8.

CAREGIVER STANDOFF AT THE ICE CREAM PARLOR

Some families spend summer weekends at their cottage on a lake.

Some go on annual retreats to a mountain lodge.

Some picnic under a favorite tree in the neighborhood park.

Beloved places and traditions that anchor a family in memories and one another . . .

Our family comes here.

Dad welcomes my two sisters and me with a sweeping gesture and a proud voice, as he does each time we visit this place—as if he’s pointing out the captain and first mate deck chairs on a family sailboat.

“I’ll be there, and Mom will be right there!” he announces.

But Dad isn’t gesturing toward deck chairs. There’s no boat. We’re standing at the ultimate eternal vacation destination: the Family Plot.

“Um . . . nice, Dad!” one sister says, looking down at the big blank double patch of grass between other people’s headstones with all the appreciation she’s learned to muster from our previous hundred visits to the plot.

“Such a pretty place,” the other sister echoes on cue, but looking up at the trees, not down at the grass under which Dad is so enthusiastically reminding us he and Mom will be planted.

They’ve been bringing us here for years, so we’re more than a little numb to the emotion of it. We know it’s a great comfort to them to have their affairs in order. Even more, we know it’s a comfort to them to know it will be a comfort for us to have everything in order. We understand that’s why they’ve not only made us visit this place, but the Whole Situation, over and over. They’ve thought of everything, arranged everything; planned for the end of life the same way people plan a wedding.

“Can we go home now?” the third sister—that would be me—mumbles.

“No need!” our joyful mom answers. “I brought the Folder in the car so we can stop for ice cream and review the details!”

Most people do some kind of end-of-life planning, but this is abnormal, I think, as our family gets situated at the large round umbrella table outside an ice cream shop in Sarasota, Florida, where we come after every plot visit. Dad with the double scoop of butter pecan ice cream he always orders, Mom with the modest scoop of raspberry sherbet she always has, my sisters and me with great big bowls of all the flavors of “we do not want to talk about this again.” In the middle of the table, next to the tidy stack of extra napkins Mom always remembers to pick up, is the Folder—containing their neatly organized last wishes, cell phone number of the priest, funeral instructions, headstone inscriptions, drafts of their obituaries, the location of important records, donation preferences, and much more.

Dad’s specific requests, like Dad, are exuberant, detailing lists of invitees and people to notify; noting that Milky Way candy bars and chocolate milkshakes should be served at the reception following his funeral. Mom’s requests, like Mom, are reserved: one Bible verse, one short poem, and one “FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE DO NOT WASTE YOUR PERFECTLY GOOD MONEY ON A PARTY FOR ME WHEN I’M GONE! ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTO BOARD FULL OF PICTURES!” written in such large type it fills up a whole page.

Mom and Dad met at Kent State in their freshman year. Mom was a quiet first-generation college student from an Eastern European immigrant community in Cleveland. An earnest journalism major, with a love of books, ballet, opera, and art. Deeply devoted to her family and community, Mom took a bus home most weekends to help her parents in the small neighborhood restaurant/bar they owned. Dad was a song and dance man, creator and star of Kent State theater productions, part of a well-known local two-man comedy team—Guisewite & Mouse—and president of his class. He swept Mom off her demure little feet, just like in the movies. And here they are a lifetime later, just like in the movies. Mom’s graciousness and Dad’s gregariousness blended somehow into a team that has ushered my sisters and me through life with a way of looking at almost everything with hope and humor.

This explains why the dreaded grief-filled Folder that’s lying in the middle of the ice cream parlor table in front of us is labeled “The Grand Finale!” in cheery bright red pen. As though it contains the program for a thrilling event, not the details for one of the most dreaded ones. Details our parents have meticulously planned so my sisters and I will never have the wrenching experience of not knowing what to do because no one could stand to discuss it.

After a few bites of sherbet, Mom puts down her spoon, picks up the folder, and begins the familiar review for my sisters and me.

“Do NOT let them talk you into an upgraded casket!” she proclaims. We’ve heard this speech so many times, we could recite it in unison. “We’ve prepaid for cheap ones! Nice, basic, cheap! Don’t let them prey upon your emotions and talk you into something with a bunch of frills we don’t want!”

“We will not care how the casket looks after we’ve croaked!” Dad adds. “Also, don’t let some overeager funeral director convince you to spring for an expensive celebration-of-life venue! No kickbacks to fancy caterers and florists! The church social hall is just fine!”

“But not for me!” Mom reminds us, flipping to her No Party page. “Remember: Under no circumstances is there to be a big party for me!”

“Of course they’ll have a party for you! Your girls love you!” Dad counters, as he always does.

“My instructions clearly state NO PARTY!” Mom replies, as she always does, waving the page in the air. “I will NOT stand for a party!”

