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“And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness. And they did live.” – Stephen King, The Dark Tower

Leaving her there that first night was hard. She was doing her best to be brave but who wouldn't be scared, with or without dementia? She wanted to lock her door but she couldn’t figure it out. Neither could the previous resident since someone had taken red nail polish and marked where the locked position was on the door. We practiced it over and over until she felt comfortable. It took her a while to get such a simple move; turn the lever left or right. I think her anxiety was just getting in the way.

The bathroom was a whole other rodeo. There were two doors, one on each end, so it could be shared by the four people occupying the two apartments. I explained to her that she could lock the door that led from her room to the bathroom but she could not lock the door that led from the bathroom to the other apartment. She was starting to obsess about the door and it was becoming a problem. I finally wised up and told her if she locked the other door the resident from the other apartment would have to walk through her bedroom to get to the bathroom. Bingo. No longer a problem.

I got her cleaned up and ready for bed. She was exhausted - it had been a long day and there had been so many changes. She kept asking me where the TV was. In-room televisions were allowed, but not encouraged because they didn’t want the residents in memory care to hang out in their rooms alone all day. They wanted them to come out to socialize and watch TV with the others which I thought was a good idea. But I knew she liked to have it on for noise and the silence in her room was making her anxious; I was going to have to give the in-room TV some more thought. I had bought a CD player and radio for her so we plugged it in and found a station she liked while I unpacked her suitcase and put her things away.

We didn’t really talk; it was mostly her asking questions and me answering the same questions over and over in the most positive way I could: “Are we in Illinois?” No, we’re in Oklahoma; “Am I going back to Illinois?” No, you moved here so that we can be together more and I can take care of you; “Are my friends coming to visit?” I’m sure they will when they can; “Are my friends here?” No, mom, they live in Illinois. You live in Oklahoma now and you’re going to make lots of new friends. Yuck. Who in the world wants to move away from where they’ve lived for over 30 years and make new friends at the age of 75? Who would want to do that to their parent? Yet, here we were.

Mom and my daughter, Leah

Home sweet home

“Alice: How long is forever?  White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.” 
―Lewis Carroll -  Alice in Wonderland

Her new home. That was an experience. In between leaving her in Illinois and going back to get her my main job was to find her a place to live. I prefer to stay married and out of prison so living with us was not an option. I visited several assisted living/memory care facilities and I usually knew within five minutes if a place was going to be a consideration or not. Most of them were nice enough but what told me the most about a place was the residents. The loneliness and despair I saw on so many faces broke my heart. And made my decision much easier. I decided on a place that’s about 20 minutes from my house - close enough that I can be there if she needs me but far enough away that I wouldn’t feel obligated to spend every free minute I had there.

She’s my mom and I want her to be safe and comfortable -  happy would be good, too. However, I have a life and I have a family and sometimes it’s hard for me to find the right mix to take care of everything. I had to decide on where my balance was going to be without sacrificing myself or my family. The one thing I don’t have time for is resentment. I was not going to put myself in the position to resent my mom and I was not going to make decisions that would make my husband and my family resent me. Constant change and readjustment. But, hell, that’s what life is and that’s what you do for what’s important.

When I first spoke with Mary, the director of her new home, I didn’t have much information on how mom was doing other than what I saw and what I was told; communication from the facility in Illinois was spotty at best. Mary was the calm I needed and her patience and compassion are something I’ll always be grateful for. She and I decided to place mom in Memory Care. I bought her a new bed, a comfortable chair, and decorated it the best I could with the colors that she loved; sage green, ivory, and pink. Once her stuff arrived from Illinois I could go through and bring in her pictures and decorative things to make it more like her home. I was trying my best to not make the change so foreign and hard.

She was going to have to share a room and a bathroom but it wasn’t too bad. The room was separated enough for privacy purposes and the bathroom was large and roomy. She wasn’t going to love sharing but it was the best I could do at the time. It was surreal for me to be setting up where my mom was going to be living; I had a hard time convincing myself that she was going to be okay and happy in this place when it was so different from having her own apartment. Anxiety was my constant companion. My chest felt heavy, I felt like there was dense, dark, cloud hanging over my head, and I was jumping out of my skin with the need to know that what I was choosing for my mom was the right thing.

