“You’re so much better with her than I am.” Barbara’s voice cracked.
“It’s hard for me, too. I’ve just been around her more. Maybe I should come up there.”
“You can’t, can you? Don’t you have to work?”
“Yes, but so do you,” I said.
“I took two days off—told them I was sick. Truly, I am,” she said.
“Look, I could reroute my trip back to Florida and come to New Bern for a few days.” It was a pain, and I wished I didn’t have to, but I knew I’d feel better if I made the trip. I hoped Mom and Barb might feel better, too.
“I’m coming,” I said. “I’ll be there day after tomorrow.”
I flew to Raleigh-Durham and drove the two and a half hours down Route 70 to New Bern. I would come to know this highway well—the Bojangles billboards (Carolina Born and Breaded); Jones Sausage Road; signs for the Nahunta Pork Center; and Wilber’s Barbeque. I measured my progress by the larger towns—Clayton, Goldsboro, Kinston—and the final stretch of divided, limited-access road, where the speed limit finally rose from forty-five or fifty to sixty-five miles per hour.
I turned onto the pine straw in Barb and Phil’s driveway that afternoon, and at 5:30, we picked up Mom and went out for fish and chips at Captain Ratty’s. Mom didn’t eat much—some clam chowder, a little salad, and a glass of wine. I asked a lot of questions, and generally tried to keep the conversation upbeat. By 7:00, we were back at McCarthy Court. Mom said she was tired, so I just walked her up to her apartment and said goodnight.
“See you in the morning,” I said, “around eight o’ clock. Is that okay?”
“Anytime,” said Mom.
“Love you,” I said as we hugged.
The next day, Barbara and I were up early, as usual, and went for a walk while it was still cool. After a shower, I headed to Harris Teeter, the local grocery store, for a cappuccino and two muffins—one for me, and one for Mom.
Just before 8:00 a.m., I knocked, then pushed open Mom’s unlocked door. The furniture—sofa, chairs, heavy marble coffee table, entertainment center and TV—fit the space well. Everything was familiar except the smell—that very specific mixture of Daddy’s pipe tobacco, a hint of flowery potpourri, and delicious cooking aromas was missing. Instead, I detected the scent of fresh paint and carpet cleaner. The twenty-year-old furniture looked new, because in Florida, the living room had gotten little use. Now, it was the only furniture outside of the bedrooms. I could see that Mom had chosen one of the floral side chairs as her “throne,” and kept one of the teak TV trays nearby. Barbara and Phil had hung some of the artwork, but more of it was stacked near the sliding doors to the balcony. A few unpacked boxes sat next to the kitchen.
“I got tired of setting up,” Mom said, “and I could tell Barb was exhausted, so I told her we’d finish another time.”
“Well, that’s one reason I came, so I could help you get settled. I think we need to set up your étagère and get some plants. Then you’ll feel more at home.”
“Alright, but not now. Let’s just sit and visit.”
Sit and visit? I thought. I want to get to work. I want to get this done. I want you to perk up and get with the program.
“I brought muffins.” I forced my sunniest smile as I pulled them out of the bag and cut each one in half. “Let’s share. Do you need a warm-up on your coffee?”
We sat at the card table that temporarily served as her dining area and makeshift desk. I leafed through her mail, and made small talk about the dinner menu for the following week. Mom had to indicate her choices for each evening. She explained that in addition to the two choices each night, you could ask for fried fish or a plain chicken breast. Her favorite so far was the lasagna, and she was eager to try the smothered pork chops. She told me again how much she missed the condo and all her friends.
“Hang in there,” I said.
She took a tissue and wiped her eyes.
“Show me around the apartment, and let’s see what needs to be done.” I stuffed the remainder of the muffins back into the bag and brushed the crumbs off the table and into my hand.
Mom said the bedroom was all set up, and I was amazed how much it looked the one in Florida, except with a smaller bed.
“I need a lighter bedspread,” she said. “That one is too heavy for me now, and I like to make the bed every day.”
