A Daughter's Journal

The Triple-Secret Stealth Mission

by Ann D. Gross

I felt like I was pulling my husband into a triple-secret stealth mission that even Bruce Willis or a latter-day "Mission Impossible" team wouldn't sign up for: flying to Florida to set up my Mom's home with all the requisite modifications and special appliances she would need to leave her skilled nursing facility (SNF) and move back home. Triple-secret and stealth because family politics had begun to feel as threatening as serving as a double agent behind enemy lines.

On the surface, we all seemed to want Mom to "graduate" from her rehab work at the SNF and return to her sunny Gulf-side home. But the ugly truth is that my brother, who lives in Florida near Mom, really didn't consider that it would be possible and he felt his life would be better ("and Mom would be safer") if she stayed in the SNF "for the duration."

The uglier truth is that my brother's wish might have been enough to keep Mom in the SNF because of the effect it had. Mom's instincts told her what my brother was thinking, and her heart told her there was no way she could get back home if he was against it. She needed him to be her on-site, family advocate. She knew that that wasn't what her son had in mind.

For weeks my brother had made a good case that he had no time in his schedule to serve as the "the CEO of a nursing agency." Translation: Even if Mom were well enough to go home and even if we could find honest, kind people to care for her (who never got sick or had family problems or emergencies), someone would have to be in charge of making sure it all happened as planned. And there was no way he could be that person, given his work and his family.

Location, Location, Location

While Mom clearly loves me, the plain fact is that I live in New York City. How could I make the magic happen, especially if my brother--the clear boss of the family--was against it? My brother lives 15 minutes away from Mom and is a busy, successful entrepreneur and family man. I, on the other hand, am perceived as the free spirited (read: flighty writer type) sister living "her own life" (read: without children) in New York City.

Conflicting Needs of Elders & Children

Sadly, life for my brother is easier if Mom remains under the watchful eye of the award-winning SNF where she had gone in a most precarious medical condition and where she enjoys the best physical therapy possible. If I were to be completely honest, a small part of me that felt the same way--the part that enjoyed my social experiences with the staff and residents at Mom's SNF and undeniably the part of me that loved having Mom's apartment to myself when I went to see her. But I knew we had to press forward to get Mom back home if at all possible.

To be fair, if she moves back to her apartment, the responsibility for making sure Mom's care would be continuous and good will fall on my brother's shoulders because of his geographic proximity to her. This is the never-ending question that all families (if they're fortunate enough to have the elders around for a while) face: Who will care for Mom or Dad or Aunt Betsy? The nearest child? The youngest child? The only daughter?

Truth be told, when my husband and I began our triple-secret stealth mission to transform Mom's house, I was clear about my brother's stand on the matters. I was terrified to tell him that my husband and I were coming to get Mom's apartment set up so that, if all else could be worked out, she could move in safely and comfortably.

Making Miracles Happen

Like every family facing these issues, there was one problem with three ugly heads. The problem? Resources. The three ugly heads? Money. Time. Focus.

My brother and I hadn't talked about how we would swing the transition financially or who would take what responsibilities. I spent two days before leaving New York making calls to geriatric care managers (GCMs) near Mom's home. When I broached the subject of hiring a GCM with my brother, he said he didn't want to pay some stranger to handle all of Mom's affairs.

Clearly, vascular dementia and all, Mom knew my husband and I were on our secret mission to pave the way for her to get home. "Ah, my children. What would I do without you? I think your brother would be just as happy if I stayed here," she said when my husband and I visited.

The Quest: Fulfill the Site Visit Requirements

My husband and I spent two days of our visit like two suburban shopaholics who couldn't get enough of Lowe's Home Center or the local medical equipment store. We did it all with our spy sunglasses on, trying to go incognito in case my brother might happen to spot us.

We spent money like theater angels investing in a production: half-crazed with the dream of what could be and trying to ignore that queasy feeling in our gut that told us "no way could this happen." We were single-minded about shopping for toilet-seat risers and handrails; we were relentless in the Lowe's aisles, retrieving automatic remote light switches, a shower chair, and carpet tape.

We got it all done. As it happened, Mom had a local champion: Kathy, Mom's devoted physical therapist (PT) at the SNF who--weeks before our stealth trip--had told Mom, "You don't belong here." All of Mom's physical signs looked great. Her doctor, amazed and thrilled, suggested a site visit to Mom's home.

Kathy and her colleagues took Mom home in her wheelchair to visit her apartment and see what modifications she'd need. They worked like stevedores to create the list my husband and I used. We worked with that list until we had bought and installed it all.

My husband spent an entire day tacking down carpets with two-sided tape, scrubbing the bathroom floors, and laying safety strips in Mom's shower and bathtub. He spent an entire evening installing handrails and fixing the sliding screen to the porch. When it was all done, we were like Watson and Holmes who had solved a uniquely difficult case. We ceremonially bowed to one another and shook hands.

We went to see my Mom at the SNF the next morning before leaving for New York, and she was in awe over our accomplishments. She was lucid and sweet and more grateful than I'd ever seen her for anything. I had to bite my lip so I didn't cry; it moved me to see her so excited about what we had done, we co-conspirators for her escape. Right then I decided that even if we had to take my brother to court and/or mortgage our home to pay for her care, she would go home.

I just hadn't figured out how to make the magic work yet. But I knew it would work and Mom would get back home--soon.

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