A Daughter's Journal

The Homecoming Queen

by Ann D. Gross

Mom was home. Unbelievable. Somehow my brother managed to put together a brilliant system of 24/7 care with one terrific "forewoman" caregiver (the famous Suzy) as the team leader, and two other delightful and patient women on regular rotating shifts.

My mother had put her life's energy into getting discharged from the skilled nursing facility, especially because she was aware that not even Lloyd's of London would have been willing to bet she'd be able to move back to her home once she'd been admitted. When she entered the SNF, she was recovering from a serious gastrointestinal illness, frail and facing what appeared to be inevitable further physical and mental decline.

Turns out the Lloyd's folks could have gone into early retirement had they taken this bet. Walk out she did--some nine months later on a Wednesday afternoon--right into my brother's waiting car. She was whisked from the long corridors of bewildered elders, showers on Tuesdays and Thursdays, plastic cutlery, and group dining halls back to her home. Ah yes, her home: clean, uncluttered, and lovely. Complete with a balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, the bed where she and my father had slept for 50 years, and 'round the clock worker bees to help her with whatever she needed. She was the queen again, back in her own hive.

A Buzz in the Hive

With Mom finally landed back home, I thought all would be well--that we were, so to speak, home free.

But it began right away. "What makes you think I need help all the time?" she fairly shouted into the phone, frustrated with her 24/7 caretakers. "Your brother says I do, but I know I don't. It's ridiculous to have these people sleep here. I don't need any help! Do you know what this is costing?"

I did. She didn't, fortunately.

The last time I saw Mom, she was still in the SNF and needed at least her walker to move and, often, her wheelchair when she got too tired. She couldn't lift herself off the toilet and had to wait both for someone to help her off the toilet and out of the bathroom.

To hear my brother tell the story, Mom had endured some serious mental decline--not to mention the obvious physical decline--and was completely unable to care for herself.

My unwillingness to believe that my queen bee mother was so helpless and powerless--along with all my training--caused me to listen closely to Mom's complaints and see if I could help. I queried my brother on the possibility of not having people stay overnight, keeping shifts of help only from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m.

My brother laughed me off the phone. "You haven't seen her, Ann," he said. "She can't even get up from a chair without help. And her doctor said she could only go home if she had 'round the clock care."

I knew he was right. Yet, there was that fight in my mother, transcending the reality of her true physical function, denying everyone else's reality, and insisting on reclaiming her birthright of queen bee. Therein lies the problem, because perception is reality--especially when you're an older adult and everyone else seems to be making decisions about your life and how you will live it.

A Palace Coup

From my brother's and my point of view, Mom was home with the help she needed. But from my mom's point of view, her children had staged a revolt, overthrown the queen, and were holding her hostage in the proverbial tower that was her lovely apartment on the Gulf. They wouldn't let her drive her car, they insisted she be supervised by people all the time, and her son had taken over her financial affairs--he wouldn't even let her have any checks or credit cards.

Mom began to take it out on the caregivers.

"Suzy does nothing but boss me around," she complained. I hadn't yet met Suzy (who would eventually become a dear friend), so I listened with a sympathetic ear, worrying about how I could help. "Your brother has given her my credit card, and she drives around in my car and makes all the decisions about how my life is going to be. It's disgusting," she added.

Before I met the amazing Suzy, I would engage with Mom and her complaints. "Well, can you talk to her about it?" I asked. Then I suggested she talk to my brother about the arrangement.

"It won't do any good; he thinks I can't do anything," she growled at me.

So I listened to her complaints each day, trying to be helpful and worrying my brother would think I was doing nothing.

One day I got a call from my brother. "One down, two to go," he said, with a bit of humor laced into the news.

"What happened?" I asked. "What did she do?"

"Well, from what I can gather that Suzy told me," he said, "Mom yelled at one of the ladies and fought with her about how to change the CD in the player. They both tried to reach something, and Mom fell on top of the lady, and knocked her down. So she quit."

"Is everyone OK?" I asked, trying to not laugh at this scene straight out of the Marx brothers.

"Yeah, Mom's OK, but the lady is mad."

"I don't blame her," I said, laughing, "That was definitely not part of the job description."

My brother was laughing, too.

"So now what do we do?" I asked him, hoping he already had the answer.

"It's OK. Suzy will put an ad in the paper and interview for people; we'll find someone," he assured me. "There are a lot of people out there who need work. And Suzy will cover the hours until we get someone. She needs the money for her divorce."

My brother and I--14 months apart in age (he is older)--always had a troubled relationship. But right then I felt overwhelmed with brotherly adoration. He would fix this, and it didn't require my going down or spending days on the phone begging person after person to send something or do something to make life better for my mom. He had it under control.

The Child Is Mother to the Woman

When I spoke to my mom later that evening, I waited to see what she would say. I had learned to be vigilant of every syllable I uttered, not wanting to touch her hot buttons for fear of a nuclear response.

"Hi Mom, it's Annie," I said, at 9:01. Although Mom has only one daughter, I always feel the need to identify myself. At this point I'm afraid she may forget my name, and I couldn't bear that.

"Hi honey," she said.

"Is it Larry King time yet?" I asked, hoping Larry had gone to commercial and we had a few minutes before Mom engaged with the latest American scandal of sex or violence.

"Uh yes, I mean no. I mean yes, it's started, but there's a commercial on now," she explained. "Anyway, I can talk to you, I always have time to talk to you."

Hmm. Something was up: That was a far more tender response than usual. I sensed she was feeling guilty and she wasn't going to volunteer information.

"Great, Mom. How are you? How are things going?"

"Fine," she said, uncharacteristically. "Everything's fine."

"Oh good," I responded. Now where do I go with this, I wondered. "How are things with Suzy and the ladies?"

"The same," she said, her voice flat. I smiled. She reminded me of me when I was a teenager and tried on that same nonchalance so she wouldn't know about something. She knew then, and I knew now.

"Oh, that sounds good," I said, waiting for the usual barrage of complaints.

"Well, one lady quit last night," she added.

"What happened, honey?" I asked, taken aback that she told me.

"Nothing happened, Ann," she snapped at me. "She just didn't like the hours or something. I don't know. Suzy has it under control as usual. You can ask your brother. She's probably given him all the details."

"Oh, OK, honey," I added, relieved she chose to tell me and was comfortable with showing her frustration again. At least everything was back to normal.

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