Holding the Net

by Melanie P. Merriman

  I told her I was grateful she had written. She said she hoped I didn’t feel she was meddling.

  “I had no idea things had gotten so bad,” I said, “She seemed alright last time I visited.”

  “She rallies when you’re around. Then she needs several days to recover.”

  I filled her in on Mom’s reluctance to get on the waiting list for McCarthy Court. I told her Mom had talked about finding a place like McCarthy right there in New Port Richey.

  “I know,” said Lenore, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea. You and Barbara will be too far away.”

  She told me other women in their group had moved to senior apartments in the area, and none of the local friends ever visited. “She’s too isolated in her condo, and she’d be even more isolated in a senior apartment here in New Port Richey,” Lenore said.

  Then she said the one thing I feared most.

  “I think you will have to make this decision for her. She can’t do it.”

  Mom’s independence, her autonomy, was so important to her. I respected Lenore, but I wasn’t ready to accept the idea that Mom could not make this decision. I called two of Mom’s other friends. They confirmed everything Lenore had said. They had heard about McCarthy Court from Mom, and said it sounded perfect. Both of them told me that Mom was probably too scared of moving to pull the trigger, and that I would have to help her.

  Barbara wanted to go ahead and put Mom on the waiting list without even telling her, and tried to reason with me. “It could be a while before her name comes up.”

  “I know,” I said, “but I just can’t do it.”

  I knew that committing to McCarthy Court was a huge decision—and I was still determined to try to make it Mom’s decision, rather than Barbara’s or mine. Mom wasn’t demented or incompetent. It was becoming clear, however, that she was depressed.

  Barbara, Mom, and I all had experience with depression. Mom had suffered debilitating postpartum depression when I was born. During my sophomore year of high school, I slept fifteen hours a day. I knew exactly how dark and hopeless the days are when you’re depressed, how exhausted you feel all the time, without even the energy to brush your teeth. Barbara’s depression coincided with her first panic attacks, when she became housebound, too enervated to get out the door on her own.

  We had all bounced back. Now, Mom faced the demon again. I thought maybe if we could get her feeling better, she would see that moving to New Bern was the logical choice.

  I suggested she make a doctor’s appointment. I urged her to tell Dr. G. that she’d been feeling tired, and had given up a lot of her usual activities.

  “You seem depressed,” I said. “Maybe he could give you some medication.”

  Mom didn’t argue. In fact, she thought it was a good idea. She called Dr. G. as soon as we hung up, and within a few days, she started taking both an antidepressant and an antianxiety medication.

  More and more often, the answer to “How’re you doing?” was “Pretty good for an old lady.” I knew she was eating better, because when I asked what she’d had for lunch, she’d tell me rather than saying, “I wasn’t hungry.”

  After she had been taking the medication, for about a month, I emailed Lenore and asked if she’d seen any change. She replied that Mom definitely seemed to have more energy. She also made it clear that moving was still the best, if not the only, option.

  I called Mom and told her I was coming to visit, specifically so we could call Diane at McCarthy Court together and then send the deposit to get on the waiting list.

  “No, let’s go to New Bern instead.” Mom said she felt more positive about moving, but she wanted to see it one more time before making the final decision.

  I flew to New Port Richey a day early, and helped Mom pack for the short trip. I fixed two turkey sandwiches to eat on the airplane. I wrapped the sandwiches in wax paper and thought about all those days when I had been too anxious to eat breakfast, and Mom would wrap up a half-piece of toast for me to have at recess.

  At the airport, I pulled up to the departure curb and took Mom and her suitcase inside. I found her a seat, and told her to wait while I parked the car. It took me about fifteen minutes to park and walk back to the terminal with my bag. Mom hadn’t moved. She still had one hand on her suitcase. I touched her arm.

  “Ready?” I asked, smiling.

  “Ready or not,” she said.

  Mom started to wilt in the security line. One of the airline representatives noticed, and waved us over.

  “Come this way,” she said, and led us through the entrance for handicapped passengers.

  Our flight from Tampa left late, so we had only thirty minutes to make our connection in Charlotte. The gates for the smaller regional planes were a long walk from the gate where we had landed from Tampa. I knew Mom would never make it in time. I told the airline agent we needed a ride. She said we had to wait for one of the courtesy carts to come by, and flag it down.

  “What about a wheelchair?” I asked.

  She said it had to be reserved ahead of time.

  I got Mom settled in a seat, and we both had a few sips from our bottle of spring water. Then I walked into the middle of the concourse to look for a cart. There were none in sight. Five minutes went by. My armpits were soaking wet. I wanted to run to the next gate and have them hold the plane, but I couldn’t leave Mom. Five more minutes passed. Finally, a courtesy cart came by, going the wrong way. I stopped the driver, and made him promise to pick up Mom on his way back. I told him our connecting gate number, and gave him a $20 tip in advance.

  “Just wait here for the cart,” I told Mom, “I’m going to go to the next gate and make sure they know we’re coming.”

  “Where do I go?” Mom asked. She was about to cry.

  “It’s gate E-21. The driver knows. It’s going to be alright. I won’t let them leave without us.”

