15.

HELICOPTER DAUGHTER

Don’t climb on that! You’ll fall and break your neck!

Don’t walk with that! You’ll trip and poke your eye out!

Don’t go downstairs without holding the rail! You’ll slip and crack your skull!

Don’t cross the street without holding my hand! You’ll be run over!

Don’t go outside without a jacket! You’ll catch pneumonia!

Don’t wear socks on the wood floor! Your feet will go out from under you!

Don’t touch the hot pan! You’ll scald yourself!

Don’t walk with scissors! You’ll stab yourself!

Don’t take such a big bite! You’ll choke!

Don’t read in the dark! You’ll go blind!

AND DON’T ROLL YOUR EYES! THEY’LL STICK LIKE THAT!

As exhausting as it is to be a helicopter parent, it’s even worse to be a helicopter daughter. Hovering over a stubborn two-year-old was child’s play compared with hovering over two stubborn ninety-year-olds. Like supervising twins. Cherished, challenging Mom and Dad Twins. They’re bad listeners, both of them. They say NO! to everything. My sisters and I make rules to keep them safe, but as soon as we aren’t looking, our parents do whatever they want.

There’s very little my sisters and I can do except worry when we all live far away in different cities. After our last unproductive visit, we talked many times on the phone and finally agreed on one simple solution that’s helped lots of families. We decided to order an emergency alert call system so Mom and Dad could simply press a button on a pendant if help was needed. My sisters and I cried together, so sad that we’d reached this point in life, but grateful there was something we could do. We pledged our love and support of one another, and then hung up and began our own online research from our own homes.

After way too many hours on our own, squinting at way too many options, reviews, and testimonials, trying to guess which “Number One Bestseller!” would actually get help there in time to help Mom and Dad . . . After all that, my formerly unified sisters and I reemerged as rivals. Came back at each other on a long distance conference call as the opposite of how we started: three exasperated experts on emergency alert systems; three advocates for three completely different ones.

Mom would never wear one that looks like the one you picked!

I spend a lot more time with Mom than you do. I think I know what she’ll wear!

Can I help it if I have a job and kids at home and you’re more free to travel?

I’m busier than you are and I make time! I call every day!

Dad’s not going to wear a necklace! I picked a system with a wristband!

It’s a pendant, not a necklace! You always make things worse than they are!

Me?? You’re the one who ruins everything!

Etcetera.

In our quest to keep Mom and Dad safe, we threw one another under the bus. Every ancient sibling grievance relaunched and magnified by the current grief of knowing Mom and Dad are now at this stage of life. The sadness that should unite us mixed with worry and guilt and all the other things that tangle families up . . . until finally the loudest, bossiest, and most obnoxiously self-righteous sister won.

I enjoyed the thrill of victory for five full seconds before I realized winning meant it was now my job to present the Emergency Call Button System to the Twins. Our beloved, belligerent, noncompliant nonagenarian Mom and Dad Twins.

Which is why I’m sitting at their kitchen table in Florida today with a package hidden under my chair. Outnumbered and all alone.

“Come sit at the table, Mom and Dad!” I call cheerfully. “I have a surprise!”

“WE DON’T WANT ANY SURPRISES!” comes the stereo response from the other end of the house. I forgot they’ve gotten a little sensitive about the S word after the series of “Surprise!” home health care interviewees one of my sisters arranged for Mom and Dad to meet.

“It’s not really a surprise!” I try again. “It’s a gift!”

“WE DON’T WANT ANY GIFTS!” they yell back.

Right. I also forgot the G word was ruined with the “Gift!” of a raised toilet seat my other sister wrapped and had under the tree last Christmas . . . also the “Gift!” of a nice new set of bathroom safety bars the three of us tried to give them for their anniversary.

I need backup. I pull out my phone and start to dial, but who? My sisters are mad at me and my dog never answers when I call. I put the phone away and gather all my grown-up resourcefulness, all my finely honed take-charge life skills. I summon all my strength and steely will and funnel it into one loud wail:

“I NEED HELP!”

It would be total manipulation if it weren’t so true. I do need help. I need my parents to help me take charge of my parents. I hear them drop their guard, just as they’ve always dropped everything to rush to my sisters’ or my aid. As though I’d been stung by a bee just now, not stung by the frustration of trying to be a mom and dad to Mom and Dad.

Dad scurries the length of the house without shoes, socks, knee braces, or his cane. Mom hurries down the hall in slippery slippers, balancing a cup of coffee on top of a stack of newspapers. The sight of so many pending disasters terrifies and empowers me. They need the system I’m about to present to keep them safe. So many, many things could happen when my sisters and I aren’t here.

“What’s wrong??” they ask, coming right up to either side of me, “What can we do??”

