Chapter 61

Mom and Me

Leslie always planned that after Dad died, Mom would live with her and her husband David. About a year later, Mom moved to their house in Pleasant Hill. She had a little bell to beckon Leslie to come for whatever reason. Mom told me, “I’ve moved to paradise.” But later, Leslie told me it was her in hell.

Leslie was bipolar like me; she’d been struggling mentally. David called and said Mom had to move back to Roseburg as soon as possible. Leslie needed rest and time to recover. The best thing for Dave and me was to do our part to make Mom’s transition as simple as possible.

I didn’t expect Mom would have to move back to Roseburg. At first, I was upset because it meant more pressure for me. My niece, Tiffany, moved into my parents' house after Dad died, so the house wasn’t vacant before it was time for it to be put on the real estate market. It got complicated since Mom had to move back. I talked to her, Tiffany, David, their daughter Rosalie, and my sisters. It was necessary to coordinate plans, but I was tired of talking so much; my tense jaw ached. My feelings came out in other ways; one morning, I sprayed Lysol to freshen the kitchen’s smell. But I sprayed Pam instead. To get rid of the slippery, oily mess, I had to mop the floor twice.

Sophie was coming from Santa Rosa to help process and research possibilities for what was next for Mom. She was doing an amazing job, but I felt like I wasn’t doing enough.

After research, Sophie, Mom, Dave, and I agreed that Garden Valley Retirement Apartments was the best place for her. Inside, it was tastefully decorated; two floors high, with an elevator, three game rooms, a small hair salon, laundry facilities, a spacious dining room, and a talented kitchen cook. Another big plus for me was that it was a three-minute drive from the salon and less than ten minutes from our house in Melrose. Mom, Sophie, Dave, and I went through Mom’s house to decide which furniture would fit in her one-bedroom apartment. I bought her a new twin-size bed, mattress, and sheets, and pillowcases for it. But looking back, I’m sure she would have been more comfortable in her queen-size bed.

We put Dad and Mom’s house on the market, and in a short time, it was sold. Mom signed the closing papers, and she and I set up two bank accounts, one with interest income, the other a regular checking account, with the intention that her funds would pay for her needs in the coming years.

Our extended family—Dave and I, my sisters Elsie, Sophie, Grace, nieces, and nephews—worked together to have the house ready for the next owners. It was a day of decision-making, sorting, and choosing what each of us wanted to take or donate to a worthy cause. The cupboards were emptied, boxes filled with assorted things ready to be put in the trucks, and the furniture Mom didn’t need for her apartment. I was the last one in the house. It felt appropriate somehow; it was the final time for me to say goodbye to Dad since I’d been surrounded by his things. The next morning, I thought of Jesus walking through the rooms with me, saying, “Good job.” The empty spaces were a sign of an assignment completed—to be my dad’s advocate.

Sophie and I helped Mom get her apartment organized. I sorted through her mail, found some leftover bills from the house, guided her in writing checks for telephone and electricity, and helped her balance her bank statement.

I stopped by to see Mom at least four times a week, or on the way to the salon’s bank, or on my way home. I thought Mom was used to having a personal secretary-bookkeeper at Leslie and David’s house. I fit that description for her then. But it was important for me to make sure she was settled and didn’t feel forgotten by her family.

Sunday’s special dinner was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, delicious homemade rolls, and a piece of apple, lemon meringue pie, or berry cobbler for dessert. Most Sundays, I took Maggie and Lolo with me to eat with their great-grandma. Shortly after church, one time they wore their new cowboy hats; they were so cute. The residents loved seeing my toddler grandchildren; it seemed rare they had young children visit them.

Sometimes I was frustrated; Mom had a weekly hair appointment at our salon on Thursdays at 3 o’clock. Garden Valley had an employee drive a company car to take her to the salon and pick her up after she got her hair done. I was working at the salon, but when she didn’t show for her appointment, I called to remind her that she forgot, picked her up, and drove her back myself.

Mom was taking Trazodone when my sister Leslie took her to a geriatric physician in Eugene. He said taking that medication could cause memory loss for the elderly. When she stopped taking them, it made such a difference; I felt Mom “woke up.” I felt bad for saying “You forgot.” It was a painful reminder of memory loss that she feared; it was time to be gentle.

When I stopped at Mom’s, I usually went around the three rooms and picked up the Kleenex tissues she used for an allergy, took out dried-up desserts or sandwiches from her little refrigerator, and put the leftovers in the garbage. One day she said to me, “Let’s just sit down and talk.” She said I had been telling her I had to go to a doctor’s appointment often; she wanted to know who and why I had one. I hadn’t thought about telling her I’d been to a psychiatrist. She listened carefully and assured me it was important for me to take care of myself.

After a suspicious mammogram two years in a row, I said I was willing to have a surgical biopsy. After the procedure, the doctor said it didn’t look “messy,” but it would take 3 to 5 days to get the results. After the surgery, I went to see Mom. I showed her my bandage and told her I’d had a biopsy. Before I left, she said, “I love you a hundred million times.” I won’t ever forget her words; they felt like a kiss from God. When I finally got the results, I stopped by to see her. I took two muffins; we had coffee and celebrated the news—no cancer!

I took Mom to have her bone density scan. The receptionist couldn’t find her appointment. I showed her Mom’s appointment card; she said we were two years late. Fortunately, we all laughed. Sophie said it was all part of the muddle of complicated lives.

I’d had a rough day; I neglected to check the workmen’s rate before I did payroll, so I’d have to do payroll again. I had to take Mom to Mercy Hospital’s Shaw Heart Center to get an EKG. When I got to Mom’s to pick her up, Mercy had called; they had canceled her EKG that day and rescheduled one for later. I used the time I planned to go to Bi-Mart and bought her hearing aid batteries and picked up her two prescriptions. When I went back to take Mom her things, her friend Sonja was there. For a small fee, she worked independently at the apartments. She would give Mom her medications—the right kind and at the right timing. She also would order Mom’s prescriptions; all I had to do was pick them up.

One evening, I got a call from Garden Valley’s manager Sonja; Mom had fallen against her dresser when she tangled with her walker and got a cut on her forehead. Our granddaughter, Maggie, was spending the night with Dave and me; she went with me. I cleaned the blood off of Mom’s hair and forehead and helped her get into clean pajamas. Maggie and I stayed until I was sure the bleeding had stopped. The three of us talked for about an hour about unimportant things. Mom showed Maggie some crochet stitches; I loved watching Mom with her.

One night, Mom decided to take a bath; she got wedged in front of the bath bench and couldn’t get up. She was there all night; it was a mercy that the heat light was on, so Mom wasn’t freezing all night. A few days later, Mom fell while doing her exercises in her apartment. Sonja called me to say we needed to talk; then she and I talked to Mom about safety issues. It would be some time before we knew what the next step would be.