__________________

She seemed to enjoy the ride from the airport to her new home. It was a beautiful day and I think she was happy to be be out in the world again since it had been almost 3 months from the day she fell. While Logan and Bill were parking the car, I walked her in. There are 3 memory care residences and each unit looks like a moderate sized house. The backs of them face one central garden with clear walking paths and there is a tall metal fence that encircles the whole area. There are several spaces where the residents can grow a small garden or plant flowers. It’s rather pretty and the fence isn’t institutional, just enough to keep the residents from wandering off.

We rang the doorbell and were let in by one of the aides. The aides – let me take a moment and tell you how wonderful they all were. Yes, all of them. The patience and obvious affection they showed to the people living there was amazing to see. And the compassion they had for me and the other “kids” and spouses was wonderful. I’m sure they have bad days but I never witnessed a single one.

We walked in and we were led to her room. Mom seemed to be ok with everything but she was understandably nervous. She said she liked her room and how I had decorated it. I explained that there would be more of her things once the moving truck got to Oklahoma. The nurse came by to ask mom a few questions about what she liked to do; did she attend church, did she have any hobbies, etc. He was trying to be so nice and patient with her and she was being not so nice in return. I think that trying to have this kind of conversation added to all the new stuff that was happening was just too overwhelming.

It was almost time for dinner time and they had her seated at a table with some of the more verbal and “with it” people who lived there. Her table mates were doing their best to make mom feel welcome which is different from the way most of them act with a newcomer. It’s like third grade turf wars - God forbid you sit in someone’s seat. I wanted to stay with her but it was suggested I go sit in the living area just around the corner and let her find her way and make friends without me. Man, that was tough. I could hear her chatting away, telling them about Illinois and her trip to Oklahoma. I was so proud of her for being brave because I know her and that’s exactly what she was doing. I know she would have liked me to stay at the table but I think knowing I was right around the corner made it kind of ok.

Where is the life that I recognize?

Sometimes it takes a minute to figure out what you're looking at.

We flew to Illinois and drove mom's car while we were there moving her things. She had bought a new Honda Accord in 2004 and now, in 2014, it had about 50,000 miles on it and was in perfect shape. Perfect except for the bamboo that had grown up through the bottom of the car to the grill and the dozens of hard candies and cough drops that had been dropped and forgotten over what looked like years. It looked like the car had produced spores. 

We will never know the story behind those candies but what was happening to them now was damn interesting. They had all faded to a weird pale yellowy-beige and had become cemented to the upholstery, carpet, and plastic parts of the car. But, only on the driver’s side. The ones on the plastic parts had melted a little, and sat in their own little hardened puddle. I don’t get how she could have let so many of them drop and then never pick them up. My pre-dementia mom would never allow me to drink water in her car, let alone eat candy. Everything always, always, always had to be picked up and in its place in the house, my room, the garage, the yard. What has to happen to no longer give a crap about dropping candy day after day?

I started to take a picture but didn’t. As funny as it looked – and yes, we still laugh about it - when I took a step back it became incredibly sad. No denying it now. If we were looking for one more sign things had taken a hard turn, this was it.

When we finally got the car to Oklahoma I took it to get detailed. I barely had it parked before I jumped out of the car and shut the door so I could explain to the detailer what was going on in there and explain that it wasn’t me who did it. As if he cared. He was kind but definitely unimpressed. I don’t even think he really listened to what I was saying; most people bring in their car for full detailing because it’s time or something has gone awry. I’m sure he’s seen it all before. Until this. He opened the door to take a look at what I was telling him I didn’t do. As soon as he took in the whole mess he said, “what in the hell?” What in the hell, indeed.

