Curious Old Path

At age seventy-five, Mom is getting erratic and confused in her phone calls. We know she isn’t drinking, so one weekend we three sisters fly out to Minneapolis to assess the situation.

Her hygiene, nourishment, and housekeeping are sorely wanting. Gently, gingerly: “What do you think about assisted living, Mom?”

“Oh, I think it’s time,” she says. Immense relief.

•••

Lengthy sibling conference call. Who’ll keep an eye on her?

Her chickens won’t come home to roost.

It seems clear Pogo wants no part of the conversation or the decision.

Mary Kay flatly refuses. “I won’t be the classic unmarried daughter caring for her mother.”

“We don’t mind Mom for a month over Christmas,” say Tom and Linda, “but we don’t want permanent responsibility.” They keep a weather eye out for Mom’s sister, Aunt Ellen, as well.

John is silent. He is scarcely caring for himself.

“Having Mom in New York isn’t workable,” I confess. I’m in therapy, unable to imagine a rancor-free relationship.

“We’re responsible for Maggie’s mom just now,” Jim tells us. “Her lupus is worsening.” They’re also rearing three boys.

But Ro steps up to the plate. Though she and her husband Mark have two young children, “I want her near. I want to do this,” she avers. We flood her with gratitude.

Ro finds a pleasant assisted-living residence close to their Portland home. The well-maintained apartments have maid service, community meals, and medical staff on site.

Available siblings sort, toss, pack, and load in Minneapolis; drive, unload, and unpack Mom’s things in the new place. She’s excited.

But soon Ro reports, “She’s shouting at other residents, accusing them of stealing her clothes. Today she hit one of her attendants. They can’t keep her there anymore.”

Ro could not confide till recently that Mom was also spreading feces on the wall.

Delicate, linen-sheathed, Coty-powdered Mom. Heart-crushing.

Doctor visits and tests provide her unsurprising but official diagnosis. Betty travels the curious old path taken by not only by her grandmother, but her Aunt Irene as well: senility, now christened Alzheimer’s.

Ro finds a newly-opened facility designed expressly for such patients. Subdued décor. Quiet, home-like spaces. Nurses in civvies. Coded entry to safeguard wandering patients. We move her over.