that didn’t hurt too much. Score! I was just finishing packing my things when my phone rang. It was mom’s doctor telling me that he had called an ambulance to transport my mom to Mercy Hospital for emergency hip surgery and we needed to get there now to help with getting her admitted. I told him we were on our way and then I sat down on the bed and cried.

Now who was acting like a child?

Mom’s doctor had taken an xray of her hip with the mobile xray unit where she lived. He was expecting to see arthritis or something along those lines. What he saw was a hip that had been broken around 4 months prior had and healed in place. That would explain the out-turned foot and her reluctance to try to walk. He said she must have been in a considerable amount of pain ever since it happened. But she never complained about her hip. The doctor in Illinois had said nothing about her hip. She had been moving herself from the wheelchair to the toilet and bed since she fell back in March. She had hurt her knee, not her hip.

That’s what I was told and I never questioned it. Why would the hospital not xray the hip of a 75 year old woman who had just fallen hard enough to chip her kneecap? Why didn’t it occur to me to ask? I’m supposed to be smart. I’m supposed to be practical and logical and, above all else, I’m supposed to be looking out for my mom and I had failed.

Mom and me 1969

With every mistake we must surely be learning

“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”

― Augusten Burroughs, Magical Thinking

I was thinking the other night about what got me here. Right now. The roads I never intended to take; the people in my life I would never have known if one thing on one day was different. The bad things that ended up having some good in them because they taught me a little more about who I am and that even the worst pain fades. Little everyday decisions that turned out well  and some serious decisions that changed the course of everything. Life never goes as planned and I think, for most of us, it’s turned out to be a good thing.

My first major decision was to leave home at 19. I was halfway through my sophomore year of college when I decided I couldn’t live with my parents anymore. I was so naive - looking back now I wonder, why didn’t I ask someone for help? Why didn’t I go to my college adviser and ask what my options were? I think part of the reason is that I just didn’t know what to do and it had been a tough year; now that I know myself better I can see that I isolated myself and drew my world in so tight around me that I couldn’t see past what was happening to me. I went to my classes and I went to work but beyond that I was barely functioning. My solution was to pack up my things, load what I could into my Ford Escort, and move two states away.

I lived in Memphis, Tennessee for a year and a half and I learned a lot about being an adult during that time. I learned that having a roof over my head was my first priority, so I made sure to take care of my car so I could get to work and pay my rent. I learned that having a phone in my apartment was a luxury I couldn’t afford, laundromats aren’t that bad, there are more nice people in the world than there are mean ones, and gratitude and saying “thank you” go a long way. I also learned that I don’t like being poor, and being hungry because you can’t afford to buy food is a scary feeling.

I eventually came back home and within a week got a job that allowed me to have my own apartment, make car payments, and live comfortably enough. Being a flight attendant had never been on my radar but they were interviewing and I needed a job. Because of that decision I saw parts of the world that I never would have seen otherwise, I met Ringo Starr and his much nicer wife Barbara, Stevie Ray Vaughan, the Seattle Seahawks, REO Speedwagon, Sam Donaldson, and a dear, funny woman named Alexis Maas who had just gotten engaged to Johnny Carson. The regular people were the most memorable; the two Marines who were escorting the body of a fellow Marine on his last flight home, kids flying by themselves to their mom’s or dad’s place, and the only 2 people sitting on the upper deck of a 747 from London to Los Angeles who thought it would be fun for me to teach them how to cook airline food - it was my pleasure and one of my favorite memories.

The decisions we have to make as older adults don’t always come easy and some decisions are just figuring out the lesser of two evils. Deciding what to do with and for my mom has been by far the toughest one, mostly because it’s ongoing. The major things like moving her here and finding her a place to live were time consuming but relatively easy. It’s stuff like deciding what to do with her things that are sitting in a storage unit and eating up $175 a month, deciding which Medicare plan is the best one for her needs, deciding how to protect her assets, and hundreds of other little details that wake me up in the middle of the night or have me fighting back tears of frustration.