Back to moving. Mom’s belongings were headed for a storage unit in Oklahoma City and now we had to get her there. To preserve what was left of my sanity and patience (yep -  me, me, me again), we had decided against the nine-hour drive and went for the one-hour flight. In the past few months, Mom had developed a NEED to go to the restroom every 30 minutes or less. Even her friends thought it was weird. And when she had to go, it became a THING. If we had driven the 9 hours home to Oklahoma one of us would have ended up on the side of the road. It would probably have been me. No, let's leave probably out. By a unanimous vote, it would have been me.

The best way I can describe it is to have you imagine a tornado that is growing and gaining power. Now, imagine that tornado condensing and becoming more concentrated and more powerful until it is taking up the tiniest amount of space yet filling the room. That’s what it felt like to be in the room with her when she became hyper-focused. I could feel a buzzing in my head. To make it even more challenging, she refused to wear disposable underwear and the wheelchair along with her bandaged leg made going to the bathroom a major production and a fall risk. I made sure we visited every available restroom until the moment we had to board the airplane.

We all made it to Oklahoma without any incidents. Another small miracle. Our son picked us up at the airport and we were on our way to her new home.

Leave but don't leave me

Mom was going to have to stay in skilled nursing until May since there was no way she could take care of herself. One of the hardest things I have ever done was to walk out of there and drive back to Oklahoma. She was fine with it though; she had her friends there with her most of the day and talking about who was at the latest dinner at the Moose Club was far nicer than talking to me about moving to Oklahoma.

Some of her friends tried to convince me that she would get better and, if given enough time, she would be able to return to her apartment. I know how bad they wanted that to be true but Bill and I knew that was never going to happen. The day she fell and was taken to the hospital was the last day she ever set foot in her apartment.

We set a date in May for the move. We hired a moving company to pack up her belongings and transport them to a storage facility in Oklahoma City. We got to Illinois two days before the movers were to arrive so that we could get the drawers and closets cleaned out and pregame the whole moving operation. Her living room, dining room, bedroom, and kitchen were all in decent order -  except for all the digital cable boxes and remotes still in their wrappers on the dining room table - but the spare bedroom was unbelievable. Piles of clothes and stuff everywhere. There was a card table set up and on top of it was just…so much stuff; letters, bills, knick knacks, broken things, envelopes, gift bags, things from “gift with purchase” promotions. I didn’t know where to start.

There was a huge pile of purses in the corner; each layer of about five purses had a towel on top of them to separate the layers. At least a third still had the price tag on and, of the ones that had been used, most still had money in them. Not a lot, but by the time we were done we had several hundred dollars in ones. And that was just the purses. We found a major stash of cash in a basket in her closet and under the silverware in the kitchen. There was money in some of the weirdest places. Open a book and there it was. Look in a mug and there’s more. Every few minutes, one of us would shout out “cash!”. In all this crazy mess, we worked together and occasionally just sat back and laughed. We needed to find something to laugh about.

To make herself feel more secure, I guess, she had put a very large knife in the bathroom in between layers of hand towels. I found this out when I picked up the towels to put them in the wash. The knife fell out and onto my foot, thankfully not tip down. There was another layer of towels in her bedroom on the dresser which we approached like we were walking up to a bomb. By this time, we had learned to be cautious. Good thing since in between the towels was a loaded handgun. With a bullet jammed in the chamber.

We started wearing gloves because we began to come across mouse droppings. The deeper in we got the more we found; the closet floors were covered. She had a major mouse infestation that had been going on for a very, very long time. She had to have seen it. Or not. I guess that when day to day existence becomes so stressful and scary that kind of thing doesn’t matter anymore. From the mom that I had known to the woman who had occupied this apartment was a long leap. I was horrified at the thought of how scared she must have been for months. Maybe even years. She always came to visit me since this is where her grandkids are so I just didn’t know how bad things had gotten. Our strange conversations over the last months and the nagging feeling that something was “off” was beginning to make even more sense.

The moving out experience itself was far better than we could have ever hoped for. The guys that showed up were hard workers, and best of all, hilarious. They had a pop playlist from the 90s playing while they packed and they sang along to Britney, Christina, NSYNC, Savage Garden – all of them. We had a game of “Name That Tune” going and I sang along to a few (a lot) with them – knowing all the words is one of the many cool benefits of raising a daughter in that decade. It was just what we needed.

