When I saw the number on my caller ID, I felt the familiar chest clutch. A call from my mother's assisted-living home could be any number of things, most of them not good.
The last call had been from a nurse who told me that they'd caught my mother smoking in her room. They hadn't actually caught her red-handed. After smelling cigarette smoke, they tried to get into her room and found that my mother had wedged her walker against the door. They were eventually able to gain entry, but not before my mother disposed of the evidence. My husband and I don't have children, and so I've never experienced that dreaded call from the principal's office telling me that my offspring was caught (fill in the blank) under the bleachers. My parents had received their share of calls when I was growing up, so I imagined this must be some karma thing going on.
Initially, I'd been a bit angry with her -- I thought she had stopped smoking after a respiratory infection nearly killed her. Smoking is a really bad idea for anyone with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. And she knew it. I'd been concerned -- smoking was, for obvious reasons, forbidden and each flagrant violation earned her a $1,000 fine from the home. But I was also slightly amused. This woman was determined. And while I was relieved and grateful that they were waiving the fine "this one time," I was also reminded of one of the things I loved about my mom: her spirit.
When I answered the phone that Sunday, the nurse explained that my mother was experiencing extreme confusion and needed to be evaluated at a behavioral health hospital. Did we want to drive her there or should they call an ambulance? While my eighty-year-old mother enjoyed flirting with ambulance drivers, I knew this was something I needed to do for her. Confusion worsened her anxiety, and I seemed to have a calming effect on her. On the other hand, this anxiety made it difficult to predict her behavior. Clearly, if they wanted her admitted to a hospital, this must be something out of the ordinary.
On the short drive to my mother's place, I braced myself for the worst. Like many elderly people, she suffered from anxiety and depression, which was exacerbated by dementia -- a fog that seemed to consume a little more of her every day. Her short-term memory was not good and her behavior was, at times, "inappropriate." (i.e. Telling a staff member that her long blonde hair was infected with lice.) When her depression and anxiety got bad, she'd often tell me she wished she would die. I'd try to cheer her up and tell her she had much to be grateful for -- family who loved her, grandchildren, a nice place to live -- she'd give me a look that said "don't you patronize me." She was right. I was. It left me helpless. Coping with her decline saddened me, angered me, brought out the guilt in me like nothing I have experienced before or since. Although she had chosen to move into assisted living, she occasionally let me know that she'd like to live with my husband and me. This wasn't possible -- not only did we lack the room, but I couldn't have handled it. I often felt inadequate when it came to understanding her and her demands, and so I welcomed the little things I could do with her. The laugh we'd share over a glass of her favorite Chablis. Watching TV with her and listening to her go on about how they just didn't make actors like Cary Grant anymore. "What about George Clooney, Mom?" "Snort." Sometimes I'd just sit there with her while she fell asleep.
That Sunday I was amazed to find her upbeat. Confused, but cheerful. (Which was more than I could say for my husband. This wasn't just any Sunday; it was Super Bowl Sunday.) She chattered during the drive. Nonstop. She thought we were going to play golf at a country club. In England. My husband and I went along with it, stopping short of faking British accents. She wasn't exhibiting any of her usual anxiety and her illusion seemed harmless. Maybe even healthy. Who wouldn't prefer teeing off in Cornwall to a psychiatric evaluation in the Chicago suburbs? As a writer of fiction, I am no stranger to the lure of one's inner life.
By the time we got to the hospital, she was still cheerful, but her chatter had become a sort of stream of conscience rant. It was starting to get to me. So it was with guilt-tinged relief that I filled out the necessary forms. We waited. An hour later, we were told there'd been a mix-up and there was no bed for her. We would have to do this again on Monday.
We took her back to her little apartment, and as I got her settled, she was quiet. As though she'd run out of steam. Leaning back into her recliner, she sighed. "I'm such a pain in the tutu, aren't I?"
"We all are, Mom."
She smiled. "When will I see you again?"
"I'll be by tomorrow."
Her eyes widened. "Are we going out to lunch?"
"Something like that."
"That's nice." She sighed again. "I'm too tired for golf."
© 2011 DC Brod, author of Getting Lucky
DC Brod, author of Getting Lucky, has written fiction most of her life, but didn't think she had a novel in her until she graduated from Northern Illinois University with an MA in journalism. It was then that she decided if she could spend 120 pages discussing postal oppression of the radical press, she could write a novel. She was right. Brod has an undergraduate degree in English from Western Illinois University and has worked as a technical/marketing writer, and as a fiction editor. She's a frequent speaker at writer's conferences, libraries and has taught creative writing.
She lives in St. Charles, Illinois with her husband, Donald, and a cat, Travis McGee. When she's not writing, reading, or finding excuses not to clean the house, she enjoys watercolor painting, traveling, and watching crows.For more information please visit www.dcbrod.com.