  I grabbed both of our bags, wheeling one in front and pulling one behind me. As I ran to the gate, Mom passed by on the cart, but she didn’t see me. I got to the gate just as the driver was helping her down. There was no one there but the ticket agent, and they were about to close the door to the jet bridge.

  “Did my daughter get on the plane?” Mom asked.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m right here,” I said.

  As she turned toward me, she looked as if she had aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

  We boarded, and I held her hand as the plane sped down the runway.

  Chapter 7

  NEW BERN BLESSED us with two beautiful Indian summer days. The foliage around McCarthy court was lush. Inside, the pale green walls were soothing. Diane, the director, suggested we sit in the dining room. She led Mom, Barbara, and me to a table that would seat six. From there, we could look out a huge bank of windows into the main hallway. I watched a few gray heads wander by and peek in to see what was going on. Diane asked one of the servers setting tables to bring us some iced tea.

  “Could I have coffee, instead?” Mom asked.

  “Sure, honey,” said the server, “I’m Christine. You want anything else, you let me know. Okay?”

  I was checking things off my mental list: friendly staff, clean tablecloths, comfortable chairs, not too formal.

  Diane explained that none of the apartments were vacant, but two of the residents had invited us to see us their places. She showed us drawings of the floor plans.

  “What else would you like to see?” she asked. We all looked at Mom.

  “What else is there?” Mom asked.

  Diane suggested we visit the bar first, then see the recreation areas after our tour of the apartments. Mom nodded.

  The “bar” turned out to be a six-by-eight-foot room with two tables where residents could have a cocktail before dinner. Diane gestured toward the cupboards, and explained that people kept their own liquor bottles there and the staff would mix drinks for them. On Fridays, everyone was invited to have a glass of wine during happy hour, but no liquor was allowed in the
dining room. Mom said she would probably have some Chardonnay in her room before dinner with some crackers and cheese. I loved how it seemed like she could see herself living there.

  We took the elevator to the second floor and met Mrs. James, who showed us around her two-bedroom apartment. She had furnished it tastefully with Danish-style contemporary furniture. It felt stylish, if dated, and comfortable—much like Mom’s condo.

  “In Florida, I have a teak dining table from Scandinavian Design,” Mom said, “but it would be too big to bring with me here.”

  The bathroom layout was ingeniously designed to accommodate two people sharing the apartment, though Mrs. James lived alone. There were two rooms, each with a toilet and sink. Doors from each of these rooms led to a central space containing a walk-in shower. Mrs. James said she had moved in two years ago, a few months after her husband had died. Her children lived about an hour away.

  “Best decision I evah made,” she said in her gentle Southern accent.

  I gave Mom a squeeze.

  Then we met Sophie. She had come to New Bern from New York years earlier, to be closer to her son. She told us she had trouble with her circulation.

  “When my legs got bad,” she said, “I moved to McCarthy.”

  Her apartment had only one bedroom, and was smaller than Mrs. James’ place, but Sophie had packed it with at least twice as much furniture, including a small organ. It turned out she still worked as a church organist, and played piano for events at McCarthy, as well.

  “Most of my things are still at my house. I can’t bring myself to sell it.” Sophie gestured for us to sit on the couch. “But I prefer living here. I like to be around people.”

  She used a walker, the kind with a seat and a basket. As we left her apartment, Barbara and I laughed, wondering how in the world she maneuvered her walker around all that stuff.

  We took a quick tour of the recreation room, and looked at the calendar of monthly activities. There was something every day: bridge, morning coffee and donuts, a trip to the new museum with lunch at the café, van trips to the local supermarket on Mondays and Thursdays, a concert in the dining room, and more.

  The three of us joined Diane in her small office. Barbara asked about the waiting list. Diane said they required a $500 deposit, but if you decided to take your name off the list, it would be refunded. It didn’t sound like much of a commitment to me. I stayed quiet.

  “How long is the list?” Mom asked. Diane said it might take about three to four months before there would be a vacancy.

  “What if Mom’s name comes up, and she’s not ready to move?” I asked. Diane said Mom could just move down a slot and wait for the next opening.

  No pressure at all, I thought.

  We left and headed for a sandwich shop. Once we had our water and iced tea, I asked Mom what she thought.

  “What’s not to like?” she said. “The apartments are lovely. And I feel like I could be friends with both those people, though Sophie might be a lot to take.”

  Barbara and I laughed.

  “Are you ready to sign up?” Barbara asked. “I guess so,” said Mom, “but I want to think about it for a day or two.”

  “Mom, it’s never going to get easier to make this move,” I said. “At some point, you just have to do it.”

  “I will, but not today.”

  The trip back to Florida was uneventful, but I could see that Mom was exhausted. I suggested staying with her another day or so.

  “You should get home,” she said. “You have work.”

  A few days after our trip, Mom called to say she had changed her mind.

  “Maybe I’ll move someday,” she said, “but for now, I want to stay here.”

  I paced around my office.

  “Mom, I really don’t think that’s practical.”

  “Mel, it’s just too hard to think about moving.”

  I called Barbara.