Everything was done in two days and we were told by the apartment manager that since mom had lived there for 30 years, they were going to be repainting, putting in new carpeting, and new appliances. We didn’t need to do a thing. And, best of all, any furniture or items that we weren’t going to take to Oklahoma could be left in the apartment and they would take care of it through donation or by taking it to the trash. Her kindness and the sense of relief she gave us - there really are no words to describe it.

 I feel like it’s important to say that mom wasn't absolutely alone. She did have her friends and they did what they could. But sometimes we are lucky enough to find a friend who turns out to be more than a friend - more like a life line that keeps our head above water just long enough. The best part is that they don't do this out of a sense of duty, but from a place of genuine love and deep affection. Mom had that person and her name is MaLinda.

MaLinda – I will never forget your kindness and calm - you are simply wonderful. You took care of my mom like she was your very own - it broke my heart to see you cry. You took care of us and gave us a chance to breathe. I know you did much more for my mom than you told us about and I will never be able to thank you enough. 

One slip and down the hole we fall

“There I was, cold, isolated and desperate for something I knew I couldn’t have. A solution. A remedy. Anything.” – Brian Krans, A Constant Suicide

You’ve had them. Someone shows up at your front door with some kind of awful news, or you get a phone call you just can’t wrap your head around, or some diagnosis you didn’t see coming. Those are the moments that change the way the air feels in the room and makes the sides of your vision go dark.  I’ve had them, too.

The week before spring break and her 75th birthday one of her friends called me. Mom had fallen down the outside stairs of her apartment and had been taken to the hospital. Shit. I called the hospital and was connected to her room. When she answered the phone she sounded different, like hearing someone speak through a tube, and eerily detached. I asked her what had happened and she said she couldn’t remember but her knee was bandaged and it hurt. I asked her if there was a nurse or someone I could speak with and as luck would have it, or not, there was. The nurse said I would have to talk with the doctor, and I asked if she could have him call me with mom’s permission. She replied that wasn’t possible. Okay, what exactly am I supposed to do? I have no idea how bad this is, I’m not sure why my mom sounds weird, and because I was in a degree program with 8 week semesters, I was in the middle of finals. My frustration level was red lining.

She was assigned a caseworker who contacted me the next day. They were planning to discharge her to a skilled nursing facility the next morning. A hundred questions including the most important one…what exactly is wrong? She couldn’t tell me. Then she dropped the bomb. It turns out that Medicare will pay in full for skilled nursing for 20 days. However, and this is one devil of a however, the patient must have been in the hospital for 3 midnights; 3 days and discharged on the fourth. Mom had only made it to 2 midnights and her doctor was fast tracking her right out of the hospital to a facility that would ultimately charge over $6000 for 6 weeks of care. I’d love to know what his motivation was. I’d also love 10 minutes of his precious time. I have a few things I’d like to say.

I finished my finals early and we headed back to Illinois. In the meantime, mom’s friends had been keeping me updated on how she was doing and she was hardly ever alone. Everyone seemed confused as to what was happening to her and I still hadn’t spoken with anyone who could tell me definitively what was happening with her medically. We arrived the day before her 75th birthday and drove straight to the nursing home. It looked nice enough and the people that worked there seemed helpful. They directed us down a long hall and through some code protected double doors. When the doors opened, the smell of urine hit us HARD and there were people parked in wheelchairs everywhere. I had never seen or smelled anything like this.

When we got to mom’s room she was dressed and sitting up on the bed. Her knee was bandaged and she looked so small. 40 pounds gone in 3 months. She used to wash her hair every day and color it every 4 weeks but now her hair was dirty and almost all white. Her nails that she was so meticulous about were overgrown and broken. I didn’t even know where to start. I went over and hugged her; she seemed happy to see us but very confused. She complained a little about her knee but said she didn’t mind being in the wheelchair they had given her. A couple of her closest friends arrived and we made some small talk but I could tell that mom wasn’t following the conversation well at all. I also noticed that there was an obscene amount of chocolate candy in mom’s room. It looked like Easter and Valentine’s Day had made their yearly deposit of crap right there. It was in every corner, every drawer, and even in the small closet they provided. It was the only thing she was interested in eating.

