Holding the Net

by Melanie P. Merriman

  Now she was crying. I couldn’t bear it. She sounded so miserable, so scared. I had to help her. There had to be another way.

  “Alright,” I said. “When I come next week, we’ll look at other options—maybe some kind of home care. But let’s not cancel McCarthy Court yet. I need some time.”

  “I’m sorry, Mel.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I love you, Mom.”

  I didn’t want to call Barbara until I had a plan. I went up to my room to calm down, and thought about what Kate had said. Mom might listen to a professional—but who? Then I remembered a woman I’d met about a year before, while working on a project for the American Hospice Foundation. She had said she was a geriatric care manager (GCM). I’d never heard the term, so I’d asked her about it. Geriatric care managers (now called aging life care experts) help families find, hire, and manage services for older adults—things like nursing care, homemaking services, even moving. She told me there was an association for certified managers.

  I leaned across the hotel bed, picked up my computer, and googled “Geriatric Care Management.” I found the association website, and learned that certified GCMs conduct assessments, offer advice about what kinds of services a parent might need, and connect clients with various providers. Using the geographic search function on the website, I found two care managers near New Port Richey, and wrote down their names and contact information.

  “I think I screwed up,” I said to Barbara. I told her about the call with Mom, and my promise to look into some other arrangement. Then I told her about the GCMs.

  “I want to set up an appointment for when I’m there next week. Maybe Mom could stay in New Port Richey.”

  “I wish,” Barbara said, “but I doubt it.”

  We agreed, though, that it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone.

  The first GCM I called worked for an agency, and she was basically a representative selling their home care services. It didn’t sound to me like she wanted to—or could—offer any kind of innovative solutions. The second one, Karen, also worked for an agency, but she said she could recommend all kinds of services. She offered a free assessment visit to see what kind of help Mom needed. I set up an appointment for the following week. I couldn’t help feeling hopeful.

  Karen, Mom, and I sat at the round table in the sunroom. Mom was surprisingly perky, smiling and answering all of Karen’s questions in detail. I added a few comments about my concerns—losing weight, less stable on her feet, not going out as much. Karen kept her attention on Mom, asking what she usually had for lunch and for dinner, how often she went out, and what she did all day. It was all very conversational. Karen took notes, but it didn’t seem like a test or medical exam.

  “You seem to be doing pretty well,” Karen said to Mom.

  “I think so, even though I am slowing down,” Mom replied.

  “I guess our main question is about the future,” I said. “Mom has the option to move to North Carolina and live in a senior apartment just five minutes from my sister. We want her to do that, but she thinks she wants to stay here.” I explained to Karen that McCarthy Court was a typical Adult Congregate Living Facility (ACLF) where residents received dinner along with other minimal services.

  Karen said that being near family was always best, if it was an option. I held my breath.

  “Where in North Carolina?” Karen asked.

  “New Bern,” Mom answered.

  Karen had been to New Bern. Her brother, a dentist, lived and practiced there. I wondered how this could be true. New Bern had only about 40,000 residents, and this random woman I had found on the Internet not only knew about it, but also had family there? I made a note to get her brother’s name. Mom would need a new dentist. This wasn’t just coincidence—it was synchronicity. New Bern was meant to be.

  Karen asked Mom if there was some reason she didn’t want to move.

  “It seems so daunting. Packing, selling my condo, all of it,” Mom said.

  I sipped my water and channeled Kate. I was dying to say something, but I knew I had to let the professional do the work.

  “Well, I could help you with packing and moving,” Karen said, “and help you find a good real estate agent.”

  “We have someone,” Mom said.

  I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. I told Karen that Barbara and I were prepared to take care of everything—moving, the condo sale, and getting Mom settled in her new home—but I was grateful to know we could call on her if we needed help.

  “So, you really think I should go?” Mom asked Karen.

  “I really do,” she replied.

  I got up and went around the table. I stood behind Mom, wrapping my arms around her shoulders.