Because of what happened to my mom, I’ve learned to be more comfortable with asking for help, I learned that being told “no” is not an endgame, and I’ve learned that it’s ok to admit that on occasion I am so confused I don’t really know what to ask. I’ve learned that some decisions demand time, attention, determination, and all the bravery you can gather up - and some decisions take little pieces of your heart that you’ll never get back.

Altered States

Well she used to have a carefree mind of her own and a delicate look in her eye, these days I’m afraid she’s not even sure if her name is Veronica. Elvis Costello, Veronica from the album Spike

Mom settled into the routine quicker than I thought she would. She made a sweet friend who always wanted to be with mom even if mom didn’t want her around all the time. It was such a relief to know she wasn’t sitting in her room alone. I had to laugh when mom would get frustrated and tell me that her friend “couldn’t remember shit”. Pot and kettle, mom. I got her set up at the beauty shop so she could get her hair done once a week which made her very happy. She can’t remember when I’m going to be there even though it’s written down all over her room but her hair appointment? She hasn’t missed one in three years.

The residents at mom’s place had varying degrees of dementia and Alzheimer’s and most of them were women. There was one gentleman there who was just lovely; I liked him right away. He knew he couldn’t remember things anymore and he would apologize for it. He loved to make small talk and he had a little dog that he took with him on his long walks in the garden. He planted flowers that he sometimes forgot to water and pulled weeds. He was so calming; I always looked for him first on my way to find mom. He wasn’t that old; maybe somewhere in his 60s or early 70s. His profession had been something to do with nuclear medicine and, from what I was told, he was brilliant. He was still brilliant, just in a different way.

Visiting someone in memory care is like stepping into a different dimension where everyone is living in their own world and occasionally we get a little glimpse of who they used to be. There was a woman whom I loved to talk with because she seemed so normal. She had been a very talented artist and her artwork was hung on every available space in her apartment. She continued to draw and her latest piece was a pencil drawing of a photograph that was taken when she and her brother were little. You could tell by the style of her work that it was the same artist, but now her drawing was just slightly off, almost distorted. Is this the way she sees her world now?

The artist painted a 16x20 picture for my mom which I thought was really sweet. Mom, however, was mortified and weirdly irked. The painting is of a cow in a pasture - mom took it as a message. She believed with every fiber of her being that the artist was telling mom that mom looked like a cow. What?? Why?? I asked her if anything had happened to make her think that was the motivation behind the cow and she couldn’t recall if there was. Of course not.  I tried explaining that it was just a nice painting that the artist wanted mom to have. Oh, no, that’s not it at all. She wanted to put it in the trash but I talked her out of it. Instead, I put it on a shelf high enough for it to be out of her line of sight.

There was another woman there who no longer spoke English. She would follow visitors and ask them something in what sounded like German. Actually, it was a little more than asking; it was pleading, as if she was looking for something or someone she had lost. Her voice was so small that it was hard to hear her and her eyes looked like she was going to cry. I lived in Germany for three years so I know a little of the language. The only words I thought I could make out when she spoke were “please” and “help” and I had to do something - she was breaking my heart. I asked her in German how she was and told her how pretty she looked - her face lit up and she grabbed my hand in both of her tiny hands. I think just hearing words she recognized made her feel better. I wonder who she was before this awful disease locked her away in her past.

Today

“The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.” - Fernando Pessoa

Even when we become adults who are able to take care of ourselves and have our own family, there is still a part in most of us who wants to make our parents proud. We still smile and feel relief at the words “well done” or “I’m proud of you”. And for those of us who have had children; the first time we hand our own child to our parent -  is there any sweeter, more heart-swelling moment than when you look into their eyes and see tears of love, wonder, and gratitude?

There are also times when we need our parent. The times when we’re scared, unsure, nervous, or conflicted is the time to gather our family around us for strength. But there’s that pull in our heart that just wants to feel our parent’s arms around us, their hand over ours, and their voice in our ear telling us it’s all going to be ok.

