Holding the Net

by Melanie P. Merriman

  I heard the aide tell a coworker, “They don’t understand; this isn’t like the hospital.”

  I hadn’t meant to complain or be rude, but how was I to know what to expect? Had I missed the orientation session? Was Mom supposed to ring the bell fifteen to twenty minutes before she had to pee?

  These nursing aides are overworked and underpaid, taking care of people who rarely show gratitude, I reminded myself. And I wanted them to like me. No, I wanted them to like Mom, and be nice to her. In the coming months, I would learn that many of them worked two jobs—two full shifts, most days—both here and at another facility.

  I aimed to be the model family member. I would learn the names and faces of all the nurses and nursing aides. I would greet them, whether I needed anything or not. I would thank them for every service. I would ask them to explain the rules. Over time, I hoped, they would thaw.

  Both Mom and Becky decided to have dinner in the room. Mom said she was tired. Becky said she probably wouldn’t eat at all. She seemed miserable.

  I went to the nursing station to make sure Mom’s medications had arrived from the pharmacy, and that they had the discharge orders from the hospital. Communication in these transitions from one care setting to another can be dismal—critical information gets misplaced, mistakes are made, patients go for too many hours without needed medications. I wanted to be sure Mom would get her antianxiety medication, Xanax, this evening, and her antidepressant, Lexapro, in the morning. I was prepared to go to her apartment and get them, if necessary, even though I knew I’d have to sneak them in—no outside medications are allowed in hospitals or nursing homes.

  Susanna, the nurse at the desk, told me to check with Louise, the nurse who was in the hallway distributing medications. I interrupted her as politely as I could, calling her by name, and she assured me that Mom would get all of her meds on time—but she hadn’t actually checked the cart. I had Xanax with me, so the evening was covered. I decided to get some Lexapro from Mom’s apartment and bring it over in the morning.

  Just as the dinner trays arrived, Mom needed to use the bathroom again. I had paid attention to the earlier bathroom ballet, and I was ready to try it on my own:

  Aim the wheelchair toward the wall with the grab bar. Once Mom has hold of the grab bar, push gently on her back so she can stand; slide the chair back; then help her lower her pants and ease down onto the toilet seat. Leave the room to give her some privacy, but stay close by. When she’s finished, get her to grab the bar again, and help her to stand. Use the large, damp wipes from the box on the back of the toilet to clean her up. Pull up her pants, push the wheelchair close, and lock the wheels. Standing behind the chair, put your arms under her arms to brace her as she sits.

  “Well, I never thought you’d be wiping my butt for me,” said Mom.

  “It’s only fair,” I replied. “You did it for me. I owe you.”

  I fought unease and sadness. If I can be comfortable, or at least act comfortable, doing this, I thought, then Mom can be comfortable, too.

  We danced that dance over and over in the following months. It became routine, but it always felt unnatural.

  By 6:15, dinner was over. Looking for a way to be helpful, I carried the trays into the hallway and placed them on the rolling rack for return to the kitchen. True to her word, Becky had eaten almost nothing. Mom had a better appetite, and happily, she had been able to feed herself with just a little help cutting up her slice of ham.

  Mom wanted to get into bed. I felt like I needed to ask permission, so I rang the bell. Renee, one of the aides, came, and the two of us helped Mom change into the clean nightgown I’d brought to the hospital that morning. I was pleased to see that the scrapes on Mom’s knees from her big fall were getting better.

  “Does she usually wear a diaper at night?” Renee asked me.

  “No, I do not,” Mom answered.

  I was close to tears. I was thinking about how long it might take for an aide to get to her if she had to get up in the middle of the night. Which would be worse? I thought. For me to suggest she wear a pull-up, or for her to wet the bed? I took a deep breath.

  “Mom, just this once, since you can’t get to the bathroom on your own, would you want to wear a pull-up? I mean, in case no one can help you right away.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, “I just want to go to bed.”

  I took that to mean she was willing.

  “Do you have one?” I asked Renee.

  She brought the padded underwear, and I helped Mom put it on.