I found her purse and made sure to get her identification and credit cards out of her wallet. Then I asked for her keys. She was reluctant to give them to me but I explained that she wasn’t going to be driving anytime soon and I wanted to make sure her apartment was taken care of and all her things were safe. We finally tracked down a doctor who told us that her x-rays showed a chipped kneecap but it would heal on its own and didn’t need surgery. Great. Then we got the news we knew was coming but didn’t want to hear. Mom had dementia and I needed to get power of attorney as soon as possible so I could start taking care of her and her needs. Wow. I know I shouldn’t have been shocked, we had talked about this, but now it was real.

One of mom’s closest friends is the ultimate take-charge kind of woman. She is also the one person who can almost make me believe in divine intervention. She told Bill and me that her brother was a local attorney and she had told him to start getting ready in case we should need him. I didn’t take her very seriously at first - I didn’t want to seem as though I was taking advantage and I had no idea what I was getting into. But, after speaking with the attorney at Scott Air Force Base and ending up in tears, I knew I needed help and asked her to go ahead and contact her brother.  

He met with us and said he would take care of the paperwork and meet us at the nursing home the following day with it all ready to be signed. Not only that, but he would be bringing his assistant and a notary public so that it could be done on the spot. He told me that as long as mom knew her name, her birthdate, what year it was, and who I was that there would be no problem. However, she had to agree and indicate throughout the process that she understood I would be taking control of everything that was hers. I have never been so nervous and scared as I was leading up to getting all of that signed. Mom was on board, agreeable, and visibly relieved.

Xanax now had another super-duper valid reason for existing in my life. If it wasn’t for Bill, medication, adult beverages, my mom’s friends, and the attorney I would have come completely unhinged. I was damn close to it anyhow. When the security guard in a Target parking lot starts paying extra special attention to you while you’re sobbing and hysterical (yes, that bad) in your car you know you’ve turned a corner. I’d say that I’m a strong person but even the strongest have their breaking point. I know where that is now.

Mom and me on her 75th birthday

All I want is just the way it used to be...

“I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir,' said Alice, 'Because I'm not myself you see.” 
― Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking Glass

After we got home, I made it a point to call and check in with her every morning and every morning it was the same. She was sticking to her usual schedule; going to the gym every day, out a few nights during the week, and then out on Saturday night with her current boyfriend and their friends. Everything was fine, she was fine. That’s what she kept telling me.

But she was lying.

In late January, I got a call from one of mom’s water aerobics friends whom I had never met. She had known my mom for at least 10 years and they visited at the pool regularly. She said she was nervous about calling and made me promise to not tell mom that she was the one who called. She told me that she and the rest of mom’s circle of friends from the gym had noticed that mom had become increasingly forgetful and confused. They had been telling themselves it was a normal part of aging until she asked one of them if she could follow them home. To mom’s apartment. The one she had been living in for almost 30 years.

She went on to tell me that mom had missed several outings and had lately been asking different people to drive her to the gym and back home. They’re all in the same age range and they look out for each other so of course they agreed. She also told me that mom had fallen several times. One of those times she had to be transported by ambulance to the hospital for a cut to her head that was bad enough that they had to use staples to close it.

This was all new to me. Mom never mentioned any of this. She then told me about more little falls and accidents and promised to keep in touch while I figured out what in the hell to do. I asked her to give my number to anyone who wanted it and to make sure they don’t hesitate to call me. Soon after, the phone calls started coming in, followed by emails, and then more calls. They had been worried for so long but they didn’t want to risk making her angry. I was grateful that she had so many people who cared and were willing to watch out for her but they had done it for so long. Too long.

