“Your couch would look great over there,” I said to Mom. “Do you think the credenza with the TV on it would fit on that wall?” Mom asked.
“We can get measurements and lay everything out on graph paper,” Barbara said.
I pointed out how well the kitchen would work for her to get her own breakfast and lunch.
“I don’t cook much anymore,” Mom said, mostly to Diane. Diane said she wouldn’t need to, since she would have dinner in the dining room.
Mom studied the bedroom and the big walk-in closet. She asked about additional storage space. Diane showed her the closet in the second bedroom and another one outside on the balcony, where she said people usually stored their deck chairs over the winter.
Mom walked across the living room and leaned against the kitchen counter jutting into the dining area.
“I could set the phone and my calendar on this counter,” she said. “Yes, I think this could work.”
“I just want her to say ‘Sign me up,’” I whispered to Barbara.
As we headed back to the office, Diane stopped several times in the hallway to talk with residents. She also told us that her dad had moved in this year.
“Your father lives here at McCarthy?” I asked, making sure Mom heard.
I gave Barbara the thumbs up sign.
“We’ll see,” she mouthed.
The halls had been quiet when we arrived, but now people were heading toward the elevators to go downstairs.
“There’s a trip to the museum today,” Diane explained.
When we got back to the first floor, ten or fifteen residents were sitting on the benches outside the dining room or leaning on their walkers, apparently waiting for the bus. It looked like a granny convention—mostly women, lots of gray hair and warm smiles. I spotted Sophie sitting on her walker/chair and said hello, reminding her that we had met a few months earlier. She got up and pushed her walker toward Mom.
“I’m glad to see you back,” she said, “Are you going to move in?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Mom said.
“Do it—you won’t be sorry.” Sophie smoothed her bossy tone with a big smile.
Mom laughed.
I wanted to hug them both.
We went to Diane’s office and reviewed the apartment layout for what would be Mom’s place: Apartment #306. It was the mirror image of the one we had just seen. Her small balcony looked out onto a field across the street. Mom didn’t think she would use the balcony much.
“When do we have to decide?” I asked.
Diane said we had three weeks, until April 10th, to make a deposit, or they would go to the next name on the waiting list. The place would be available May 15th.
None of us thought to ask her why it had become vacant. “Do you have any other questions?” Diane asked. “I’m curious about the food,” Mom said. “Is there a choice for dinner?”
Diane got out the weekly menu and explained how Mom could
choose what she wanted each night from two specials, and that a few standard items were always available.
“Is it good?” Mom asked.
Diane said she could try it out for herself any night. We said we’d think about it, and maybe come for dinner the next day.
As soon as we walked into Barbara’s house, Phil asked, “How did it go?”
“It certainly is a nice place,” Mom said.
“Pretty much perfect,” I said, hoping I wasn’t pushing so hard that I’d get resistance.
Barbara started pulling things out of the refrigerator to make lunch.
“Mom, how about a meatloaf sandwich?” Barbara asked. “Just half a sandwich for me.”
“I’ll take the other half,” I said. “Let’s eat on the porch.”
Over lunch, I asked Mom what she was thinking about the apartment.
“I think I should take it,” she said. “Me, too!” Barbara and I said in unison.
Mom said she was ready to sign up, but she was concerned about selling her place and moving by May.
“It’s too soon,” she said.
Barbara said she had to go to Milwaukee for a trial in early June. “I can’t get out of it. I’m the only paralegal who’s been on the case since it started. The trial could last all month,” she said.
I went to the kitchen to get some water. I pictured the calendar in my mind.
“What if you didn’t plan to move until July?” I asked, walking back to the porch.
Mom agreed that would be better, reminding us that her place wasn’t even on the market. I suggested she could move even before selling her place.
“Can I afford that?” she said.
I asked her if she had talked to Keith at Smith-Barney.
“He told me not to worry,” she said. “His wife, Judy, is a realtor. But how will I do the packing? What about movers?”
“Mom, we’re going to help you with all of this,” Barbara said. “We’re going to take care of everything,” I said. “You won’t have to do any packing or moving yourself.”
“Alright, I guess I’ll do it.” Mom shrugged.
I jumped up and kissed her. “I really think this is the right decision, Mom.”
Barbara got up and headed to the kitchen. “Coffee, anyone?” she called over her shoulder.
The next day was Saturday, and we drove about an hour and a half to Beaufort, North Carolina, a small sailing port with interesting shops. Barbara had made reservations for lunch at a new restaurant there. It was sunny, and the trees were that yellowish shade of green that you only see in early spring. Mom laughed when the waitress called her “young lady.” She ordered one of her favorites, soft-shell crab, and we each had a glass of wine.
I wanted to talk more about the move, to make plans, to be sure that Mom was on board—but the day seemed almost magical, and I didn’t want to break the spell.
“If I move here, I want to come to this restaurant again,” Mom said.
I looked up from my salad and glanced at Barbara, giving her a look that said, “Did she say ‘if?’”
Barbara dropped her head toward her plate and reached for her wine glass.