I very recently had a surgery that I’ve had before and, because I’d had it before, I was nervous, scared, disappointed, and angry that my body wasn’t doing what I thought it should. I had given it a chance and it had betrayed me again. The first time, 4 years ago, I told my mom what was going on and she seemed detached, which I told myself was probably just her being nervous and not quite understanding what was going to happen. I knew that she had a deep fear of losing me since I was the closest person to her and the one who would take care of her if need be. That could be the reason she didn’t really want to acknowledge it. Perhaps it was easier for her to distance herself from my mortality and not talk about it. Not exactly what I wanted but I tried to understand.

This time, I told myself that there was no use in telling her what was going on with me. It would just make her nervous for a few minutes and then she would forget. No use putting her, or me, through that. But, there was a part of me who just needed my mom. I wanted her to hug me and tell me that everything was going to be ok. Squeeze my hand, tuck my hair behind my ear, kiss my forehead. Something.

Whenever I go to visit, her first question after greeting me and kissing me hello is to ask how everyone is doing and how I’m doing. I always respond that everyone is fine and catch her up on any little new stuff that’s going on. I didn’t tell her I was going to have surgery and I wasn’t going to; there was no point in upsetting her just so I could get what I needed for a minute. But, I caved and I told her the week before. She was so sweet about it and so concerned; she even asked if she could come and just hold my hand. This is what I wanted, this is what I needed to hear. I felt bad for telling her but also relieved. I got her in the shower, changed her sheets, gathered up her clothes to wash, and straightened up her room.

And then she stepped out of the shower and asked how everyone was doing, and was I ok. I told her everyone was doing well and so was I.

We just got back from seeing her a little while ago; it’s been 4 days since my surgery. She looked a little shocked and asked what happened to me. I told her as simply as I could so I wouldn’t upset her. She was her sweet self, and thanked us for coming to take care of her. She asked if I was in pain and I told her that I wasn’t, really. She asked if I was going to be better the next time she saw me and I told her that I would be.

Would I tell her if I had to do it over? I’d like to say that I wouldn’t, but I know myself; I’ll always be her daughter and she’ll always be my mom.

Turn the page

“And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness. And they did live.” – Stephen King, The Dark Tower

Leaving her there that first night was hard. She was doing her best to be brave but who wouldn't be scared, with or without dementia? She wanted to lock her door but she couldn’t figure it out. Neither could the previous resident since someone had taken red nail polish and marked where the locked position was on the door. We practiced it over and over until she felt comfortable. It took her a while to get such a simple move; turn the lever left or right. I think her anxiety was just getting in the way.

The bathroom was a whole other rodeo. There were two doors, one on each end, so it could be shared by the four people occupying the two apartments. I explained to her that she could lock the door that led from her room to the bathroom but she could not lock the door that led from the bathroom to the other apartment. She was starting to obsess about the door and it was becoming a problem. I finally wised up and told her if she locked the other door the resident from the other apartment would have to walk through her bedroom to get to the bathroom. Bingo. No longer a problem.

I got her cleaned up and ready for bed. She was exhausted - it had been a long day and there had been so many changes. She kept asking me where the TV was. In-room televisions were allowed, but not encouraged because they didn’t want the residents in memory care to hang out in their rooms alone all day. They wanted them to come out to socialize and watch TV with the others which I thought was a good idea. But I knew she liked to have it on for noise and the silence in her room was making her anxious; I was going to have to give the in-room TV some more thought. I had bought a CD player and radio for her so we plugged it in and found a station she liked while I unpacked her suitcase and put her things away.

We didn’t really talk; it was mostly her asking questions and me answering the same questions over and over in the most positive way I could: “Are we in Illinois?” No, we’re in Oklahoma; “Am I going back to Illinois?” No, you moved here so that we can be together more and I can take care of you; “Are my friends coming to visit?” I’m sure they will when they can; “Are my friends here?” No, mom, they live in Illinois. You live in Oklahoma now and you’re going to make lots of new friends. Yuck. Who in the world wants to move away from where they’ve lived for over 30 years and make new friends at the age of 75? Who would want to do that to their parent? Yet, here we were.

