“Oh, you didn’t have to get this,” Mom said, “I could have made coffee here.”
She had already forgotten her snippy demand for coffee. It was one of those moments when I felt dragged down by her decline.
“It’s a treat, Mom. I know you like their coffee.” Barbara and I exchanged pained looks.
The walker sat in the corner, near the TV, not near Mom’s chair. Over the next month, February of 2009, Barbara met Mom in the emergency room twice in one week. Both times, she told the doctor she had lost her balance and fallen, “as I often do.” Both times, the medical notes described her thin skin, almost too thin for stitches. Both times, the notes mentioned how personable she was.
“I keep asking the doctors why she falls so much, but we see a different one every time we go to the ER,” Barbara told me, “so it’s hard for them to get the whole picture.”
One ER doctor wrote that he had considered syncope—temporary loss of consciousness due to a drop in blood pressure—or a possible heart arrhythmia, or stroke; but then, without any testing, concluded it was a simple trip and fall.
“What does Dr. S. say?”
“He tells her to use the walker, and he orders more physical therapy.”
“Tell the physical therapist to make her use the walker,” I said, remembering Kate’s advice about getting professionals to be the bad guys.
“I’m also going to get Seniors Choosing to send a health aide every morning. Dena will come most days, and someone else will come on Dena’s days off. I don’t want her dressing herself,” said Barbara.
“Does she need help at night, too?”
“Probably, but I don’t dare make too many changes all at once. She seems pretty depressed lately, and never goes out unless I take her.”
“Or unless she goes to the ER.”
“Yeah, funny, that’s the only place she seems to perk up. I think she likes the attention.”
That night, when Klein got home from work, he joined me in the kitchen, poured two glasses of wine, and turned on the news. I listened to the stories about a tornado in Oklahoma and a plane crash near Buffalo.
“Why do we watch this stuff?” I asked. “There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s so depressing.”
“Honey, it’s just the news. Do you want me to change it?”
“No, I know you like it.” When he left to put on his comfy clothes, I switched to a Seinfeld rerun and concentrated on cooking.
I visited Mom and Barbara again the first week of April. Mom had managed to stay out of the hospital for nearly two months, and I could see why. She now used her walker every time she got up.
“It’s my Cadillac!” she told me, “Look how fast I can walk.” Barbara confirmed that Mom’s mood had improved over the last few weeks. Did the walker made her feel more mobile, more confident, less confined? Was it seeing Dena, who doted on her, five days a week? I didn’t ask. I didn’t care about why. I just enjoyed her happiness.
Barbara suggested another reason for the improvement in Mom’s mood.
“She’s getting less connected to everyday events—kind of in her own little world. Sometimes she calls to ask me what day it is.”
“So, how would that make her happy?”
“I think she’s getting to a point where she cares less about everything, including her confusion.”
One thing she really cared less about was food. When we were growing up, Mom had prided herself on her cooking. Her everyday specials had included meat loaf, pork chops with tomato sauce, pot roast, and a delicious chicken chow mein she made with mostly canned vegetables. For dinner parties, she went all out with boeuf bourguignon or Khoresh Bademjan, an Iranian lamb stew. Barbara and I had both learned to love good food, and I still wanted to cook for Mom.
Hanging out at her apartment, I offered to make lunch.
“I want one piece of bologna on one slice of bread cut in half to make a sandwich,” she said.
“No mustard? No mayonnaise?”
“No, just plain.”
“I could fry the bologna, or add some cheese and make a toasted sandwich.”
“No, I want it plain.”
I made the plain sandwich—lunch for a four-year-old. Thinking about it, even now, makes me cry. But then she surprised me by asking to go out to dinner at a local restaurant.
“The crab cakes are wonderful,” she told me.
After so many enjoyable meals with Mom at her dinner table and in restaurants, eating out with her had become painful. That night, Barbara and I struggled to pull Mom into some light banter, and worried about her clumsy use of silverware. When the meals arrived, our limited conversation stopped as Mom concentrated on her food. She leaned in to capture each bite, often losing half before the fork reached her mouth. Barbara and I kept chatting, and pretended not to notice the mess. After the meal, we gave the waitress an apologetic look and an extra-large tip.