I knew I had to talk to her about what I was hearing. Just thinking about it made me sick to my stomach. This is where it starts. This is where I cross over into a role I never saw myself in. I called mom and told her that her friends were concerned about her enough to call me. She became defensive and demanded that I tell her who called. She started listing the names of her friends but I wouldn’t tell her. Now she was getting angry, telling me that someone was stirring the pot because they were jealous. That’s always been her go to response for any woman who had an issue with her; they’re just jealous. Okay, mom. Not this time.

She denied having any issues at all and told me to stop badgering her; I could tell she was gritting her teeth as she talked. I was trying to be patient and calm but it was getting tough. I told her I was going to keep calling her every morning and, anytime one of her friends called or emailed with a new concern, we were going to talk about it. She hung up without saying goodbye.

I was spinning my wheels at this point. I can address a problem in a hurry if I know what I’m dealing with. This was different, it was as if it was so close I couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. I had just started my first semester back at school since earning my associate’s degree. I already had to sit out one semester because of my surgery and I sure as hell wasn’t going to sit out another one. Selfish, self-involved, immature, awful reaction to something I can’t control. I know. I agree. Every time I tried to close my eyes, all I could see was me unraveling. That, and knowing my mom was scared brought me to my knees more times than I care to admit to.

I’d like to think I’m the daughter who would put my feelings and plans aside and come to my mom’s rescue without a second thought; I could write it like that but it wouldn’t be what really happened. There’s a lot of “I” and “me” in here and it’s embarrassing. But it’s the truth.

In the shape of a heart

It’s easy to pretend to not notice little changes in a person when you don’t see them that often; especially when the changes are subtle and unremarkable on their own. We had suspected that something was up but, when we arrived at her place, I had to admit something was very wrong. She looked the same; granted, a little sad, but that was understandable. She asked about the drive, the kids, the dogs, all the normal stuff she usually says. She opened her presents and made the appropriate remarks, offered us a snack and some wine, and continued with the small talk. I asked her how she was feeling and she replied that she was feeling just fine and excited we were there. I shot Bill a look - what in the hell?

The thing that tipped me off that she had really taken a turn was that she has always, ALWAYS, made a point to remark about my appearance; most of the time it was nice but sometimes she could be a little harsh. I hadn’t seen her in a year and during that time I had lost a significant amount of weight, had major surgery, and gone through some catastrophic personal crap. I was thinner than I had ever been and the stress of it all showed. I know this because several of my friends had expressed concern and my best friend had cried because she was so worried about me. But, from my mom, not a damn word. The woman who had invested so much time, energy, and money into making me feminine, graceful, and pageant worthy (none of it stuck) had not one word to say. Nothing about how I was feeling, how school was going – nothing. That one little thing was a big indication that we had a problem. It was just the beginning.

The next day, we offered to take her to lunch but she said she wanted to stick to her normal daytime schedule; however, we could do dinner together as we had planned. Okey dokey, we had just driven 500 miles the day after Christmas to see her but, since I had told her that we would work around her schedule it was cool. We spent some time driving around, checked out our first house, visited my dad’s grave, did some grocery shopping for mom and then checked in to see when she would like us to pick her up for dinner.

She has always enjoyed dinner out and she would never turn down an opportunity but this time she said she didn’t want to go. When I asked her why, she said her stomach was bothering her again and she just didn’t feel like it. We stopped by to drop off her groceries and she acted like there was nothing wrong. Bill and I had decided that we needed to talk with her and now was the time. I told her how much I loved her and how concerned we were. I explained how her over the counter medication usage might be making her not feel well and that her diet of potato chips, chocolate, and wine was probably not helping.

I asked her to please cut back on the pills and try to eat better. I reminded her that she could get precooked food at the deli counter, explained all the things that I would think she already knew, and she acted like it was the first time she had ever heard what I was suggesting. She was being agreeable but it was just to placate me, nothing was sinking in and it was obvious. She told me that she had a doctor’s appointment that one of her friends had booked for her but since she was a new patient it wasn’t until April. I asked her if perhaps she should find one that could see her sooner but she acted like she didn’t hear any of it. I caved and let it go.