Mom and my daughter, Leah

Home sweet home

“Alice: How long is forever?  White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.” 
―Lewis Carroll -  Alice in Wonderland

Her new home. That was an experience. In between leaving her in Illinois and going back to get her my main job was to find her a place to live. I prefer to stay married and out of prison so living with us was not an option. I visited several assisted living/memory care facilities and I usually knew within five minutes if a place was going to be a consideration or not. Most of them were nice enough but what told me the most about a place was the residents. The loneliness and despair I saw on so many faces broke my heart. And made my decision much easier. I decided on a place that’s about 20 minutes from my house - close enough that I can be there if she needs me but far enough away that I wouldn’t feel obligated to spend every free minute I had there.

She’s my mom and I want her to be safe and comfortable -  happy would be good, too. However, I have a life and I have a family and sometimes it’s hard for me to find the right mix to take care of everything. I had to decide on where my balance was going to be without sacrificing myself or my family. The one thing I don’t have time for is resentment. I was not going to put myself in the position to resent my mom and I was not going to make decisions that would make my husband and my family resent me. Constant change and readjustment. But, hell, that’s what life is and that’s what you do for what’s important.

When I first spoke with Mary, the director of her new home, I didn’t have much information on how mom was doing other than what I saw and what I was told; communication from the facility in Illinois was spotty at best. Mary was the calm I needed and her patience and compassion are something I’ll always be grateful for. She and I decided to place mom in Memory Care. I bought her a new bed, a comfortable chair, and decorated it the best I could with the colors that she loved; sage green, ivory, and pink. Once her stuff arrived from Illinois I could go through and bring in her pictures and decorative things to make it more like her home. I was trying my best to not make the change so foreign and hard.

She was going to have to share a room and a bathroom but it wasn’t too bad. The room was separated enough for privacy purposes and the bathroom was large and roomy. She wasn’t going to love sharing but it was the best I could do at the time. It was surreal for me to be setting up where my mom was going to be living; I had a hard time convincing myself that she was going to be okay and happy in this place when it was so different from having her own apartment. Anxiety was my constant companion. My chest felt heavy, I felt like there was dense, dark, cloud hanging over my head, and I was jumping out of my skin with the need to know that what I was choosing for my mom was the right thing.

__________________

She seemed to enjoy the ride from the airport to her new home. It was a beautiful day and I think she was happy to be be out in the world again since it had been almost 3 months from the day she fell. While Logan and Bill were parking the car, I walked her in. There are 3 memory care residences and each unit looks like a moderate sized house. The backs of them face one central garden with clear walking paths and there is a tall metal fence that encircles the whole area. There are several spaces where the residents can grow a small garden or plant flowers. It’s rather pretty and the fence isn’t institutional, just enough to keep the residents from wandering off.

We rang the doorbell and were let in by one of the aides. The aides – let me take a moment and tell you how wonderful they all were. Yes, all of them. The patience and obvious affection they showed to the people living there was amazing to see. And the compassion they had for me and the other “kids” and spouses was wonderful. I’m sure they have bad days but I never witnessed a single one.

We walked in and we were led to her room. Mom seemed to be ok with everything but she was understandably nervous. She said she liked her room and how I had decorated it. I explained that there would be more of her things once the moving truck got to Oklahoma. The nurse came by to ask mom a few questions about what she liked to do; did she attend church, did she have any hobbies, etc. He was trying to be so nice and patient with her and she was being not so nice in return. I think that trying to have this kind of conversation added to all the new stuff that was happening was just too overwhelming.

It was almost time for dinner time and they had her seated at a table with some of the more verbal and “with it” people who lived there. Her table mates were doing their best to make mom feel welcome which is different from the way most of them act with a newcomer. It’s like third grade turf wars - God forbid you sit in someone’s seat. I wanted to stay with her but it was suggested I go sit in the living area just around the corner and let her find her way and make friends without me. Man, that was tough. I could hear her chatting away, telling them about Illinois and her trip to Oklahoma. I was so proud of her for being brave because I know her and that’s exactly what she was doing. I know she would have liked me to stay at the table but I think knowing I was right around the corner made it kind of ok.

Where is the life that I recognize?

Sometimes it takes a minute to figure out what you're looking at.