That spring, as Mom’s mood improved, mine tanked. Barbara’s phone and email updates documented our mother’s slow but continuous physical and mental decline.
“I called her at 3:30 to remind her about coming to dinner at my house,” Barbara recounted. “When I got there at 5:00 to pick her up, she was sitting at her usual table in the McCarthy dining room.”
“Was it on her calendar?” I asked. “She always checks the calendar.”
“Mel, she calls me at least twice a week to ask what day it is. Yesterday, she also wanted to know what time it was.”
In an email, Barbara wrote:
Dena gets there at 9 a.m., and more and more often, she finds Mom still asleep. I’ve increased her to three hours every morning, because now, in addition to getting Mom up and dressed, she also makes the coffee and toast. Plus, I still like for her to take Mom for a walk. I didn’t even discuss it with Mom, and I don’t think she noticed. Anyway, she loves having Dena around, and is even used to Oohna, who fills in on Dena’s days off.
I hated being so far away. I wanted to do something to help. I wanted to be with Mom; I wanted to relieve Barbara. I worried, and had trouble concentrating. I jumped whenever the phone rang.
My household chores seemed endless, and I berated myself for not keeping up. Running out of butter, or milk, or coffee brought me to tears. And heaven help anyone who disappointed me. Klein took over all the interactions with customer service agents after I screamed at the cable provider when our Internet service was interrupted.
I would wake up early, try to focus on deep breathing, then give up and head into my home office. I’d bury myself in work until suddenly, mid-afternoon, I’d find myself with my feet up on the desk, staring blankly at Biscayne Bay. I pushed myself to exercise—an hour on the elliptical trainer while watching a funny or heartwarming movie.
One day, I figured out that Mom’s bank offered online bill-pay. I called Barbara and told her I would take over the bills.
“Are you sure?” Barbara asked.
“Yes. Let me do this. Send me last month’s bills so I can get it set up. Then when any new ones come, just tell me how much to pay and I’ll do it all online.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I am, unless it turns out to be harder on you. But let’s try it.”
The new system worked perfectly. Any payments with standard monthly amounts—McCarthy Court rent, Medicare and supplemental health insurance premiums—went out automatically, and Barbara would email me about the other bills, like electricity and phone. I finally felt a little more useful.
It was a warm night in early July when Barbara got a call from Shannon, one of the McCarthy staff. Mom had fallen in her closet while changing into her nightgown, then crawled around the bed, pulled the phone from the nightstand onto the floor, and called the front desk. The next day, Barbara told me the story.
“I drove over right away and helped her up.”
“Shannon left her on the floor?”
“She stayed with Mom, but was afraid to lift her, afraid she might hurt her.”
> “How’s Mom?”
“As usual, she’s fine. Last night, she was shaky, and said she felt like a fool. I helped her get ready for bed, and told her I thought she was very resourceful to get to the phone the way she did. She was sleeping when I left.”
I sighed, and slumped in my chair.
“Where was her panic button?” I asked.
“She hangs it on the bedroom door on her way in to get undressed.”
“Ugh. What are we going to do?” I whined.
“I can’t help wishing she was at Homeplace.”
“We’ve got to get Dena or someone to come in at night.”
“Don’t even bring it up. I did, and she refused.”
“Maybe it’s not her choice anymore.” I carried the phone to the Florida room and picked a few dead flowers off one of the potted plants.
“Look, this is the first fall in a while,” Barbara said. “Let’s see how it goes. If it gets bad again, we’ll have a better chance of forcing the nighttime help.”
For once, I thought it best that I wasn’t in New Bern. I was furious with Mom. She was making it very hard for me to make her life easier.
A month later, Mom fell again while getting ready for bed.
“Let’s just go ahead and book help for the evenings.” Each fall chipped away my equanimity. How did Barbara stay on an even keel?