  “We have to take charge,” I said. “I’ll send you a check for half the deposit.”

  Barbara said, “She won’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it,” I said. “Put her name on the list.”

  When I was young, doctor’s and dentist’s appointments were major triggers for my anxiety. Mom would never write the appointments on the Girl Scout calendar we kept on the desk in the kitchen, even though it was her primary scheduling tool. She knew I would start worrying weeks ahead of time. Instead, she’d wait until the day of the appointment, and tell me about it that morning. I’d still throw up, but at least I only had one day of anxiety.

  In keeping the secret about putting her on the waiting list for McCarthy Court, I told myself I was returning the favor. Why worry her before the place became a real possibility? But it felt like a lie, and after a couple of months, I told her that Barbara was going to keep checking to see if anything was available at McCarthy Court.

  “Okay, but I still haven’t decided for sure about moving,” Mom said.

  “I know,” I said, then changed the subject.

  In January of 2007, Mom turned ninety-one. In March, Barbara got the call. Diane from McCarthy Court said there would be a two-bedroom apartment available in May.

  Barbara and I tried to think of all the questions Mom would have, and what her objections might be. Barbara made sure to get all the basic information on the price and the lease. I checked with Keith, the financial advisor, and he confirmed that Mom had plenty of money for the move. If Mom was resistant, we would be firm.

  I used three-way calling to get us all on the phone together.

  “Mom, are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Barb?”

  “I’m here, too.”

  Barbara told Mom about the apartment.

  “Yours would be like Mrs. James’s place—the one with the pretty teak furniture,” I said.

  “Did she move?” Mom asked.

  “No, she’s still there. You wouldn’t have her place, but yours would be the same floor plan,” I explained.

  “That place was pretty big. Do I need two bedrooms?” asked Mom.

  “It’s smaller than your place now, but you’d still be able to keep a lot of your furniture,” Barbara said.

  “Can I afford it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “If you’re worried, talk to Keith at Smith-Barney.”

  “How would I get there?”

  “Barbara and I will take care of all the arrangements,” I said. I had been thinking that Barbara could fly down to Florida and take Mom back to her house for a week. I would stay behind and work with the movers.

  “Melly and I really think you should take the apartment,” Barbara said.

  I was pacing back and forth in the Florida room. I swung the arm that wasn’t holding the phone up and down, trying to shake off some of my anxiety. Barbara and I had to be what Mom had been for us—the ones who knew best. I hated it.

  “Well, could I look at it again?” Mom said.

  The idea of another trip made me feel sick, but she’d cracked the door a bit, and I pushed it open.

  “Sure, we can go up next week.” I said.

  “That soon?” Mom asked.

  “We have to decide right away,” I said. “Other people are waiting.”

  What I wanted that day, that moment, was to jump on a plane and go to her. Instead, I called Lenore and let her know what was happening. She said she would call Mom a little later and see how she was doing. My shoulders came down about half an inch.

  For the trip, I ordered a wheelchair for both the Tampa and Charlotte airports. Mom protested that she didn’t need it. I told her it was a ruse to get through security faster, and to move to the front of the line for boarding the plane. I didn’t tell her how worried I was about making our connection. I packed a lunch and snacks. I checked the bags in with the airline, something I never did on a business trip, and hoped they wouldn’t get lost..

  Our connecting flight out of Charlotte was delayed almost an hour. We had plenty of time for a ba
throom break and a stop for a fresh bottle of water. Once we were organized in seats at the departure gate, I cracked open the water, took a sip, and passed it to Mom. She sat without moving, like someone in pain, and barely turned her head toward me.

  “I don’t know how you do all the traveling you do, Mel. It’s so hard.”

  “We’ll be there soon,” I said.

  I tucked the water bottle into my tote, slipped my arm through hers, and leaned my head on her shoulder.

  Barbara and Phil met us with hugs at the tiny New Bern airport. “Mom, I’m making meatloaf for dinner, and some fresh broccoli,” Barbara said.

  “Sounds good,” Mom said, and then she was quiet again.

  We all went to bed early. I read for a while from All Creatures Great and Small. I’d read it at least ten times, and the familiarity and gentleness of the stories about a veterinarian in rural England always soothed me. I also took a Tylenol PM.

  The next morning, we had coffee and toast at the table on Barbara’s screened porch. The day was bright, and warmer than I had expected. I pointed out the robins and chickadees at the two feeders hanging outside.

  “I hate the trip,” Mom said, “but I like it once I get here.”

  “Do we have time for a walk before we go?” I asked Barbara. I needed to work off some of my nervousness.

  “A short one,” she said.

  Mom said, “I’ll take a shower.”

  Barbara and I headed out. We walked by the big houses along the river. Once or twice, Barbara pointed out one of her favorite trees or plants—but mostly, we were quiet, absorbed in our own thoughts.

  Diane was out front rearranging baskets of pink and red tulips when we arrived at McCarthy. She waved as we drove into the parking lot, then came over and helped Mom out of the car.

  This time, Diane had an empty two-bedroom apartment to show us. It wasn’t the exact one Mom would take, but it had the same layout.