Back...the Breakdown

    To those of you just beginning, this will be another post of moaning; okay, that might be a bit harsh but it's an extension of the trials and tribulations of moving a parent into an independent living facility, and likely will sound familiar to some and quite boring to others, as if this is yet another woe-is-me story ready to dot another make-your-life-better magazine.  If that is how you might be  looking at it, and there's absolutely no judgement here for when everything was going well and the years were sailing by without incident, reading another version of such a story was way down on my own radar list, this is your fair warning.  But surprisingly (perhaps coincidentally), I've found many more people coming out of the woodwork like ghosts in a foggy forest, as if spirits of happenings past.  As I relate my frustration at clearing up the insurance angle or the reluctance to move until it is too late, I hear small mumbles in the background, the heads nodding in agreement.  For me, a world that I only read about was apparently quite real and seemingly quite universal...we're all going to grow old, we're all stubborn and won't want to leave our home, we'll all likely wait until it is too late and have to move only because it becomes a necessity, and we've all accumulated far too much stuff; and worse yet, we all will deny that it will ever happen to us, either as the patient or as the caregiver.

    Did I mention my mother's papers?  Thousands of them (it seemed like millions), every bank statement and account report and stock analysis kept from 1998 (with the occasional strays drifting in from the 70s), each carefully stuffed back into its envelope and filed into boxes, or drawers, or rolled tight and rubber-banded in the back of drawers, or in a folder or a file cabinet or on the floor of a closet...and about 80% of them additionally sealed with a paperclip.  Into the recycling bin, you say?  But in today's world of stolen identities, each of those pages had some identifying mark (which required removing each from its envelope and looking it over for those marks), either an account number or a Social Security number, something much more common in earlier years (long before only the last four digits would be the only numbers visible).  So that meant shredding them.  There are businesses for that, even mobile trucks that will come to your door and let you see their massive machines at work on your boxes, something I once thought only relegated to big companies and large commercial stores with much to hide.  Or you could shred them yourself, your Costco machine growing warmer and warmer and yes, dying in the effort (my mother had apparently tried and yes, her machine was dead).  And none of these boxes and boxes of papers came close to matching what I did take to the recycler, a place I ended up visiting so often that I would just drive to the back, wave to the workers, and dump the bags into the proper mixed-paper bins (for in addition to the usual flyers and phone books and magazines, these were old catalogues, letters and what seemed every greeting card ever mailed to her since birth).  I even discovered sheets of old stamps (worthless as collectibles but usable for mailing).

    And the cat.  Here was a stray that entered my mom's (and my) life some 13 years ago, shortly after my father passed away.  Always an outdoor rascal, he was a mangy-looking scruffer, sometimes a bully and sometimes (especially since he was now older) the one being bullied.  So each night, he would be let into the garage to sleep and each morning, head back out.  My mother faithfully did this daily, even having someone care for the cat while she would go on vacation or come to visit.  And the cat would dutifully get rid of a gopher or two as repayment for her niceties.  But what to do with him?  For one thing, my house already had 4 cats (all indoor) and in addition, outside were two protective German Shepherds to keep away unexpected intruders such as salespeople and those walking by and (we had to assume) outdoor cats.  But this particular cat was so loving in his own way, always recognizing me immediately and trusting me, even when I put in a cat carrier for a visit to the vet for shots or to make an effort to heal one of his fight wounds.  But this time, something was amiss.  His hair was dropping out, like 70% of it on his face and his paws. Ringworm, I was told, but my local vet scoffed and said that ringworm was actually quite rare in cats and to get another opinion, which I did and yup, she was right, it is rare in our area...but common where my mom lived.  The problem with advanced ringworm is that treatment is not totally proven (it's a fungus), is extensive, and requires constant application; in addition, it's usually indicative of something else going on that has compromised the immune system.  The recommendation?  Put him down.