“I already sent the email to Valerie at Seniors Choosing. I’m going to tell Mom it’s only for when I’m on vacation so she won’t fight me.”
Barbara and Phil were headed out on a two-week driving vacation through New England and Nova Scotia. I would be on call the full two weeks, and would go to New Bern and stay at Barbara’s for eight days. Mom would be “alone” for a couple of days at the beginning, and a few more at the end of the vacation. It seemed like the perfect time to introduce nighttime care. In fact, it would be too late.
Chapter 14
I WAS IN PHOENIX PACKING UP to head back to Miami at the end of a business trip when my cell phone rang, and I saw Barbara’s name on the screen. Uh oh, I thought. We were scheduled to talk the next day about my trip to New Bern to take over as local family caregiver while she went on vacation. This unplanned call could only mean bad news.
“We’re at the hospital.” Barbara’s voice broke. “Mom had a bad fall last night, a really bad fall. Dena found her on the floor this morning, and the bed was still made from the day before.”
“What happened?” This was my worst nightmare—Mom stranded on the floor for hours without help.
“I don’t know. She’s really confused. Dena found her naked. Her nightgown was in a heap beside her, and had pee and poop on it. When I got there, Dena was washing her up. We put on her clothes, and I brought her here to the ER.”
“Jesus! Is she hurt? Did she have a stroke?”
“Look, I don’t know. She’s shaky. She couldn’t walk by herself, even with her walker. She has some bruises on her left arm, shoulder and hip, and her left eye is swollen shut. That’s all I can see. They’re doing some tests.”
I decided to cancel my morning meeting, change my ticket, and go straight to New Bern.
“Barb, I think I should come right away.”
“No, we won’t know anything more for a few hours. You can call me this afternoon when you get back to Miami.”
“I don’t know. It sounds really serious, and you seem pretty upset.”
“I was afraid something would happen to ruin my trip,” she sobbed. “I’m furious at her, and at myself. Why didn’t I just insist on getting someone to come in at bedtime?”
“Look,” I said, “This is not your fault. We’ll figure it out. You will have your vacation.”
I felt sick. As soon as I hung up, I got a cold washcloth from the bathroom and put it on the back of my neck. Despite what I told Barbara, I was sure this was our fault.
I broke the rules, and kept my cell phone on for the entire flight to Miami. A few minutes before we landed, I got an email from Barbara with more details.
What I found most frightening was Mom’s confusion. She told Barbara she had been sleeping on the floor on purpose, because she was babysitting a pet bird for the people next door and didn’t want to sleep in their bed. It must have been a weird dream, but she relayed it as if it were fact. She didn’t remember falling.
I got off the plane, grabbed a seat in the gate area, and dialed Barbara’s number. She was still at the hospital. Mom had been admitted for observation and monitoring.
“I had the night help set up for two days from now,” Barbara moaned. “If only I had done it sooner.”
“Stop beating yourself up,” I said, as I mentally flayed myself. “We agreed not to force her. You’re doing a great job, and you are going on vacation. If you and Phil can leave a day later, I’ll come a day earlier, and she’ll be safe in the hospital for the few hours neither of us is close by.”
“But I’ll be in Canada, and it will be hard to reach me.” I could hear her anguish. She and Phil desperately needed this vacation, but Barbara didn’t want to desert Mom.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to convince myself by reassuring her, “I can handle it. You’re there all the time. This is your break. I’ll take charge.”
Barbara emailed me three pages of notes. On the first page, she detailed the location of the keys to her house, Mom’s purse, and food for Buster, the neighborhood cat who visited daily. On page two, she provided instructions for when and how to put out the trash, how to use the television, and how to check for messages on the phone. Page three was a list of phone numbers for neighbors, doctors, and Mom’s physical therapist, along with addresses for the CVS where Mom got prescriptions and the Urgent Care Center.
I’ll leave a folder on the kitchen counter with my gym card, supermarket discount card, legal papers concerning Mom, and instructions for the espresso maker, she wrote.
