The Real LJ Idol - Prompt 1
She was always there for me, whether or not we were in direct contact, whether or not we agreed. We never discussed it because it was unnecessary. I would be there for her as she was for me.
In the days of my youth, and while I aged, she was in my corner, supporting and cheering even though sometimes she disagreed with my choices. The physical distance between us was great, bridged rarely with months between hugs. We spoke often, though.
However, something happened. Some unknown force had forced its way into her life. Her friends were concerned and reached out to me. Phone conversations with them hinted at deeper troubles. It was time to take a quick visit and check on her personally.
Arrangements made, I flew from the cold north to the warmer south. If necessary, I would have walked. I would have hitched dogs to a sled, hired a private jet, or hitchhiked with a trucker. I hoped for the best but feared the worst.
At her doorway, we exchanged hugs and murmured pleasantries. It took only a short time to realize things were bad. I needed to make some hard decisions and I needed to do it fast. It was Tuesday night, and I needed some miracles. On Wednesday, I arranged an emergency wellness visit to a nearby physician to determine her mental acuity. The news wasn't good - dementia with a strong possibility of Alzheimer's. A strained dinner followed, my thoughts on what to do nest, and hers bouncing from one topic to another randomly.
Acting on advice from the doctor, I made some phone calls, then drove to the offices of the family attorney. He was a disaster. He had the documents I needed, but as soon as I got those I left, determined to find a different, more competent lawyer. I put out a call to my on-line friends and through one of them, had a recommendation for a lawyer in one of the southern suburbs. I drove out and had a quick consultation with him. He was exactly what I wanted in an attorney - plain spoken, honest, and unafraid to give me an opinion. Looking over the Will and the Power of Attorney, he said the POA was weak - very weak. It was all I had to work with, though. Just getting this POA a few years earlier had almost caused a complete schism between my mother and I; she accusing me of wanting it to get at her money, and my reassuring her that I would only be using it in case of emergency. It was time for that emergency. The papers she regretted signing were now going to save her life.
It wasn't the 2010's, it was the 1990's, and in those days, most care facilities did not have memory wings. I found a center concentrating on memory loss reasonably close to her home, so I phoned and arranged for an afternoon visit. I lied blatantly to her. “An old school friend from college works here. Would you mind if I dropped by and said “Hello” to her? I left her in the Adult Day Care Center for observation. A doctor would interview her and assess her condition while I met with the Administrator.
The Administrator said they had the space, and could take her for a short time, but to have long-term care augmented with Medicare, I needed my Power of Attorney in place. I would also need the ability to write checks for her monthly care and for things not covered by insurance. Our roles had to change. I had to become the mother of my own mother.
I went to collect her. The doctor in the adult day care center told me, “I’ve never met anyone as good at masking as she is. She has excellent social skills and getting below that veneer to see the real person underneath was difficult. But yes, she's confused and possibly unsafe on her own." Pinning him down for a recommendation, he finally stated, "In my professional opinion, she’s borderline for being able to take care of herself.”
On Thursday, I had another meeting with the attorney. I had two options available to get her into a care center where she would be safe. Either I could work within the courts to become her official Guardian, boxing her into a monthly budget with no available excess and probably requiring her to sell her home. Or I could try to activate the rather iffy Power of Attorney that I had over her affairs, take over her bank accounts, and pay her monthly fees and any extras needed. I decided to try to convince the banks into allowing me to take over her accounts. If that didn't work, we would go through the courts.
Things were disintegrating at home. I was pushed close to the edge of losing my temper and didn’t want to do that to her. She was ill. It wasn’t her fault. I had to stay calm and organized or I would do her no good. But I wasn’t sure I could make it through a full weekend of just the two of us. Desperate, I phoned the memory facility again. Could they get her in the next day? “Yes”, was the response later that afternoon. “Bring her by in the morning around 10:00 am. We’ll take care of it.”
At 10:00 am on Friday morning, the worst 48 hours of my life began. I entered with her and introduced her to my “school friend” Julie who offered a tour while she and I got caught up. Mom walked off with the “tour guide” and I abandoned her on the other side of a locked door. I signed papers, wrote checks, went back to the condominium and collapsed. The phone rang and rang - messages from her asking where I was, begging for me to come and get her, saying that she didn’t need to be there - that she was fine. I ignored them all, curled in a ball, and wept.
I still weep today, more than 25 years later. It was the hardest thing I ever did - to betray someone’s faith in me for their greater good. She lived in the facility for almost five years, and I visited several times a year, but she was never outside their walls again. She became comfortable, she made friends and I made sure she had the extras that had always mattered - hairstyling every two weeks, a manicure twice a month. Trappings aside, it was a prison that her failing mind had relegated her to.
Who lost more? She lost her memory and her privacy, although she always recognized me and introduced me proudly to her friends. I lost an anchor in my life, a shining light that was dimming as I watched. When it came to her death, I can’t say who had it harder, my father and his fight against cancer, or my mother and her long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. I only know it was a lot harder to deal with my mother’s illness than my father’s, and that I still feel guilty about letting that phone ring and ring, unanswered.