  Renee showed me how to work the bed. Then I wheeled Mom into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Like a four-year-old, she held the brush awkwardly, and brushed with jerky, ineffectual strokes. I did not step in to help. Instead, I thought maybe I should buy her an electric toothbrush.

  It was a little after 7:00 p.m. when I tucked Mom into bed. I hugged her and kissed her cheek.

  “Sleep tight,” I said. “I’ll be back early tomorrow, and I’ll bring you some good coffee. I’ll bet the coffee here is terrible.” I smiled at her, but her eyes were closed.

  “Thanks, honey. G’night.”

  I turned off the light over her bed, and pulled the curtain so Becky’s light would not shine in her eyes. I said goodnight to Becky.

  “I can bring you some coffee, too,” I offered. “How do you like it?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “But I like real cream. They only have the fake stuff here.”

  I walked down the gray hallway, now empty of wheelchairs, turned left at the nurses’ station, and continued past the intake coordinator’s office and out into the parking lot. I found my car and drove, without thinking, to the Harris Teeter for groceries. Klein called as I pulled into a parking space.

  “I’m drained,” I said. “She’s at the nursing home. It’s dismal. She’s wearing a pull-up.”

  “What?”

  “You know, those adult diapers that are like padded underpants. I mean, as a precaution, but I don’t know, it’s so…I don’t know how we got here. I mean, I just didn’t think we’d ever be here. I don’t know.”

  “You sound tired. Are you okay?”

  “No, but yes. I mean, I have to be okay. I have to figure out how to entertain her for the next few days—there’s no TV. I cannot even imagine.”

  “How can there not be TV?”

  “There’s no TV in the rooms. I can get a TV, and they’ll hook it up—but nothing until Monday.”

  “What about in a sitting room, or lounge, or something?”

  “I didn’t think of that. My mind is fried. I’ll check tomorrow. Anyway, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s good here. The kitties miss you.”

  “I miss them, too. And I miss you. But this is where I need to be.”

  “I know.”

  “I gotta go. I need to get some food and stretch out.”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  As I walked into Harris Teeter, I saw them turn off the lights in the prepared foods section, closing it down for the night.

  No! No! I thought, and then came the tears.

  Chapter 17

  MY MELTDOWN IN THE GROCERY STORE CONFIRMED IT—five days into full-time caregiving, and I was a basket case. I cooked scrambled eggs for my dinner and sipped on red wine, thinking, how does Barbara do it day after day? How can I expect her to continue doing it? I was asleep by 9:00 p.m. and awake at 3:30 a.m., worrying about how to make the nursing home bearable. I lay in bed, dozing and planning, for an hour or so. Then I got up and got to work.

  I typed up a one-page “introduction” to Mary Eleanor Pratt. Point number one was “She is called Eleanor.” In other points, I lauded her intelligence: bachelor’s degree in English, worked as a book editor and assistant to a doctor, elected president of both the hospital volunteers and the condominium association. I provided her backstory: grew up in Philadelphia, married to Dave for fifty-three years, raised her family
of two girls in Northern Virginia near Washington, D.C., lived in Florida for thirty-five years, moved to New Bern two years ago, and lives at McCarthy Court. I listed some things she liked: all kinds of food, a nice glass of wine, cats and friendly dogs, a good joke, and, of course, television. I wanted them to see her as a human being, rather than just another old lady in rehab.

  I selected a few books from Barbara’s bookshelf, figuring if there was no TV, then I would read to Mom and Becky. I chose Julia Child’s My Life in France, because Mom and I had enjoyed Julia’s cooking shows over the years, and a collection of James Thurber stories that Mom often quoted with wild laughter.

  I made a peanut butter sandwich for my lunch and headed out. I went to McCarthy Court and picked up some clothes for Mom. I chose three of her most colorful blouses, two pairs of slacks, underwear, and her favorite L’eggs knee-high stockings. Then I stopped on the way to Beechwood for my usual cappuccino and muffin, coffee for Mom and Becky, and some grapes for us all to snack on.