Mom and I caught a plane the next morning. Barbara made us peanut butter-and-honey sandwiches to take along. Thankfully, the trip was uneventful, but it still took most of the day, and by the time we reached the condo, we were both tired. I suggested we order a pizza for dinner. Mom asked me to get out some hummus and crackers to snack on, and to pour some wine.
We settled into our usual seats in the sunroom and watched the news. During the commercials, Mom muted the TV, and I suggested a plan to keep things moving on McCarthy Court.
“How about I change my plane to the afternoon, and we can fill out the paperwork for McCarthy together and get the check in the mail?” I offered.
“I can do it.”
I swirled the wine in my glass.
“I know,” I said. “I just thought you might like some help.”
“I need to think about it for another day or two.”
I was too weary to push things any further that night. I took a deep breath and went to get the pizza.
When I got back, Mom was dozing in her chair with the TV on. She woke easily when I came into the room, and insisted on making some salad to go with the pizza. I set up the teak TV trays with plastic Vera placemats and matching napkins.
After dinner, we watched 60 Minutes. We both hated Andy Rooney’s grumpy tirade.
Chapter 8
AS SOON AS I LANDED at the Miami airport the next day, I called my friend Kate and asked if I could swing by on my way home.
“I need your advice about my mom,” I said.
Kate, a nurse with a master’s degree in public administration and a doctorate in leadership education, had been written up in the local paper for her work in end-of-life care—but mostly, she was my trusted friend and confidant. When I arrived at her house, she made tea, and we sat at the huge butcher block island in her kitchen, a place where I had cooked a
nd eaten and cried before. I filled her in on the trip to New Bern and my conversation with Mom the night before.
“I’m afraid she’s going to back out,” I said.
“Mel, I keep telling you, you have to get a professional involved—a doctor, a social worker. Somebody other than you and Barbara to tell her she’s going to have to move.”
“I keep thinking she’ll come around. She’s always been so sensible.”
“It’s way too scary for her.”
I took a sip of my tea and added a little more honey.
“Why can’t she just trust us?” I moaned.
“It’s not about trust. It’s about fear. She doesn’t want to leave her familiar cocoon, even though she’s outgrown—or, more accurately—outlived it.”
A few days later, I talked to Mom. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she was waffling about McCarthy Court. She listed the same reasons I’d heard before—she didn’t really need to be anywhere else; she liked it where she was; it would be too hard to move.
“How will I get to New Bern?” she whined. “And anyway, if I need help, I can hire someone right here in New Port Richey.”
I took a deep breath and reached back to pet the cat, who was sharing my office chair and cuddling up against my back.
“Mom, I know this is hard, but honestly, I think it’s the best option.”
I reiterated that Barbara and I were too far away from New Port Richey, and that we would take care of all the moving. I reminded Mom how perfect McCarthy Court was.
The cat moved, and I edged her onto my lap. “It isn’t going to get any easier to make this move,” I said. “You have to be tough. I promise, Barbara and I will make it all as easy as possible.”
“I don’t know, Mel. I just don’t think I can do it.”
Please don’t make me come over there and take this out of your hands, I thought. In my head, I sounded like a parent warning a misbehaving child with “Don’t make me come in there.” I had always thought of it as a threat, but now I understood that it was a plea: Please don’t make me be mean. Please be good. Please be my smart, capable mom again.
“Alright, Mom, but think about it some more. We still have a few days before the payment is due. I really think you’ll be happy there.”
When I called Mom two days later, she told me she had discussed it with Lenore.
“I decided to do it, even though I’m scared. I sent the check this morning.”
Yes! I thought. I punched my left hand into the air to signal a win, and sent a silent word of thanks to Lenore.
“That’s great,” I said.
“We’ll see,” she replied.
After I hung up the phone, I stared out my office window at some seagulls dive-bombing the water where my neighbor had tossed out breadcrumbs. I tried to put myself in Mom’s place—leaving friends and her home of thirty-five years. I wished I could do the I Dream of Jeannie blink and instantly transport Mom and all her belongings from New Port Richey to New Bern. I wished Mom had a pussycat like mine to comfort her.
I let Barbara know that the check was on its way. She said she would call Diane to fill her in. I encouraged her to call Mom in a day or so.
About a week later, Diane called Barbara. The check and paperwork had not arrived.
“Give it another day or two,” I said when Barbara called me.
I questioned Mom, and she assured me she had sent everything to Diane—but two more days went by, and nothing had arrived at McCarthy Court. Now we were past the deadline. Barbara told Diane that Mom definitely wanted the apartment, and she agreed to hold it for another week.
“What in the hell?” I said on the phone with Barbara.
“Maybe she got the wrong address.”
“Damn. I think I’ll have to go over there, figure this out, and get another check in the mail. I’ll go this weekend. Damn.”
I called Mom, and told her I had just set up a meeting with a colleague at Hospice of the Florida Suncoast for Monday. It was a lie. I told her I’d be coming over on Sunday to spend two nights.
“Oh, good,” she said. “I love it when you stay here.”
I didn’t tell her that the check had not made it to McCarthy Court. I figured I’d deal with it when I got there.