She and Phil left Sunday morning, and I arrived in New Bern on Sunday afternoon at around 3 p.m. I drove straight from the Raleigh-Durham airport to the hospital.
I walked down deserted hallways, thinking this must be the quietest hospital on the planet. As I turned the corner toward the elevators, I was relieved to see a pink-jacketed volunteer sitting behind an information desk.
I asked for Eleanor Pratt’s room number. The nice volunteer told me there was no one with that name in the facility. I squinted at her, and my brain searched for an explanation. Is that possible? Could I be in the wrong hospital? If she’s not here, how will I find her? Okay, breathe, think. I can’t call Barbara. Wait—Mom’s legal name is Mary Eleanor Pratt.
“Try Mary Pratt,” I said. Only complete strangers, like the hospital doctors and nurses, ever called her Mary.
“Yes,” said the receptionist, “but are you sure it’s the right person?”
“I’m sure,” I snapped. “She’s my mother. Can I go up?”
What will I do if I have to prove it? I thought. My driver’s license has my name as Melanie Pratt Merriman; will that work? Then I remembered the healthcare proxy forms in my purse. I carried them all the time now.
Before I reached for the documents, the volunteer said, “Room 312.”
I flushed, ashamed that I’d been short with her.
Mom was propped up in bed, dozing, her white hair flat and almost invisible on the pillowcase. The room was semi-darkened, lit only by the TV and slivers of late-afternoon sun coming through yellowed Venetian blinds. I touched her arm and kissed her cheek. She opened her eyes and smiled.
“Mel?” I was so relieved that she knew me. My eyes grew hot.
“How are you doing, Mom?” I smiled back at her.
“Alright, I guess. Where’s Barbara?”
“She left on vacation.” I knew Barbara had told her the night before. “I’ll be here until she gets back.”
“I’m so glad.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft.
I pulled the Naugahyde visitor’s chair closer to the bed, and talked about my recent bu
siness trip until Mom dozed off. She seemed listless and looked banged up, but I was thinking about getting her to her apartment with some home health care. I could cook for her, and help her get her strength back. I went to the nurse’s station to ask how long Mom would be in the hospital, and why she needed to be here.
The only useful thing Mom’s nurse told me was that the doctor would be around to visit sometime the next day; she didn’t know when. I assured her I would be there.
People in scrubs came in and out of the room. One helped Mom to use a bedpan; another checked her blood pressure, pulse, and temperature—all normal. Someone else brought her dinner around 5:00. Mom could hold the fork, but her hand shook. She let me feed her, which I found both alarming and soothing. At last, I was here when she needed me.
I couldn’t get a clear reading on the situation. Based on the bedpan, it seemed that Mom couldn’t—or shouldn’t—get out of bed. Certainly, she seemed weak. But the initial tests hadn’t shown evidence of a stroke or a heart attack. I hated waiting for answers.
At 7:30, Jeopardy came on the television. I stayed for about half the show, then told Mom I was getting tired.
“Is there anything you want? Anything else I can do for you tonight?” I asked her.
“No, no. You must be exhausted. Will you stay at Barb’s?” I was grateful she seemed to be remembering what was going on.
“Yes,” I said, kissing her. “I’ll be back tomorrow, early.”
I stopped at Harris Teeter for a bottle of wine and picked up some veggie lasagna from their prepared foods section. I had planned to buy groceries for the week, but was too tired to think about it. I pulled into Barbara’s driveway and saw Buster, the big orange tomcat, waiting in the carport. I couldn’t wait to sink my face into his fur.
I poured a glass of wine, heated my lasagna in the microwave, and tucked in on the couch with Buster and a movie. After another glass of wine, I fell asleep. At some point, I woke up, pulled up the afghan, set my phone alarm, and went back to sleep, fully clothed.
The next day, Monday, I was at the hospital at 7:45 a.m., cappuccino in hand, ready to be a good companion to Mom. I helped her eat some canned pears and sip some coffee.
Holding the Net Page 12
