| writings2 waiting for mom to die |
| My father was lucky. He died at home. He had emphysema. He was on the tank. He always said if he had to go on the tank he would “take the commit” (i.e. to kill yourself), a Mafia expression popularized in a forties gangster film starring George Raft, one of his favorites. He qualified for hospice—not something you are in a hurry to do—-and we added some private care—Issac—a Jamaican, a large man with an appetite to go with. He was on the job for 3 days and I got a call from my mother “He’s eating me out of house and home!” I said: “he’s got a tough job, it’s a small price to pay”. She: “I bought some Vernors for myself and generic for him and he drank the vernors!” “Does dad like him?” “Yes” 2 days passed and I got a call from Issac. He said: “Jack—your mother is driving me crazy, mon”. I said: “She drives everybody crazy”. We went over a few things and I implored him to stay on. My parents lived in Yucca Valley. I drove out on the weekends, had been doing so for years, but now that my father was dying there was some light at the end of the tunnel, Yucca Valley-wise. My father would die and I would sell the house and move her to Los Angeles The last two years had been tough—brutal. He spent more time in the hospital than at home. Open a medical encyclopedia to any page and he had something on that page: emphysema, diabetes, congestive heart, high blood pressure. His blood pressure was thru the roof. He got gout and severe arthritis. His hands looked like a German Expressionist painting. My father played golf, it was the one pleasure that remained and now-—no more golf. That was the day he began to die. I drove out and my father looked bad and my mother looked worse. She was a basket case. He was a handful when healthy but now he was dying and she had a Jamaican living under her roof she had to watch like a hawk lest he give her the slip and throw down a few quick bottles of the Vernors. Also: money. You don’t want them to die but they are dying, the quality of life is zero and its costing money— $2400/month. That’s the issue. It may sound small time but there it is. The doctor had given him six months—plus or minus--and my mothers preference was for the minus. She said: “I asked Issac about it”. “About what—Dad?” “Yes. He said: ‘m’am—I’m not God’”. I said: “maybe we should start a pool”. It took two months. He died and was cremated. I went out to make arrangements and on the way over to the funeral home she mentioned the seniors discount, like, could we get one? I started to laugh. I became hysterical. “What so funny?” “Mom—they are all seniors when they die!” Time passed. Life is strange. My father was the labor intensive type. You could devote 24 hours a day catering to his needs and still feel you were falling a little short. The marriage—65 years worth—had been a war from day one. But now that he was dead she had nothing to do. It was six of one and a half dozen of the other. There was another problem: her eyes. She had macular degeneration. Its chronic— incurable. I’ll give you a piece of advice: don’ t go blind. Its the big things—movies, reading, museums—but also the little things: pouring cream into your coffee, applying lipstick, shopping for food. One night I gave a call and we are talking and she suddenly mutters a curse and says: “I smacked my leg on the coffee table. I'm bleeding like a pig! I went out the next day and there she is with the maimed leg and in the refrigerator is a phenomenally curdled quart of half and half and a loaf of green bread. Now there was a long talk—make that a short talk. I said: “I think you should move to LA”. She said: “no”. Me: “You’re too isolated here”. “I’m fine”. I didn’t push it. My mother is Sicilian. Its like arguing with a door. Time passed--a year. At 85 your health has only one way to go. She had the same as my father: emphysema, congestive heart, some kidney failure. Her morale was at zero and she wasn’t eating. She had the appetite of a bird, even when healthy and now she ate less. She sat around the house, blind as a bat and when she did decide to cook something she was lucky not to burn the house down. She went to the hospital—twice. It was the same both times: dehydration/malnutrition. One day, shopping at Wal-mart, without her cane, she took a spill and broke her hip. Back to the hospital for hip surgery and while she was there I put the house up for sale. I moved her to LA—to assisted living. That is a turning point: when you are fresh out of ideas and the options have been exhausted, and you are exhausted, and there is nothing left but to sell the house, the furnishings, sorting through the memorabilia, 85 years worth, and moving your mother into a room over at assisted living. It breaks your heart. She was there a month and said: “I hate this place”. It wasn’t a bad place. It was clean and I liked the people in charge, two women who were capable and devoted to the residents. The help was excellent. But—assisted living—a description only half correct. A month before she had a house, a beautiful house and a life, difficult but her own. Now she lived in a room, confined to an established routine and had all these people on her hands, other assisted living types, the good, the bad and the ugly. My friends all asked the same question: has she made friends? No. You don’t make friends at 85. The friends are behind you. Friendship, like most enterprises in life, is a function of time. It occurs when your enthusiasm for people is fresh and you have the time to tend the friendship and keep it strong. Now she was old, the motivation was gone, there was no energy and her interests had narrowed. There were no interests. She was interested in dying. I loved my mother. She was a wonderful woman—a saint. If there is a heaven she will arrive pronto-—no questions asked. We had some problems relationship-wise but that is another story. I loved her and it bothered me to see her live like this, with nothing to do but sit, to sit, sit, sit and one day follows the next and they are all the same-—endless and without hope. Nietzsche said it: to die at the right time. The right time is when you lose hope. A