  I arrived at around 7:30 a.m. and found both women dressed and sitting in their wheelchairs, pushed up to individual tables holding breakfast trays. Mom was eating scrambled eggs, and Becky was buttering some toast.

  “Good morning,” I sang.

  They both looked up.

  “Hi, honey,” said Mom.

  She didn’t smile. I went over and hugged her, and she leaned into me for a moment. Then she went back to her breakfast.

  “I brought coffee,” I said. “With cream, for Becky. I put it in a separate cup so you can add as much as you like.”

  “Thank you so much.” Becky reached for the cup I offered. “I’m still not hungry, but that coffee smells really good.”

  I chattered to both of them, telling them I had brought books and grapes, reviewing the weather—warm even this early in the day—and wondering aloud if we might go outside a bit today. I posted Mom’s bullet-point biography on the bathroom door. Later in the day, I awarded myself an attagirl when one of the aides looked at the list and asked whether Mom wrote books.

  As I hung Mom’s clothes in the closet, I thought how she seemed to be fraying, just like the seams on her ancient lime green polyester stretch slacks. She was usually so social, but she wasn’t even trying to engage Becky in conversation. She seemed distant and disconnected. I reminded myself that she needed time to recover from the physical trauma of the pacemaker surgery—and it had only been nine days since her big fall.

  The rest of the day passed slowly. I played social director, trying to entertain my listless guests. Mom and I went exploring. I rolled her down the hall and we found the “living room” with its comfortable chairs, a large wood-and-glass aviary housing several colorful parakeets, and (hooray) a television. I told Mom we might come back later to watch TV. We found the dining room where rehab patients gathered for lunch and dinner. Three large windows filled the room with natural light. Four rectangular tables covered with faded flowered cloths offered space for six to eight people each. A staff member whose nametag read Deanna was setting up the tables for lunch. I greeted her by name, and introduced myself and Mom.

  “When you come for meals, you can sit anywhere you want to,” she said. “We’ll bring you a tray. And we have sweet tea in a pitcher over there all day long, so you can get some anytime you want.” She gestured to a small table in the corner.

  “I only drink coffee,” Mom stated.

  “Well, we can bring you coffee with your meal,” said Deanna. “I can even get you some now. Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks,” Mom said.

  I thanked Deanna for her help.

  “We just got here yesterday,” I said, “so we’re still learning how it all works.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you at lunch,” said Deanna.

  I smiled at her and said thanks, again, trying to make up for Mom’s lack of manners. Mom was so unlike herself, it scared me.

  Back in the room, I chatted a bit with Becky. She lived at the Marriot Courtyards Senior Apartments in New Bern, formerly known as The Villages. That was the other option we had considered for Mom. Her daughter lived about twenty-five miles away and had two children, so she wouldn’t be able to visit every day.

  “She’ll come by tomorrow after church,” said Becky.

  I read to Mom and Becky from the Julia Child book for about an hour or so. I didn’t dare try the Thurber. If I read one of Mom’s favorite passages and she didn’t laugh, it would break my heart.

  Around 11:30, the three of us trooped to the dining room for lunch. Becky nibbled on some rice, but Mom surprised me by eating nearly an entire chicken breast after I cut the meat off the bone. All the while, I talked with the man sitting next to Mom, though I remember nothing about him or our conversation. Mom seemed to be concentrating hard on her plate. She barely spoke.

  After lunch, both Becky and Mom were ready for naps. I needed a break, and told Mom I would go home for lunch. I asked Becky if there was anything special she would like to eat. I suggested a milk-shake, drawing on hospice lore that even very sick patients loved the cold creamy sweetness of a shake.

  “That sounds good. Could I have chocolate?” she asked.

  Instead of going home, I drove to a park and ate my sandwich outside. It was hot, but I wanted the sun and open air after the gloom of Beechwood. I forced myself to sit there for more than half an hour, and the whole time, I worried about what was happening at the home. There wasn’t much I could do to improve the situation, but I felt it was my job to share her misery. On the way back, I stopped at McDonald’s for Becky’s milkshake, and stole a few sips for myself.