We flew to Illinois and drove mom's car while we were there moving her things. She had bought a new Honda Accord in 2004 and now, in 2014, it had about 50,000 miles on it and was in perfect shape. Perfect except for the bamboo that had grown up through the bottom of the car to the grill and the dozens of hard candies and cough drops that had been dropped and forgotten over what looked like years. It looked like the car had produced spores. 

We will never know the story behind those candies but what was happening to them now was damn interesting. They had all faded to a weird pale yellowy-beige and had become cemented to the upholstery, carpet, and plastic parts of the car. But, only on the driver’s side. The ones on the plastic parts had melted a little, and sat in their own little hardened puddle. I don’t get how she could have let so many of them drop and then never pick them up. My pre-dementia mom would never allow me to drink water in her car, let alone eat candy. Everything always, always, always had to be picked up and in its place in the house, my room, the garage, the yard. What has to happen to no longer give a crap about dropping candy day after day?

I started to take a picture but didn’t. As funny as it looked – and yes, we still laugh about it - when I took a step back it became incredibly sad. No denying it now. If we were looking for one more sign things had taken a hard turn, this was it.

When we finally got the car to Oklahoma I took it to get detailed. I barely had it parked before I jumped out of the car and shut the door so I could explain to the detailer what was going on in there and explain that it wasn’t me who did it. As if he cared. He was kind but definitely unimpressed. I don’t even think he really listened to what I was saying; most people bring in their car for full detailing because it’s time or something has gone awry. I’m sure he’s seen it all before. Until this. He opened the door to take a look at what I was telling him I didn’t do. As soon as he took in the whole mess he said, “what in the hell?” What in the hell, indeed.

Back to moving. Mom’s belongings were headed for a storage unit in Oklahoma City and now we had to get her there. To preserve what was left of my sanity and patience (yep -  me, me, me again), we had decided against the nine-hour drive and went for the one-hour flight. In the past few months, Mom had developed a NEED to go to the restroom every 30 minutes or less. Even her friends thought it was weird. And when she had to go, it became a THING. If we had driven the 9 hours home to Oklahoma one of us would have ended up on the side of the road. It would probably have been me. No, let's leave probably out. By a unanimous vote, it would have been me.

The best way I can describe it is to have you imagine a tornado that is growing and gaining power. Now, imagine that tornado condensing and becoming more concentrated and more powerful until it is taking up the tiniest amount of space yet filling the room. That’s what it felt like to be in the room with her when she became hyper-focused. I could feel a buzzing in my head. To make it even more challenging, she refused to wear disposable underwear and the wheelchair along with her bandaged leg made going to the bathroom a major production and a fall risk. I made sure we visited every available restroom until the moment we had to board the airplane.

We all made it to Oklahoma without any incidents. Another small miracle. Our son picked us up at the airport and we were on our way to her new home.

Leave but don't leave me

Mom was going to have to stay in skilled nursing until May since there was no way she could take care of herself. One of the hardest things I have ever done was to walk out of there and drive back to Oklahoma. She was fine with it though; she had her friends there with her most of the day and talking about who was at the latest dinner at the Moose Club was far nicer than talking to me about moving to Oklahoma.

Some of her friends tried to convince me that she would get better and, if given enough time, she would be able to return to her apartment. I know how bad they wanted that to be true but Bill and I knew that was never going to happen. The day she fell and was taken to the hospital was the last day she ever set foot in her apartment.

We set a date in May for the move. We hired a moving company to pack up her belongings and transport them to a storage facility in Oklahoma City. We got to Illinois two days before the movers were to arrive so that we could get the drawers and closets cleaned out and pregame the whole moving operation. Her living room, dining room, bedroom, and kitchen were all in decent order -  except for all the digital cable boxes and remotes still in their wrappers on the dining room table - but the spare bedroom was unbelievable. Piles of clothes and stuff everywhere. There was a card table set up and on top of it was just…so much stuff; letters, bills, knick knacks, broken things, envelopes, gift bags, things from “gift with purchase” promotions. I didn’t know where to start.