I made a mental note, new bedspread.
“Do you need any new clothes?” I asked.
“Not now, but one of my shoes got lost in the move. They were my favorite sandals.”
I took the one remaining blue suede Clark sandal, thinking maybe I could find another pair online.
“The guest room needs fixing up,” Mom said, and I could see she was right. The closet held unopened boxes, and the single bed needed linens. I got a notepad from the kitchen and started making a list. Mom said she couldn’t find the key to the lockbox, so I added “look for key” to my chores.
“Do you need any soap or shampoo?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.”
I made a note to check the shower and both bathrooms.
“That’s it,” Mom said. “You’ve seen the living room and kitchen.”
“Well, I guess I’ll open a few boxes and put some things away,” I said, “Maybe I can get those two boxes out of the dining area.”
“Do you have to do that now? I’d rather just watch some TV—maybe a movie.”
I could see that she felt overwhelmed and depressed. I was dying to get her place fully set up and organized, hoping it would help her feel better, but I didn’t want to push her too hard.
I turned on the TV and found Turner Classic Movies. We watched Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant in Bringing Up Baby for about twenty minutes, until I saw Mom nodding off.
“Why don’t you take a little nap?” I said. “And then we can go out to lunch and buy a new bedspread.”
She walked back to the bedroom, and soon I heard light snoring.
I closed her bedroom door, and while she slept, I quietly unpacked and set up the étagère, referring to the photos I had taken in Florida.
Over the next two days, between Barbara and me and Mom, we replaced the sandal that had gotten lost in the move (thank you, Zappos), found a place that could re-key the lock box (and then found the missing keys inside—oops), hung up all of Mom’s artwork, and set up the guest room. Now she was completely moved in.
On my last day, I stayed for dinner at McCarthy Court. Mom was at a table with Sophie, whose apartment was right across the hall, and four other women. There were men living at McCarthy Court, but they were outnumbered at least ten to one by the women. Christine, the waitress, referred to everyone in the Southern tradition: “Miss Sophie,” or “Miss Eleanor.” She called me “Sugar.”
Sophie drove the conversation. While I could see how she might get annoying, I welcomed her energy. Mom ate well, and spoke to everyone at the table. Could she be feeling better?
Meanwhile, Barbara had had some time off from being with Mom.
“Thanks for coming,” Barbara said, as I packed up to leave.
“I wish I could stay.” I really wished I could. I knew intellectually that neither Barbara nor I could “make” Mom happy, but I felt like my being there made things better.
“I’ll come back soon,” I said, “and if it just gets to be too much, we can try to find another option.”
“There is no other option.”
She was right. We had agreed to this arrangement, and we both knew it wasn’t fair to Barbara and Phil.
I called Mom the next day, and the next, and not much had changed—but after about a week, she seemed better. She said Sophie had talked her into going to the social hour—coffee and dough-nuts—in the rec room.
“The coffee wasn’t very good, but I met a woman who is in a book club, so I’m going to that next week,” Mom said.
“What’s the book?” I asked.
“The Kite Runner. We read that for m
y book club in Florida, but I don’t mind talking about it again.”
Each day, Mom seemed a little more animated. Barbara stopped her daily visits. And then, suddenly, about three weeks after Mom moved in, she started talking about McCarthy Court as if it were the best place ever.
“I just wish I had moved here sooner,” she said. “The people are so nice, and there is something fun to do almost every day, if I want to. On Thursday, we’re going to the art museum.”
I called Barbara.
“Can you believe it?” I asked. “I know,” she said. “It’s astonishing. She pretty much never calls me.”
“Thank goodness. I was so worried about both of you.”
“Me too!”
Once Mom started adjusting to her new surroundings, Barbara introduced her to Dr. S., the primary care physician she and Phil saw. Dr. S. had experience with geriatric patients, and Mom loved him. Since Mom’s health was good, she had no need of any specialist doctors.