  She put her hands on my arms, squeezing them. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

  Chapter 9

  MOM HAD BEEN RIGHT WHEN SHE’D SAID, “This is hard.” I was beginning to understand that even though she had agreed to move to McCarthy Court, she would never be enthusiastic about it, and would probably want to back out again at some point. Barbara and I would have to hold the line. I couldn’t be weak. I couldn’t waver.

  I also realized that we had to get the wheels in motion. Barbara and I agreed that I’d take charge of all the things that had to happen in New Port Richey—planning the move, hiring the movers, and getting Mom’s condo sold, or at least on the market. Then I would pass the baton, and Barbara would take over in New Bern.

  “Right now, there’s way more to do here than there,” I said, “but considering how long she may live in New Bern, you’ll be getting the lion’s share of the work.”

  I promised her I’d visit often, and help in every way I could.

  “Mel, it’s okay.”

  It was late April of 2007, and the move was planned for July. Given how much there was to do and how little of it Mom seemed able to do on her own, I could see that I would need to spend a lot of time with her. My consulting workload was relatively low at the time, and I had a colleague—another consultant—who would back me up. I was worried about being away from Klein, but when I talked with him, he said I should do whatever I needed to. God love him! I thought.

  From late April to early July, I split my time between Miami and New Port Richey. I visited for three or four days out of every ten, spacing my trips so Mom wouldn’t be alone to brood and worry more than a few days in a row.

  Every time I left to go back to Miami, I fretted about how she would get along without me there to keep her fed and moving. Usually, I coordinated with Lenore to be sure she could visit, and maybe take Mom to dinner one of the days I was gone. I also let the condo office staff know when I was coming and going. They were like her local family, and would call some mornings and urge her to stop by the office for coffee and a chat.

  On every trip, I tried to get a few things done to prepare for the move. We met with Keith at Smith-Barney about finances. Keith’s wife, Judy, came over with all the paperwork to get the condo on the market. Mom’s depression and anxiety made her tired. She could only handle one meeting a day, and even though she had made it clear that she wanted me to be in charge, she and I both wanted her to stay involved.

  One of our “chores” was to decide which furniture she would take to McCarthy Court, and what we would sell or give away. Barbara had measured the new apartment, and I drew out the rooms on graph paper and made scaled cutouts of Mom’s furniture so we could see how things fit.

  Mom seemed to enjoy trying out different furniture arrangements on the graph paper drawing. She’d always had a knack for decorating, and strong opinions about how things should look. When I bought my first house, I told her I wanted curtains with an abstract print for my bedroom. She said, “No, you don’t. You need a solid color in there.” She was right.

  When we had a final list of what would go to her new home, I set up appointments with two movers. The first one went well—the representative was a nice guy, and I
was silently grateful that he kept including Mom in the conversation rather than just addressing me. Mom was animated while he was there, then collapsed in exhaustion as soon as he left. Later that day, I asked her what she thought.

  “It sounds like they can handle the move,” she said.

  “I have another mover coming tomorrow, so we can compare.”

  “Really? Can’t we just go with this one? I think the price is fine.”

  I cancelled the other meeting. I could see she’d had enough.

  The days together were slow and emotionally charged. We both woke up early, having turned in early the night before. Mom fixed her coffee, and I made sure she took her antidepressant and antianxiety medications. She was shaky until they kicked in, but she worked on the Jumble puzzle in the newspaper and read the comics. I went jogging, then we took showers, dressed, and went out to do errands.

  Usually, I let Mom drive. I figured it gave her some measure of control, and I wanted to make sure she was still able to manage the car. I was worried about her navigating the unfamiliar streets of New Bern—even though she would not be driving far—but Mom was determined to take her ten-year-old Nissan Altima with her to North Carolina.