I arrived at Mom’s condo around noon. We shared a turkey sandwich and an apple. It had only been a few weeks since our trip to New Bern, but she looked smaller to me.
“Mom, have you lost weight?”
“Maybe. I’m not very hungry these days.”
“You have to eat,” I said. I decided to make a big pot of lentil soup for dinner. I thought the smell of food might perk up her appetite. I’d freeze the leftovers for her to have during the week.
Mom and I went to Publix together to get the lentils and other things I needed for the soup. I also picked up the ingredients for a beef stew, some frozen Stouffer’s Swedish meatballs, and some whole-milk yogurt. I wanted to be sure that Mom had nutritious—even fattening—food around.
Once I’d put the soup together, I joined Mom in the sunroom to watch a movie—Notting Hill was on. We’d both seen it before, but the cheerful romance was perfect for the day. As it ended, I pushed the mute button on the remote.
“Mom, we’re going to have to send another check to McCarthy Court. The one you sent never arrived.”
“What?”
“It never arrived. It must have gotten lost in the mail.”
“Oh, Mel, this is so hard. I want to be strong, but there’s so much to do. My place isn’t even up for sale.”
“I know. But I’m here now.” I could see that she really needed me to be strong. I told her I would call the bank and cancel the first check. Then we’d send another.
“And I’ll call Judy, the real estate agent, about getting the condo on the market. Please try not to worry,” I said.
“But what about your meeting?”
“It was cancelled,” I lied, then quickly followed with a version of the truth. “Anyway, I really wanted to see you.”
We were both ready for our glass of wine. I put out cheese and crackers, and made sure Mom ate some.
The next day, Mom and I sat at the table in the sunroom. I filled out the extra set of papers we had for McCarthy Court, and Mom signed them. I watched her write out the check in her now-wobbly handwriting. I put everything in the FedEx package I’d prepared using my business account. I wasn’t going to let this one get lost.
“Okay, now we need to make some copies,” I said.
“We can do it at the condo office,” Mom said.
“Perfect,” I said. “We can stop there, and then drop off the package on the way to lunch.”
Mom folded her hands on the table.
“Melly, I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“It’s okay, Mom. But this is good decision. Really, it is.” I took her hand and squeezed it.
I called Keith’s wife, Judy. Keith was Mom and Daddy’s longtime financial planner, currently with Smith-Barney. Mom always referred to Keith and his partner, Rick, as “the boys,” and she thought of them as extended family. Because of Mom and Daddy’s special relationship with Keith, I knew Judy would be the right agent to sell Mom’s condo. She said there was no rush to get the condo on the market if Mom wasn’t going to move until July. She thought we should wait a bit. I asked her to prepare some information on other sales so we could start thinking about price.
Mom and I went out to a local coffee shop for lunch, after making our copies and dropping the package in the FedEx outgoing box. Mom ordered a BLT, and I had a salad. She ate very little, and I did most of the talking. Back at the condo, Mom napped while I made beef stew for dinner.
Over our evening wine and cheese, I talked to Mom about my schedule. I could see how fragile she was, and I wanted to come back soon. I was going to Washington, D.C. for the annual conference of the National Hospice and Palliative Care Organization (NHPCO) in about week. I went every year—and that year, 2007, I was giving two pres
entations. I told her I would come back to visit her the week after the meeting.
“Are you sure you can do that?” she asked in a way that sounded like a plea.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “Now, let’s have some stew.”
The NHPCO conference was held at the Omni Shoreham, a historic hotel built in 1930. When I was a kid, Mom and Daddy would sometimes go to the hotel’s famed Blue Room to see Tom Lehrer, or a jazz quartet. In the early 2000s, the Shoreham was acquired by the Omni chain, but it still had the elegant look and feel of a grand hotel. I studied the hallway displays of menus from celebrity dinners, entertainment programs for the Blue Room, and photos of the clientele.
When I arrived for the meeting, the small garden out front was wall-to-wall blooming tulips surrounding a dogwood tree in full flower. It was a spectacular show. I took a photo on my iPhone to show Mom.
The conference was great. I always looked forward to connecting with colleagues from around the country. Barbara called it “hobnobbing with my fellow wizards,” quoting from The Wizard of Oz. Between the beautiful spring weather, my successful presentations, and the fact that Mom was set to go to North Carolina, I was feeling better than I had in weeks—maybe months. The last day of the conference, after the morning plenary session, I found a seat in the lobby and called Mom. I planned to tell her about the flowers and how the Shoreham reminded me of her, all dressed up in her tea-colored lace cocktail dress to go out with Daddy.
“Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”
“Not so good, Mel.”
I felt my good mood evaporate and my stomach clench.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do it, Mel. I can’t go to New Bern.”
“Mom, I thought we had made this decision.”
“I know, but I can’t. I really think I’ll be all right here.”
Right there, in the beautiful lobby of the Shoreham hotel, I was crying. I didn’t care if anyone saw me. In fact, I wished someone would come over and offer to help. I needed help, and after all, I was surrounded by all that hospice compassion—but no one seemed to notice.
“Mom, we’ve already been over this. You need to be nearer to one of us.”
“I know, but it’s just too hard.”
Holding the Net Page 7
