A Daughter's Journal

A Daughter's Visit: It's All in the Timing

by Ann D. Gross

"Because in a Philadelphia, no matter what you ask for, you can't get it. You ask for something, they're not gonna have it. You want to do something, it ain't gonna get done. You want to go somewhere, you can't get there from here."
  - David Ives, "All in the Timing: The Philadelphia"

The routine has become so familiar: the drive from Mom's apartment in her car, where I move from my world to hers in about 30 minutes...the radio tuned to the station I choose...the driver's seat and mirrors in her car adjusted to fit me for the first time since she moved down to Florida some six years ago...the struggle to relax after my nervous system goes into unstoppable panic mode during the flight from New York to Florida (I notice I'm less frightened on the flight back home)...the struggle to breathe normally on the drive over to see her, not knowing how Mom really is until I lay eyes on her.

My "Campus" Visit

I realize I am excited about visiting Mom, not just to see her, and bring her pleasure by my being there, but for the full experience of the visit. I'll never understand why, but each time I enter the SNF where Mom resides (for now at least), I feel differently about going there. It doesn't seem to be about how Mom is feeling at the time. Sometimes when I go there, the bright lights and the constant neediness I feel along Mom's corridor get to me.

Other times, I feel so fortunate to be there, and so fortunate that my mother is there, in this clean, beautifully kept residence, where the senior staff tries so hard to distract the residents and to keep people from feeling sad.

I think of the SNF setting as a special "campus," a kind of retreat for older adults where Mom is staying for a while, with counselors, activities, and the other adult "campers," for lack of a better word.

A Mother Always Knows

I realize now that I think that way not just to gird myself against possible feelings of despair when I see Mom in her small room, but for one critically important reason: so that every exchange with my mother will be genuine. Every time she tests me, which can be with every look and every sentence, I demonstrate an indisputable conviction that she is just visiting; she will be going home. If I didn't enter this mindset, her heat-seeking-daughter-truth-radar would catch me in a lie, and we would be caught in the maelstrom, like the swirling house in The Wizard of Oz tornado scene.

"What do you mean 'if' I get home?"

"Mom, I meant to say, 'when' you get home."

"So why didn't you say that? Have you and your brother been talking behind my back? I'm not a child!"

I can't risk that. If she pulls me into that vortex, I will never get out. And maybe she won't either. I can't risk her catching even a whiff of my uncertainty about whether or not she's going home. It's as if my convincing myself that she's "only visiting" makes it so. It certainly does for her--and for me, that's all that counts now.

Time Present & Time Past

When I visit, I am my mother's legs and freedom. I represent the immediate gratification of her needs. No longer does she have to wait for fresh ice water, or extra salt for her meal. I am the winged messenger, fleet of foot, who can grant these wishes instantly. She is the center of attention, with her own genie to make things happen, to make things magically appear. I can even bring back treasures from "The Store," a vaunted place to those whose daily lives don't include going out. These are hours of bliss for my Mom. And of course there's the added buzz of having a young visitor, something that elevates her unspoken status among her peers.

So when I set out to grant Mom's wishes, I am always in a hurry. Since my visits mean she can get what she wants when she wants it, and that includes as much time with me as possible, my trips to anywhere outside her room without her feel to her like multiple of millions of minutes multiplied by actual reality. I think her internal equation must feel something like this:

Daughter's time away = wasted time x 1,000,000 x real time

I suspect that's what the staff experiences as well. Whenever the CNA enters the room after caring for someone else, or going on "a break," residents ask, "where have you been?" as if they hadn't seen them since last month. It's that never-ending tension of the needs of the residents and the needs of the "other" that will always collide as sure as meteors will always fall to earth.

Mother-Daughter Connection

On my last night before flying home, I stay an extra long time with my mother. It is "Election Night," always a family tradition of gathering at the TV, rooting for our favorite candidates, and staying up way too late. So how could I leave her to watch the election returns by herself in this room suspended in space? I couldn't.

After nine hours visiting Mom that day, I am exhausted and hungry. I have clothing of hers to take back to her apartment, wash, and put away. I haven't packed, and my things are all over her apartment. But the returns are coming in that Tuesday night, and Mom shows no signs of sleepiness. So I stay with her as a mother stays with a frightened child in a hospital room.

By 10:30, she still isn't sleepy. She is infused with that energy a mother has when trying to grab precious moments with her daughter, who is traveling away from her. It hardly matters where the daughter is going--to the next room, the next street, the next state, or across the country. What matters is that her daughter is "leaving."

"Mom, I should go. I haven't packed."

And then the tears. "Have you started looking for anyone to work with me when I go home? I'm not staying here," she sobbed.

In terms of her function and medical prognosis, there is no chance for her to return to independent living in the immediate future.

"No, Mom. We have to wait until we have an actual date for you to go home."

That was credible sounding. Definitely under the heat-seeking-radar. I hoped she didn't hear my heart pounding, trying not to break.

More tears. "Well, if I have to stay here, I'll go crazy. I won't stay," she wails. "I don't care what anyone says."

At that point, I am overwhelmed. I am suddenly so hungry, I feel I will drop. I realize I haven't eaten all day.

"Mom, I can't do this right now," I say, patiently at first.

"I know, I know," she says, trying to stop, taking gulps of air. "I just can't help it."

I can't go there. I just can't. Suddenly, I feel a surge of anger at her for starting this when I had already stayed with her past the point of being harmful to myself. I am sad she's not mothering me and protecting me from giving her too much. Clearly I have to do this for myself now.

"Mom, can we talk about this at another time? I really have to look out for myself now."

I had said the unspeakable. The words tumble out of my mouth like rocks falling down a steep canyon.

"Of course you do," she says, sounding like the mother I knew. Of course this breaks my heart and makes me feel selfish. But it stops her flow of tears.

"I'm sorry Mom, but I haven't packed, I'm very hungry, and I'm leaving early in the morning." I think of the 7:30 am plane I am scheduled to be on, of having to arise at 4:30 am. At this rate, I will catch, at best, three hours of sleep.

"I just don't have anything left," I say, feeling like I'm now tumbling down the canyon myself.

She looks straight at me.

"I've been such an idiot," she says, and starts to cry again.

I go to her and give her a hug. "No, honey, you're not an idiot. And don't worry, we'll get you home."

"OK," she says. "Now go along, Annie." I realize this is the best I can hope for right now, so I kiss her again and promise to call as soon as I get back to New York (of course, I call her from the airport in Florida).

When I finally get out to my car--her car--I am conflicted over feeling angry at her for purposely keeping me there and angry at myself for being selfish.

I get in the car, start to drive, and begin screaming at the top of my lungs for nearly the entire 30-minute ride home. I scream every obscenity I know, taking advantage of an enclosed space all to myself, with no one around to hear, an unheard-of luxury for city dwellers.

When I speak to Mom from the airport, my voice is little louder than a whisper.

"Oh, Annie, now you've gone and made yourself sick," she said. "You have to take care of yourself."

"Oh, I do honey," I croak at her. "I do. Don't worry about me. You just concentrate on getting strong."

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