    So, the packing.  What clothes do you pack for your mother?  What would she wear or want to wear in the new place?  A nightdress for sure, but that collective ball of knee-highs and socks, or the lotions and make-up powders?  Which ones?  Luckily (as if), a major clog had occurred in one of her drains and had to be cleared so out came a plumber who discovered it was far more extensive than that...the pipes in the wall were corroded, in fact corroded so badly that they had broken free from the drain due to rust (older homes up there pretty much all have the old iron and galvanized pipes everywhere)...so he would be there the next day as well (the day of my mother's doctor's followup visit), but for a minimum of five hours.  Might as well bring my mother back to the house, I thought, let her decide for herself on the make-up and such.  It sounded good.  Which is what I did.  But step back for a moment and put yourself in her shoes.  She is now just days away from leaving her home of over 35 years, and while it essentially looked all there, the closets and cabinets and such were pretty empty.  Would she notice? (you dolt, of course she would notice!)  Still, we somehow made it through the drawers and piles of remaining clothes, me carefully showing her what I had already placed into her suitcases, her asking about a forgotten purse or a missing pair of shoes (both had already been donated).  She peeked at the yard, glanced at each room, had a small lunch and waited for the plumber to finish.

    The plane ride was uneventful, as was the checking out of the rehab facility and the turning in of the car and the locking up of the house and the setting of the timers to the lights (which I had thankfully tested out the prior night).  We arrived to the blizzard of the decade, the snow swirling around my mom like an evil blanket (she hates the cold), her movements to the car now extra slow even as she wanted to speed them up due to the frosty wind.  The car seemed even higher to her, her healing  hip unable to provide the "kick" needed to get her up onto the seat.  But after a bit of a struggle, we were underway.  She saw the room, oohed and ahhed at the decorations, got a bit settled and got ready for bed.  All seemed well...until the next morning.  There were a few problems, well, more than a few problems.  For one thing, she said, the water tasted funny and the room was too big; how much was a smaller room (more address changes and moving all of her furniture); and it was so long a walk to her room and the food wasn't all that good and...well, better start making a list.

    My wife told me to slow down, to rest a bit and turn off my phone and take time for myself.  You're going to get sick, she said.  Pshaw, I said back.  It's my mom, after all, and it's important to make her feel comfortable after such a traumatic change.  Then, something happened.  She met a few of the people there, even ate breakfast with them.  They were all so nice, she said.  She began walking about with her new rolling walker, getting a tour of the place and meeting even more people.  I listened patiently, and while home began opening my mail, paying a bill or two, and trying to get some backlogged sleep.  By the next morning, the day seemed equally promising.  Perhaps this would all work out.  The transition seemed to be going a bit smoother than I had hoped.  That was 8 AM.  Within a few minutes the facility would call.  How soon could I get down there?  My mother had taken a fall and the emergency units were already there; could I get there before she was ready for transport, they asked?  Of course, I said, of course.

    Far different from the television shows, there was no gunshot victims to Code Blue announcements blaring from the speakers; in fact, there was actually little outside excitement as the paramedics and I walked in with my mother on a gurney, her head moving back and forth slowly but talking.  A quick room was assigned, a nurse entered and did the preliminaries and before long, I had been cleared as knowledgeable enough about her meds and past history so I was allowed to stay.  The doc entered, did a quick evaluation, then ordered some tests, X-rays and a CAT scan, check for possible neck or spine damage (my mother has well-advanced osteoporosis and had fallen face-first onto her bedroom carpet and was fortunately discovered by the person she had called to have her breakfast brought to her room as she decided not to head down to the dining area; we had not hooked up her "I've fallen" button since --mistakenly, it turns out-- I had thought that it required a land-line connection, a connection that hadn't yet been activated).  The tests came back (all negative so she was released), her focus came back, in fact, everything came back except her confidence.  A new place, mom, I told her, unfamiliar surroundings, high altitude (we're at about 4600'), dehydration, fatigue...any or all of those could have been the cause (or none of those).  Let's get you "home" and get some rest and see how things go tomorrow (we were now nearing the evening).  Okay, she said, and once back, settled into her chair (one of those lift-aways which are expensive but turn out to be worth their weight in gold plating).  I left her shaken, but falling asleep, then went back to my own bed.

     The next morning, it seemed I broke down...but not how you or even I think; if it's never happened to you, it's difficult to explain, unpredictable, unknowable, an overriding of your body by your brain, and something I'll continue in the next post.