  After I fixed lunch and made sure Mom ate, she usually napped in Daddy’s chair. I did some work or made to-do lists: clean out the safe deposit box at the bank, wrap and ship the most fragile and precious items that we didn’t want to trust to the movers, follow up on condo-sale paperwork. Shortly after five, we settled in for wine and cheese, then dinner in front of the TV. I made grilled cheese sandwiches, chicken soup, and meatloaf with baked potatoes, comfort foods to soothe us both as we faced an unwelcome future.

  One morning, when I got up and went into Mom’s room, I found her sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark. The sheets were tangled around her legs, and she was crying. I sat next to her and wrapped her in a hug.

  “I didn’t want to wake up,” she sobbed, “I wish I’d just died in the night, so I wouldn’t have to move.”

  My heart was breaking. I could feel her anguish, and I knew I had to be the strong one. I closed my eyes and retreated into cold rationality. It felt awful.

  “I know it’s hard, Mom. But it will be okay. I promise.” Did I know it would be alright? I didn’t, but I knew we had to do something, and this was the best option.

  We sat for a few more minutes, and I held her tight until she raised her head and reached for a tissue. She blew her nose as I gently untangled the sheet and blanket.

  “Come on,” I said, “Let’s get some coffee and toast.” And an extra Xanax, I thought.

  Mom stood up and shuffled into the bathroom.

  Later that day, I hid in the walk-in closet in the guest room and called Barbara. I didn’t want Mom to hear our conversation.

  “She said she’d rather die than move,” I whispered. “I feel like the meanest mommy ever, making her do this ‘for her own good.’”

  “You’re doing great, Mel.”

  “Well, it doesn’t feel great.”

  “Why don’t you get out for a while? Go to the mall or something.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Mom was napping in the sunroom, so I left her a note and went to Starbucks. I ordered my usual decaf cappuccino, and added an oatmeal raisin cookie. I deserved it. I sat on a bench in the shopping mall and watched people walk by—teenagers in laughing groups, and older women, some with walkers and some leaning on the arm of an even older-looking man.

  It’s the circle of life, I thought. But right now, it feels more like the tilt-a whirl than the merry-go-round.

  One bright spot was that the sale of Mom’s condo went surprisingly smoothly. A neighbor who lived just two doors away wanted to buy it, because Mom’s end unit offered more light and a second outdoor terrace. His offer was below market value, but after a few weeks, we decided to accept it.

  “I feel better knowing I’ll have that money in the bank,” Mom said.

  Anything that made her feel better was fine by me.

  Over the weeks of my frequent visits, Mom’s driving went from passable to scary. She went too slowly, or sped up at the wrong time. She barely had the strength to turn the steering wheel of the front-wheel-drive Altima. After she hit a boat trailer parked in front of the house across the street from her condo, she admitted it was hard to twist around when she needed to back up.

  “But I hardly ever have to back up,” she told me. “I always park where I can pull through to head it facing forward.”

  A few months before, I had made a halfhearted attempt to discuss it with her.

  “Mom, are you alright driving?”

  She reiterated what she’d told Barbara more than a year earlier. “Well, I don’t drive at night anymore. I never go far, and only to places I know—Publix, the hairdresser, or to see friends.”

  What did I expect her to say? How would she get around without a car? Maybe some kind of senior car service? It made me tired just to think about it.

  Then, one day in June, I had to grab the strap above the passenger window as she swung into the parking lot of Dean’s Hair Boutique. She made a wide arc at about forty miles per hour, barely braking, and narrowly missing the palm-fronded fruit stand. It was time.

  In a way, the move was the perfect opportunity. All I had to do was convince her not to take the car—but her ongoing depression unnerved me. With this move, Mom was giving up her home, and much of her independence. I couldn’t take driving away from her, too. It had to be about the car, and not about driving. And somehow, it had to be her decision.

  We’d made a plan for getting the car to New Bern. Barbara and her husband Phil would fly down to Tampa, and Phil would drive the car back to North Carolina while Mom and Barbara flew up.

  I appealed to Mom’s strong desire not to be a burden. “Hey, Mom. You know how much Phil hates to fly. Wouldn’t it be better to sell the car?” I asked.