There was a huge pile of purses in the corner; each layer of about five purses had a towel on top of them to separate the layers. At least a third still had the price tag on and, of the ones that had been used, most still had money in them. Not a lot, but by the time we were done we had several hundred dollars in ones. And that was just the purses. We found a major stash of cash in a basket in her closet and under the silverware in the kitchen. There was money in some of the weirdest places. Open a book and there it was. Look in a mug and there’s more. Every few minutes, one of us would shout out “cash!”. In all this crazy mess, we worked together and occasionally just sat back and laughed. We needed to find something to laugh about.

To make herself feel more secure, I guess, she had put a very large knife in the bathroom in between layers of hand towels. I found this out when I picked up the towels to put them in the wash. The knife fell out and onto my foot, thankfully not tip down. There was another layer of towels in her bedroom on the dresser which we approached like we were walking up to a bomb. By this time, we had learned to be cautious. Good thing since in between the towels was a loaded handgun. With a bullet jammed in the chamber.

We started wearing gloves because we began to come across mouse droppings. The deeper in we got the more we found; the closet floors were covered. She had a major mouse infestation that had been going on for a very, very long time. She had to have seen it. Or not. I guess that when day to day existence becomes so stressful and scary that kind of thing doesn’t matter anymore. From the mom that I had known to the woman who had occupied this apartment was a long leap. I was horrified at the thought of how scared she must have been for months. Maybe even years. She always came to visit me since this is where her grandkids are so I just didn’t know how bad things had gotten. Our strange conversations over the last months and the nagging feeling that something was “off” was beginning to make even more sense.

The moving out experience itself was far better than we could have ever hoped for. The guys that showed up were hard workers, and best of all, hilarious. They had a pop playlist from the 90s playing while they packed and they sang along to Britney, Christina, NSYNC, Savage Garden – all of them. We had a game of “Name That Tune” going and I sang along to a few (a lot) with them – knowing all the words is one of the many cool benefits of raising a daughter in that decade. It was just what we needed.

Everything was done in two days and we were told by the apartment manager that since mom had lived there for 30 years, they were going to be repainting, putting in new carpeting, and new appliances. We didn’t need to do a thing. And, best of all, any furniture or items that we weren’t going to take to Oklahoma could be left in the apartment and they would take care of it through donation or by taking it to the trash. Her kindness and the sense of relief she gave us - there really are no words to describe it.

 I feel like it’s important to say that mom wasn't absolutely alone. She did have her friends and they did what they could. But sometimes we are lucky enough to find a friend who turns out to be more than a friend - more like a life line that keeps our head above water just long enough. The best part is that they don't do this out of a sense of duty, but from a place of genuine love and deep affection. Mom had that person and her name is MaLinda.

MaLinda – I will never forget your kindness and calm - you are simply wonderful. You took care of my mom like she was your very own - it broke my heart to see you cry. You took care of us and gave us a chance to breathe. I know you did much more for my mom than you told us about and I will never be able to thank you enough. 

One slip and down the hole we fall

“There I was, cold, isolated and desperate for something I knew I couldn’t have. A solution. A remedy. Anything.” – Brian Krans, A Constant Suicide

You’ve had them. Someone shows up at your front door with some kind of awful news, or you get a phone call you just can’t wrap your head around, or some diagnosis you didn’t see coming. Those are the moments that change the way the air feels in the room and makes the sides of your vision go dark.  I’ve had them, too.

The week before spring break and her 75th birthday one of her friends called me. Mom had fallen down the outside stairs of her apartment and had been taken to the hospital. Shit. I called the hospital and was connected to her room. When she answered the phone she sounded different, like hearing someone speak through a tube, and eerily detached. I asked her what had happened and she said she couldn’t remember but her knee was bandaged and it hurt. I asked her if there was a nurse or someone I could speak with and as luck would have it, or not, there was. The nurse said I would have to talk with the doctor, and I asked if she could have him call me with mom’s permission. She replied that wasn’t possible. Okay, what exactly am I supposed to do? I have no idea how bad this is, I’m not sure why my mom sounds weird, and because I was in a degree program with 8 week semesters, I was in the middle of finals. My frustration level was red lining.