In hindsight, I should have been more proactive, I should have loaded her up in the car and taken her to the hospital to have her checked out. But, then again, what would I have said was wrong? She’s acting strange? She’s abusing Tums and laxatives? She just seems off? I’m not sure I could have gotten anywhere and I’m positive she would have talked a really good game and made me look like a meddling daughter teetering on the edge of overbearing and perhaps elder abusing.

Knowing what I know now, and having gained a little bit of personal strength, I would have handled the situation very differently. I so desperately wanted to believe that she was fine and still able to drive and take care of herself. Wishing for something isn't an excuse for not doing the right thing. The hard thing. The hardest thing.

During this trip, Bill and I had visited an independent living facility that was right across the street from where she was living. It was perfect; she could come and go as she pleased, she could keep her car, she could choose to eat there or not, she could have guests, and it even had a little convenience store and transportation in case the weather was crappy or she didn’t want to drive. And, best of all, a call button for emergencies. All this for what she was paying in rent, insurance, utilities, etc. Problem solved! Nope, she wasn’t having that either. We were waved away and dismissed. Thanks for driving down, so nice to see you, tell the kids I said hello. It was an interesting drive back to Oklahoma.

Over the river...

I called her to let her know we were driving to her place in Illinois. I told her we were bringing her presents to her and she didn’t have to do anything special; we would be staying in a hotel close by and we would work around her schedule. She seemed excited and glad that we were coming by but oddly detached. Whatever. I was irritated at this point.

Every year, I tried to do Christmas the way I thought would make her happy. She had certain expectations and if I didn’t meet those expectations her face showed it. I did everything I could to not have her look at me like I was a disappointment. I decorated the way she liked and, for the most part, I made the food the way she liked it -  I was a little passive-aggressive with the mashed potatoes; I still am - if they’re slightly lumpy you can call it “artisan” and get away with it. I took her to the stores she wanted to visit, and if there was a Christmas show downtown I got tickets. I made sure she had her favorite cereal, shampoo and toiletries at my house so she didn’t have to pack them. I know that the hoops I jumped through were mostly self-imposed but, even as an adult, I wanted her approval.

We had told her when we would be arriving; we could be accurate down to the minute thanks to a nifty thing called navigation. She called several times even though I called her when we left and I told her that I would call her every 2 hours as well as when we were 1 hour out from getting there. One of her friends called to ask when we would be arriving because mom had told her she didn’t know. Weird. All the calls were over Bluetooth so Bill heard them, too. He looked over at me a few times and I could swear I saw sadness; this from a man who tolerated my mother for my benefit, no love lost between either one of them. Here I was, irritated with her for making us do this, and he was looking concerned.

He reached over and grabbed my hand and that’s when I started to cry. I don’t think I let go of him until we finally got to mom’s.  

Changes...

In December of 2013, her trip to Oklahoma for Christmas was planned and I was cleaning and decorating the house like a crazy person in addition to getting all the shopping done. At this point, I shopped for the gifts from her and she sent me a check. I didn’t have a problem with this at all since it’s not easy shopping for older grandchildren and she didn’t know what I liked or what to get my husband. Plus, the added expense for shipping. We talked a lot; we talked about what the kids wanted, what I was planning on cooking, her travel arrangements, all the usual things but something seemed a little off.

In the past several months I had noticed our mandatory (her rules), one hour, Saturday at 10:00am phone calls had been becoming shorter and far less detailed. Not like her at all. Also, if she mentioned that she was going to a movie, the next week I would ask her about it and it was the same response every time: the movie was too loud, her friend couldn’t follow it, and it eventually became so awful they walked out. There were a few other odd things but nothing too alarming.

Until she told me she wasn’t coming for Christmas.

She has never been comfortable with any type of discomfort. Her pain tolerance is zero, same goes for heat or cold. Or sunlight. Or darkness. I always made sure to have extra sunglasses, floor fans, blankets, night lights – you get the idea. She often complained about her stomach although she was never diagnosed with any medical problem. She took a lot of over-the-counter medications. Too many in my opinion but it wasn’t worth discussing more than once. When she told me her stomach was bothering her and she wouldn’t be able to make the one-hour flight here I knew something was up.