  Mom and I watched some TV in the living room—the end of a Law & Order rerun, then NCIS. It turned out we had to ask someone at the nursing station anytime we wanted to change the channel. Mom dozed while I tried to lose myself in the mindless entertainment.

  We went back to the room, and I read some more of the Julia Child book out loud. Mom and Becky had been granted permission for dinner in the room one more day. I kept listening for the clatter of serving trays, a sign that the day was finally winding down.

  Once the food arrived, I helped the ladies organize their trays and open their cartons of protein drink. Then I went to the kitchen to get some hot coffee for Mom. As I wandered down an unfamiliar corridor, I saw a woman resident with a young man—her son or grandson, I supposed—watching a movie on a small DVD player. Brilliant, I thought.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said as I walked back into the room, “Barbara and Phil have a wonderful collection of movies and old TV shows on DVD. What if I bring some of them in to watch tomorrow?” I figured I could get a reasonably-priced player at Walmart.

  “I’d rather have a television,” she said.

  “I promise we’ll get you a TV as soon as possible, but it won’t be until Monday, at least.”

  “Okay. Will you still be here Monday?”

  “Yes. I’ll be here for another week or so.” I was committed to staying as long as necessary, even after Barbara returned from vacation. I wondered what “necessary” might mean, or how long it might go on.

  I took away the dinner trays, and helped Mom go to the bathroom, brush her teeth, and change into her nightgown. I rang the bell for an aide to get Mom tucked in. Renee came in about ten minutes later. She asked Mom about wearing a pull-up, and Mom agreed. It took me a minute to realize that the entire exchange had not involved me at all. That was good, right? It was good that Renee had addressed Mom directly, and good that Mom seemed comfortable with Renee. I could relax a little bit, couldn’t I? Or could I?

  I slept well that night, more likely from pure exhaustion than from any measure of relief. The knot in my stomach the next morning let me know I was still on high alert. I convinced myself to go to the gym—care for the caregiver. The voice in my head said Mom will be okay.

  I left the gym at 7:00 a.m. and headed for Walmart (open twenty-four hours a day) to buy the DVD player. Then I went back to the house, showered, and drove over to
Beechwood at around 9:30 a.m., stopping on the way to pick up some coffee for the ladies. I was proud of myself for honoring Mom’s independence by going so late, and ashamed of myself for having left her alone for so long.

  Mom was in the bathroom with Nelly, one of the aides, when I arrived. See, I told myself, she does just fine without you. I handed Becky some coffee and asked her how things were going.

  “Okay. I ate some eggs this morning, and I’m feeling a little bit better.” Hearing sad-sack Becky say something positive seemed like a good omen for the day.

  I set up the DVD player, trying to put it in a place where both Mom and Becky could watch the tiny five-by-seven-inch screen. I showed Mom the DVD choices—Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Singin’ in the Rain, Vertigo (the Hitchcock classic), and the collection of old Jack Benny shows. She asked me what I wanted to see. I chose Vertigo.

  “Jimmy Stewart and that elegant blonde,” said Mom. “It’s a good movie.”

  I smiled, happy she had recalled Jimmy Stewart’s name and Kim Novak’s cool beauty. About halfway through the movie, Becky’s daughter, Susan, arrived. I hit the pause button.

  After greetings and introductions, Susan thanked me for all I had done for Becky.

  “It’s no trouble,” I said. “I’m here in New Bern just so I can look after Mom, and I’m staying at my sister’s house, only fifteen minutes away.”

  After a bit more small talk, I suggested to Mom that we go down to the living room to watch TV. We caught up with Becky in the dining room at lunchtime. Susan had left, but would visit again in a few days, Becky told us.

  My cell phone rang in the middle of lunch, and I was happy to see it was Barbara calling. We hadn’t talked since Wednesday evening after Mom’s pacemaker placement, though I had sent short email updates every day.

  “How’s it going?” Barbara asked. “We’re getting settled, I think. Mom still seems kind of removed, like from everything. Maybe that’s a good thing.” I had walked outside to take the call.