“Well, you won’t be standing, but if I’m still here, there’s going to be a party for you! A beautiful party with pictures and a video!” he insists with a charming song-and-dance-man grin, reaching over to give his bride a loving squeeze.

“NO!” Mom protests, waving her page more vigorously in the air. “NO PICTURES! NO VIDEOS! NO MAUDLIN SONGS! Absolutely no sneaking around behind my dead body!”

This devolves into the regular discussion of which one of them is likely to “croak” first . . .

Which devolves into a new round of promises that the sisters will listen to the wishes of the deceased parent, not the wishes of the non-deceased one . . .

Which wraps up, finally, in a long, long, long review of where every single piece of paper pertaining to anything important is located. Followed by a rereading of their wills and powers of attorney. Followed by the whispered verification that we’ve all memorized the location of every hidden key as well as the secret combination to their safe, which contains duplicate copies of everything we’ve just discussed for the hundredth time . . .

My sisters and I come to Florida often to visit Mom and Dad. We usually come separately so we can have our own time with them, but also so our trips will be spaced out and there won’t be long periods with no one seeing how they’re doing. They’re both amazingly healthy, but every birthday makes us more nervous to live so far away. We had a sister conference recently and decided to make this visit together so we could bring our own uncomfortable topic to the ice cream table. We rehearsed how to present it with the flair and good nature we learned from our parents. Surely these optimistic, pragmatic people, who have so carefully planned for everything, who are so open to discussing all the icky topics, will appreciate what we want to do just as we appreciate all they do to protect us.

Mom is tucking the last pages of their end-of-life review back into the Grand Finale! folder. I exchange a nod with my sisters, open my oversize purse, and pull out a folder the three of us have prepared.

“You’re doing so beautifully, Mom and Dad,” one sister begins.

“You’ve thought of everything for us, and now we’ve thought of something for you!” the other sister continues.

“And now,” I say, proudly, holding up our folder labeled in an equally cheery bright red pen, “we present ‘The Next Adventure!’”

Mom and Dad go blank. Before I can stop him, Dad plucks the folder from my hand and pulls out one of the several pamphlets inside.

“Assisted-living facility?” he asks, staring at the pamphlet, looking as stunned as he sounds.

“No, no, Dad!” I answer, trying to speak with even more lilt in my voice. “Let’s think of it as the Next Adventure!”

“Graduated care community??” Mom asks, sounding equally stunned as she picks a different pamphlet out of the folder.

“It’s nothing you need today, but things could start to change, and we think it’s time to plan for the Next Adventure!” I whip my head toward my sisters, silently imploring them for backup. “Don’t we??” My sisters are useless. Caught off guard and struck mute by our parents’ bad reaction. Either that or they’re simply relieved that I, not they, have the floor and are happy to let me flounder on my own.

I try to summon the inner resolve I had when I was preparing my daughter for the beautiful life changes that awaited her, but I’m no match for the parental unit. Mom’s ninety years of experience have somehow enabled her to achieve a geriatric glare and a preteen stink-eye at the same time, so it’s as though both my mother and my daughter are staring at me through the same face.

I wince and look at Dad, which is even worse. World War II Veteran, Eagle Scout, Man of the House, Rock of the Family, Provider Extraordinaire, Protector and Defender of Everyone.

“What do you think we can’t handle in our own home?” Superman asks flatly.

“Um . . . it’s just that you and Mom have worked so hard taking care of a big house by yourselves your whole lives,” I try. “It might be wonderful to live someplace where you could have some help now.”

“We don’t need help,” he answers curtly.

“It could be fun to look at some options.” One sister finally rallies and opens a pamphlet on the table.

“We don’t want options,” Mom answers without even glancing down.

I look at the pretty pamphlet my sister spread out. It’s logical and colorful and uncomplicated by emotion. The residents in it are happily doing group craft projects in one shot, gratefully hugging the children who helped them relocate into such a nice safe place in another. So easy. So worry-free. So not how our situation is unfolding.

“There are so many resources for older people!” My other sister comes to life and accidentally blurts out the worst possible thing.

Without a word, Mom stands, gathers everyone’s trash, marches inside the ice cream shop with it, returns with a squirt bottle of multisurface cleaner and paper towels, and cleans the tabletop. Dad rises from his chair without any of his usual effort, his arthritic back, knees, and hips suddenly as strong and flexible as a young man’s. He grips his Grand Finale! folder in front of him across the table from where I grip our Next Adventure! folder. We stare at each other’s cheery bright red words.

Caregiver standoff at the ice cream parlor.

And then our dear parental units, who’ve spent the last twenty years preparing themselves and us for the end of life, who’ve made us sit through hours of agonizing reviews, who’ve hauled us to the Plot . . . Those beloved college sweethearts head back to the handicapped spot in which their car is parked and make their discussion-ending victory statement over their shoulders:

“We’ll get back to you when we’re older.”