She was assigned a caseworker who contacted me the next day. They were planning to discharge her to a skilled nursing facility the next morning. A hundred questions including the most important one…what exactly is wrong? She couldn’t tell me. Then she dropped the bomb. It turns out that Medicare will pay in full for skilled nursing for 20 days. However, and this is one devil of a however, the patient must have been in the hospital for 3 midnights; 3 days and discharged on the fourth. Mom had only made it to 2 midnights and her doctor was fast tracking her right out of the hospital to a facility that would ultimately charge over $6000 for 6 weeks of care. I’d love to know what his motivation was. I’d also love 10 minutes of his precious time. I have a few things I’d like to say.

I finished my finals early and we headed back to Illinois. In the meantime, mom’s friends had been keeping me updated on how she was doing and she was hardly ever alone. Everyone seemed confused as to what was happening to her and I still hadn’t spoken with anyone who could tell me definitively what was happening with her medically. We arrived the day before her 75th birthday and drove straight to the nursing home. It looked nice enough and the people that worked there seemed helpful. They directed us down a long hall and through some code protected double doors. When the doors opened, the smell of urine hit us HARD and there were people parked in wheelchairs everywhere. I had never seen or smelled anything like this.

When we got to mom’s room she was dressed and sitting up on the bed. Her knee was bandaged and she looked so small. 40 pounds gone in 3 months. She used to wash her hair every day and color it every 4 weeks but now her hair was dirty and almost all white. Her nails that she was so meticulous about were overgrown and broken. I didn’t even know where to start. I went over and hugged her; she seemed happy to see us but very confused. She complained a little about her knee but said she didn’t mind being in the wheelchair they had given her. A couple of her closest friends arrived and we made some small talk but I could tell that mom wasn’t following the conversation well at all. I also noticed that there was an obscene amount of chocolate candy in mom’s room. It looked like Easter and Valentine’s Day had made their yearly deposit of crap right there. It was in every corner, every drawer, and even in the small closet they provided. It was the only thing she was interested in eating.

I found her purse and made sure to get her identification and credit cards out of her wallet. Then I asked for her keys. She was reluctant to give them to me but I explained that she wasn’t going to be driving anytime soon and I wanted to make sure her apartment was taken care of and all her things were safe. We finally tracked down a doctor who told us that her x-rays showed a chipped kneecap but it would heal on its own and didn’t need surgery. Great. Then we got the news we knew was coming but didn’t want to hear. Mom had dementia and I needed to get power of attorney as soon as possible so I could start taking care of her and her needs. Wow. I know I shouldn’t have been shocked, we had talked about this, but now it was real.

One of mom’s closest friends is the ultimate take-charge kind of woman. She is also the one person who can almost make me believe in divine intervention. She told Bill and me that her brother was a local attorney and she had told him to start getting ready in case we should need him. I didn’t take her very seriously at first - I didn’t want to seem as though I was taking advantage and I had no idea what I was getting into. But, after speaking with the attorney at Scott Air Force Base and ending up in tears, I knew I needed help and asked her to go ahead and contact her brother.  

He met with us and said he would take care of the paperwork and meet us at the nursing home the following day with it all ready to be signed. Not only that, but he would be bringing his assistant and a notary public so that it could be done on the spot. He told me that as long as mom knew her name, her birthdate, what year it was, and who I was that there would be no problem. However, she had to agree and indicate throughout the process that she understood I would be taking control of everything that was hers. I have never been so nervous and scared as I was leading up to getting all of that signed. Mom was on board, agreeable, and visibly relieved.

Xanax now had another super-duper valid reason for existing in my life. If it wasn’t for Bill, medication, adult beverages, my mom’s friends, and the attorney I would have come completely unhinged. I was damn close to it anyhow. When the security guard in a Target parking lot starts paying extra special attention to you while you’re sobbing and hysterical (yes, that bad) in your car you know you’ve turned a corner. I’d say that I’m a strong person but even the strongest have their breaking point. I know where that is now.

Mom and me on her 75th birthday