routine developed. I went over each morning and took her for a walk around the block. Sometimes we went for breakfast at a local deli. My mother hated food. When was the last time you heard of an Italian who hated food? She liked three things: cigarettes, coffee, bacon. These were the staples and they worked wonders. She weighed 112 lbs her entire life and it was iron. My father loved to eat and what he most loved was to visit a fancy restaurant, the fancier the better, so he could sit there and watch my mother stare at a $30 plate of food like it was crawling with flies. The food at assisted living wasn’t bad. It was par for the course—old peoples food—baked, boiled, steamed and creamed to within an inch of its life—prepared with one thought in mind: not to kill anyone. From time to time I would get a call from Miriam over at assisted living and it was always the same story: “Your mother isnt eating”. What could I say? She didn’t eat when she was happy. Now she was 85, blind as a bat, her morale was at zero and she wanted to die. I took her to the deli for a corned beef sandwich. She liked bacon and a good corned beef sandwich. That was the way to keep her alive: buy her a corned beef sandwich every day for $8.95 Time passed. Her energy level was down. The walks were getting shorter. First it was around the block and then it was halfway around the block and now she could barely make it to the corner. I took a trip—a vacation. I was gone three weeks. I had a great time and when I returned it was like I never left. I wont bother with the details. She was sick, in a terrible way, throwing up and instead of an ambulance it was myself behind the wheel driving to the hospital—Good Samaritan on Wilshire and Witmer--downtown. It was rush hour. Been on Alvarado St lately, driving south during rush hour, and next to you in the passenger seat is a vomiting parent, 85 years old? I have one hand on the steering wheel and with the other I am wiping up vomit with a towel I had the presence of mind to bring along. She was at Good Sam a week, a long week, even for her. You are never too old to be put thru the ringer—test-wise. I went to see her and she was more dead than alive--plugged into the IV with more tubes inserted here and there draining fluids into and out of, and I thought of William Carlos Williams, poet and physician, who said: we enter this world and leave it the same way—a messy way. Her face was a mask, of great distress and unhappiness, and every day I went to see her and her first words were always the same: “Jack—you’ve got to get me out of here!” The tests, $27,000 worth, that is correct, served to verify what I already knew: malnutrition/dehydration that served to aggravate the chronic problems of bronchitis, congestive heart, kidney failure, etc, leading to some internal bleeding and bit of dementia beginning to creep in. I met with the doctor, a young guy, the abrupt type and I had a question—a light at the end of the tunnel type question. She was 85, ill and half blind, a bit of dementia beginning to creep in and she wanted to die but something inside her said no. What was that thing? That was my question. He looked at me, gathering my meaning and when he spoke the tone was ambiguous. It was intended either to give me hope or invoke despair. He said: “They can go on this way for years”. No story about an aging parent is complete without a tour of the nursing home—skilled care. There are no laughs to be had at assisted living but its Disneyland compared to skilled care. And don’t forget the checkbook. Assisted living was $1500 a month for a private room. Over at skilled care it’s a daily rate, a nice touch, come August, December, January, etc, and the rate is $140 for a semi--diapers not included. She was there for some physical therapy following the hospital and they tied her to the bed because she insisted on getting out of bed and falling. She said: “I’m tied up like an animal!” Now a thought that occurred to me from time to time occurred once more: someday—-and sooner than you think-—this will be you. Yesterday I went over for my usual visit—-to assisted living. I spoke briefly to Miriam who said: “She isnt eating”. She was sitting outside. She had no teeth. Its amazing how much older you look without teeth. I said: “Where are your teeth?”. Pause She: “I forgot”. Also—no cane. I said: “You forgot your cane?” This was a woman who, not too many years previous, could rattle off the entire roster and positions played of the 1974 Oakland Athletics baseball team. We sit for a bit. I don’t talk to my mother. Its along story. I labor under the curse of the only child. Ive spend a lifetime trying to evade the relentless scrutiny of my mother, a wonderful woman with energy to burn who would have thrived amidst the chaos and urgent demands of raising a large family. My only demand was to be left alone. But now that she is old and blind and otherwise racked with various ailments the relationship has lost some of its tension. I am considerate and caring, even affectionate—85 years later. We retrieved the teeth and cane and I took her to the deli where she ordered the usual: coffee, toasted bagel, side of bacon. She ate 1/2 of 1/2 the bagel and 1/2 of one piece the bacon and pushed the plate away. I said: “that’s it?” “Yes. You eat it”. “I thought you were hungry—‘starving’”. She shook her head. Etc, etc We took our little walk—to the corner. It was tough going. I held her arm, guiding her along. The bones in her arm make a sound— a crinkly-crackly sound, the sound made by squeezing an empty plastic soda bottle. Thats why she broke her hip. She didn’t fall and break the hip; the hip broke, causing her to fall. There is a building on the corner and growing along side a mangled clump of hedge, raggedy and strewn with litter, that has sprung forth a flower, also on life support, but there it is and every day my mother stops to examine this wretched bloom, bending towards it to unblur the focus and she says, in a whispery voice so weakened and eroded by age I would hardly recognize it as her own: “What a beautiful flower”. And that is my cue to say: “Yes, mom—it’s a beautiful flower”. |