For nearly one full year, Mom was as happy and as busy as she wanted to be. She and Sophie became good friends. At least twice a week, Mom boarded the minibus with a group of other residents and went off to lunch, shopping, a movie, or a field trip to see the local sights. Barbara brought her over to the house for dinner about once a week. When Mom and I talked, she described the meal in detail, and praised Barbara’s cooking.
I called every few days, and visited every three months. In October, I came for Barbara’s birthday. In January, I came for Mom’s birthday. In April, I came for the azaleas. I always asked Barbara what else I could be doing.
“Honestly, it’s not that much trouble,” Barbara said. “I do her laundry, and occasionally drive her to the grocery store. Once a month, I take her to Hamp at Trent Hair Designs for a haircut, and we go out for lunch.”
As the year passed, we all got comfortable with the new normal. Barbara took over more of Mom’s bill-paying, and I worked with Keith (from Smith Barney) and the accountant to make sure Mom’s taxes were filed. And Mom seemed just fine with it all.
Then, about a week before my planned visit in July, Mom fell. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Sophie was playing piano in the recreation room. Mom’s rubber-soled sandals, the ones that worked so well to prevent falls on slippery surfaces, caught on the carpet and stopped her forward motion abruptly. As she fell, her right arm grazed the corner of the piano stool, ripping a V-shaped gash from mid-forearm to elbow.
I could imagine the scene—Mom on the floor, looking confused, saying, “I’m okay. I’m okay,” as the blood poured from her arm; the others crowding around her; and Sophie, who didn’t walk very well, yelling orders.
“Someone get a towel! Pull the emergency cord! Go get Diane from the office.”
Barbara called me from the hospital. Mom was in the operating room, where a surgeon was closing her wound, and she would be admitted for a day or so.
After the initial jolt of nerves, I was relieved. She hadn’t broken anything. That was what we’d been warned about—a broken hip or shoulder can be the beginning of the end for an older person. I thought Mom would be upset, but Barbara assured me she was not.
“She swears it doesn’t hurt,” Barbara said, “but I tell you, it looks like her arm was almost ripped off.”
Living almost a thousand miles away and getting my information secondhand from Barbara, I was able to preserve a certain view of Mom—as a ninety-two-year-old with no discernable medical problems. If I had seen the medical records back then, I would not have read them with my professional eye. Instead, as the loving and hopeful daughter, I would have focused on the fact that the “review of systems” was “acutely negative,” meaning nothing was wrong with her except that horrible gash. I would not have wondered why all those layers of her skin tore so easily, or why she hadn’t been able to stop herself from falling, or use her hands to brace as she fell.
Reviewing the same medical records as I write this now, I see what I would have missed. Her wound was a “complex laceration” requiring “debridement,” or removal of dead tissue, prior to sewing it up—which meant that overly fragile blood vessels had frayed and robbed the tissue of oxygen. Mom would spend several days in the hospital, and would lose strength every day she was in bed; and she would require physical therapy to restore both strength and balance when she returned home.
Back then, firmly in denial and with my professional antennae at half-mast, I did not see how this fall signaled the beginning of a steeper downward slide.
Chapter 12
I ARRIVED IN NEW BERN FOR MY JULY 2008 quarterly visit just a few days after Mom had been discharged from the hospital and returned to her apartment at McCarthy Court. Except for the huge bandage encircling her arm, she looked much as I had left her three months earlier. Barbara unwound the gauze and followed written instructions for changing the dressing. Once it was exposed, I gasped at the extent of the injury. It was Frankenstein-ian—the row of stiches went nearly all the way around her arm, as if the lower part had been wholly separated and then reattached.
Though Mom looked good and assured me it didn’t hurt at all, she seemed lethargic. She didn’t want to go out for lunch, so I went to the local deli and bought us a tuna sub to share, and potato chips. We ate in front of the TV, and then, before we went to Barbara’s for dinner, Mom took a long nap. Over the four days of my visit, she improved only slightly.