I told her she still had a week before the trip and she needed to make an appointment with a doctor to be checked out. My reasoning was if she was too sick to fly and willing to spend Christmas alone then there was something terribly wrong. She started handing out every excuse she could come up with. I offered to call her doctor for her and she said he had moved. I suggested she go to the emergency room and she said she just knew she would catch something worse.

At this point, I was pissed. I was tired of trying to help and being shot down every time. Plus, this was just weird. I thought she might come around but the day before she was scheduled to fly here, she told me she still wasn't coming. What in the hell? We decided to drive to Illinois the day after Christmas to check on her. I knew it was the right thing to do but I just didn’t want to; not because I didn’t care but because I was scared of what we might find.

Mom and Dad - No one could love you more

My dad died in his sleep at the age of 62. He hadn’t been well for years but they managed to go out to dinner once a week and see a movie occasionally. He did, however, make it a priority to take care of her as he always had. She had never had to write a check, shop for groceries, pump her own gas, or take out the trash. He did all those things for her and more. Until the day before he died. That day, after he made a trip to the grocery store, he made a list of all their credit cards, insurance policies, retirement accounts, and bank accounts plus each company’s customer service number. Then, he took her to the bank and had her write out a check and cash it. Afterwards, he stood beside her as she put gas in her car for the first time. I have the shopping list he wrote, and the list he made for my mom. These are a part of who he was.

My parents lived in Illinois where my dad retired from the Air Force after having a stroke at his desk at the age of 49. He had reached the rank of Colonel and had been the Deputy Base Commander at Ramstein AFB in Germany and the Base Commander at Pope AFB in North Carolina. He was the younger of two children; his sister, my Aunt Jan, and I are very close. She’s brilliant and reminds me so much of him, from her wit and sense of humor to her story telling ability.

Dad attended Grinnell College in Iowa. He was in the ROTC program and excelled at everything scholastic and extracurricular. He was captain of the football team, participated in track, basketball, the glee club, drama, and ROTC. His parents, especially his mother, expected him to be the best of the best and he delivered. He was 6’2, with dark brown hair, permanently tanned skin and pale blue eyes that always gave away what he was really thinking. He could tell a story that would have you laughing so hard your sides hurt and compose a down right naughty poem at the drop of a hat. He could carry a tune and loved to mimic the girly looking dudes on the Lawrence Welk Show by batting his eyes and singing about doggies in the window.

When he graduated from college he was accepted into flight school and proceeded to become one hell of a pilot. He was one of the first Americans to fly into Vietnam; the movie “Air America” with Mel Gibson is loosely based on what pilots like my dad did minus the drug trafficking. Dad was always tickled that they were told to not wear their uniforms, just a Hawaiian or Panama shirt and casual pants, so they would blend in. I’m certain they did lots of things but blending in was not one of them.

My mom’s father had retired from the Air Force and built his home near Langley AFB in Virginia. Mom was living at home after her divorce and was employed by Nachman’s Department Store as a window dresser. If she ever had a true calling that was it. After work and on weekends, she did all the typical early 1960s single girl things. Cocktail parties and parties on the beach. My dad happened to be working as a general’s aide at Langley when he met her at, of all things, a cocktail party. Their courtship moved along quickly and they were married on March 21, 1964. Mom fell into the job of being an officer’s wife and embraced every minute of it. They moved to Seymour Johnson AFB in North Carolina where I was born 14 months after they were married. They were transferred every three or four years dragging me along with them. The early years were good; mom did her thing and on weekends it was time for my dad and me unless he was golfing. I started taking golf lessons a few months ago. I would like to think that if it’s true that your loved ones stick around and drop in occasionally he would help a girl out with her mad golf skills. I think he’s just sitting back, laughing and enjoying the hilarity of my lack of athletic prowess.

Mom and Dad March 21, 1964