  “But how will I get around in New Bern? I can’t ask Barbara to drive me everywhere.”

  “McCarthy Court has the courtesy van. You won’t need your car.”

  “What if I just want to go out for a sandwich?”

  Knowing I was lying, I told her she could buy a new car if she needed one.

  “Why buy a new one? I have a good car,” she said.

  Once again, I escaped to Starbucks to console myself. I found a comfortable chair and called Kate.

  “I feel like I have to be so tough with Mom. It’s painful for both of us.”

  “This is never easy,” Kate said. “Nobody does this without heartache.”

  I sipped my cappuccino.

  “Why can’t I figure out how to make things better for her?”

  “I keep telling you that you have to get somebody like a social worker to take the heat for things like not driving anymore. Set it up so you can be the supportive daughter.”

  It was great advice, but how I would do it, I had no idea.

  Mom was scheduled to go to the doctor during my next visit. I thought it might be time to increase her antidepressant medication, and I wanted to ask Dr. G. if she could take more Xanax when she needed it.

  I went with Mom to the doctor, just as she had so often accompanied me to the pediatrician. Now, I sat in the parent chair while Dr. G. checked her blood pressure. He focused all his attention on her, barely acknowledging my presence.

  “So, how are you doing?” Dr. G. asked. “I’m alright,” Mom answered, “but I think this will be my last visit with you. I’m moving to North Carolina.”

  Dr. G. nodded as Mom continued. “I’m scared. I’m too old to start over in a new place.”

  I winced.

  I said, “I’m concerned about how her hands shake, particularly in the morning.”

  Dr. G. looked straight at Mom. “What do you think?” he asked her. “Probably just feeling nervous, right?”

  She nodded.

  He suggested increasing her antidepressant, and said she could take an extra half-dose of Xa
nax if she was particularly anxious, but not if she was going to be driving.

  Driving! The car! Suddenly I picked up the cue. Dr. G. is a professional, I thought. Maybe he can help.

  I tucked my hands under my legs to help me stay still. “I have a question,” I said. “Do you have any opinions on when it’s time to stop driving?” Dr. G. looked at me for a second, then sat forward in his chair, his knees almost touching Mom’s.

  “I tell my patients that their families are the people who love them and care about them the most. If your family is concerned about your driving, you should listen to them,” he said. “I ask my patients to think about how they would feel if they were driving and someone got hurt.”

  “I would feel awful,” Mom said. “Maybe I shouldn’t take the car to North Carolina after all.”

  I concentrated on my breathing, and tried to channel my yoga teacher.

  Dr. G. continued, “If your family is worried, but you think you can drive perfectly well, go to the driver’s license bureau and take a test. If you pass, then you’re okay to drive, and your family will know it.”

  “No, no,” Mom said, “I think we should go ahead and sell the car.” Dr. G. patted her knee. I wanted to hug him, but I kept sitting on my hands and spoke quietly, the way I did in business meetings when the client started to think that my idea was his own.

  “You know, Mom, I think that’s a good idea.”

  In my mind, I was already composing the ad for the Auto Trader.

  Chapter 10

  I SPENT HOURS, often between midnight and 3 a.m., thinking about how to protect Mom from the trauma of watching as her home was disassembled. The move was scheduled for July 9th—a Monday. As the plan took shape, I was like a stage manager, and I wanted my play, Mom’s Move, to go off without a hitch. I told Barbara we should travel to New Port Richey a couple of days early, and do very little packing—just the clothes, fragile items, and valuables that would go with her and Mom on the plane to New Bern. I scheduled the car service that would take the two of them to the airport for 8:30 a.m., and the moving van for 9:00 a.m., so Mom wouldn’t even see the packing boxes. I’d stay behind, supervise the movers, and finish cleaning out the condo. Mom would stay at Barbara and Phil’s house for the five days it would take the movers to drive to New Bern.