I knew how trauma, especially cut or torn flesh, releases stress hormones that bring on fatigue. I supposed this was happening to Mom, and I remembered how her spirits and energy had flagged when she had broken her wrist ten years earlier. Back then, she had bounced back in a couple of weeks. This time, it took more than a month. Even with several weeks of physical therapy, she never returned to the Mom she had been before the fall.
She started asking Barbara to pick up groceries for her—something Mom used to do on her own, using the shuttle provided at McCarthy Court. She rarely went on the McCarthy field trips she had previously enjoyed; now, she only went if Barbara went along.
Joined Mom on the “geezer bus” for a tour of the Marine Corps Air Station at Cherry Point—great air show, Barbara wrote to me in an email.
Mom stopped reading books.
“The television keeps me entertained all day,” she said.
She told me she wasn’t going to vote anymore.
“I don’t pay attention to any of the candidates. It just doesn’t matter to me.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” I replied. “You’re ninety-two years old. You’ve done your part.”
I told myself what I told Mom—that how she felt and what she did and didn’t want to do seemed normal for her age. Intellectually, I knew this was true. Emotionally, I felt like I was watching her drift out to sea while I stood helpless on the beach. But it wasn’t the tide that plagued Mom; it was gravity.
Through August, September, and October of 2008, she fell about once a week—though “fall” may be too strong a word. She would simply lose her balance while walking to the bathroom or kitchen, and then drift, fairly gently, to the floor. Unhurt, but also unable to get up on her own, she would press her “panic button” and ask the voice from the speaker to call the main office. One of the McCarthy staff would come to her apartment on the third floor and help her up. Barbara received a call after each and every incident. She started to dread the ringing phone.
Mom, on the other hand, didn’t seem very upset by these falls. In fact, she was proud of her ability to handle them on her own. She bragged about the time she fell in the living room and didn’t have her panic button around her neck.
“I crawled over to the apartment door, reached up and turned the knob, then held the door open with my shoulder and sat there. I knew someone would walk by and help me up.”
“Sounds like you managed pretty well,” I said, “but please wear the damned button! What if you had been hurt?”
Perhaps the most disturbing change during the fall of 2008 was that Mom stopped showering r
egularly. Both Barbara and I asked her about it.
“I don’t do anything that makes me sweat,” she explained, “I wash ‘the critical spots’ every day.”
Mom kept a pint-sized pitcher, decorated with a cluster of purple grapes and two green leaves, on the back of the toilet. She filled it with warm water and used it in place of a bidet.
“Maybe she’s too unsteady to wash in the shower,” I said to Barbara.
“She has a shower chair—and there are handles on the walls.”
“It takes a lot of energy to wash and dry off. Could she be that weak?” I asked.
“I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s time to get some help.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No, I was hoping you would do it. But I did find a service I think we can use. Check it out online. It’s called Seniors Choosing to Live at Home.”
We agreed that I would talk to Mom, and Barbara would coordinate everything.
I went to the website for Seniors Choosing…and liked what I saw. They offered services on a membership model—so much to join, then a flat hourly fee for personal care services (anything that involved touching, like bathing, feeding, and dressing) by a certified nursing assistant (CNA, or health aide), along with a lesser fee for non-personal care, like shopping, companionship, light housekeeping, or other chores.
Mom’s response was predictable.
“I don’t need any help,” she said.
“Just let Barbara set you up with this agency, and see how it goes,” I said.
“I can take a shower by myself.”
“Okay, but at least someone would be there in case you fall. Please try this so I can stop worrying,” I pleaded.
It took a couple more conversations, but she finally agreed to talk to them. Barbara signed her up, and Valerie, the owner of Seniors Choosing to Live at Home, came to do the mandatory assessment.
Mom was social by nature, and she didn’t mind at all being the center of attention. I’d seen how she had perked up when we’d talked to the geriatric care manager back in Florida, and I imagined she had been equally charming when she’d met with Valerie.
Holding the Net Page 10