I look from one to the other, overwhelmed with love for these amazing people who have spent their lives keeping my sisters, our children, and me safe. Even with pacemakers, hearing aids, hip surgeries, and all the other life-altering events of the last several years, they’re still the guardians of our family. Everyone’s training wheels came off decades ago. Mom and Dad, in every possible way they can, still run alongside all our bikes.

Mom still reads the newspaper with a pair of scissors in one hand so she can cut out articles that might help one of us. She spends days trying to research things on the computer for us, writes long, thoughtful notes of advice by hand if her radar senses someone’s having a problem. Greets us at the door with her sewing kit, file folders full of guidance, and a kitchen full of goodies to help fix anything that might be wrong.

Dad worries about everyone’s tire pressure, every smoke detector battery that needs changing, and every dead bolt that needs tightening. Even now, when we’re old enough to have grown children of our own, he slips a twenty-dollar bill in our hands each time we leave for the airport “just in case,” and will not sleep until we let him know we’re safely home. Even now, in this moment when I’ve come to protect them, they’ve both rushed to protect me.

“Thank you, Mom and Dad,” I say, wiping a not-so-pretend tear from my eye. “Just sit with me. Help me figure something out.”

“Anything!” they say, sitting close, each laying a reassuring hand on my shoulders. “We’ll do anything to help!”

“This is so hard for me . . .” I begin. And now it really is hard. “You’re both so healthy and strong. I know you can handle everything,” I continue, “but . . .” I pull the bag from under my chair and clutch it in my lap.

I take a deep breath. No turning back now. No pretending this moment isn’t what it is. No shirking the responsibility I fought for and won. No not doing what I need to do. I pull the box from the bag, lay it on the table, and blurt out the truth of why I’m here:

“My SISTERS think you need to wear emergency alert call buttons!”

Mom and Dad reel backward with horror. “NO!” they answer in their great big Mom-Dad twin voices.

“Yes!” I say. “Can you believe it?? They think you need help! They made me come here to set up this device and outfit you with call button pendants!”

“NO!” they repeat, leaning away from the box. Leaning so far back in their chairs, I note, they could easily topple over backward and crack their heads on the kitchen floor. And yet . . .

“Yes!” I continue, shaking my head with disbelief and commiseration. “That’s what my SISTERS want! They want you to wear emergency call buttons!”

I look toward Mom and Dad helplessly. Beam inwardly. No longer outnumbered. No longer alone. Mom and Dad lean back in, trying to peek at the nightmare my sisters have sent me to Florida to inflict.

I pull the box toward me, hiding the EZ setup pictures on the label from their view. Ideally I would have had the whole system set up, tested, and working perfectly while they took a nap so I could do my own uncomplicated demonstration. But the twins refused to take a nap earlier and I’m running out of time. I give it another try . . .

“I know how upsetting this is, Mom and Dad,” I say in my most soothing, compassion-filled voice. “Why don’t you both lie down for a little bit and I’ll set it up and we can see how it works?”

“We don’t want to lie down!” they announce, eyes wide open, glaring at the Box.

“You usually take a nap in the afternoon,” I answer. “Go ahead and I’ll—”

“WE DO NOT NEED A NAP!!” they announce more forcefully, eyes flashing at me now.

“How about a snack?” I say, gesturing out of the room. “Sit on the porch with a snack while—”

“NO SNACKS! NO NAPS!”

The twins are turning on me. I wish my sisters were here. I wish they were here instead of me. I need them to navigate this moment. To convince the parents who so proudly still take care of us that they should wear baby monitors around their necks to keep them safe. It was all so logical until I was sitting in the middle of it, and now I can’t stand it. I don’t want Mom and Dad to be old enough to need emergency call buttons. I don’t want to be the one to tell them they’re too fragile to walk down the hall, take a bath, or go to bed without wearing a help device around their necks. I don’t want them to feel humiliated.

I hate that my sisters didn’t have more stamina so one of them would be here instead of me. How am I even related to such lightweights? For once in their lives, couldn’t one of them have been bossier than I was so they would have to be here doing this??!

Now I’m back on the nice solid ground of sibling resentment. It emboldens me to open the box. “My sisters think you need this!” I say pleadingly. “They won’t speak to me if I don’t at least convince you to give it a try!” I see Mom and Dad soften, their eyes fill with compassion. They’ve refereed thousands of sister conflicts. They know I’m stuck in the middle and they want to do anything they can to fix it for me.

I pull the base unit from the box and place it on the counter. They stare. They want to do anything they can to fix it for me—except this.

“DON’T PUT THAT BIG THING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE KITCHEN COUNTER FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE!” they protest.

I unplug their phone from the wall . . .

“DON’T UNPLUG OUR PHONE! WE WON’T BE ABLE TO MAKE CALLS!”

I plug the base unit into the phone jack in the wall . . .

“DON’T PLUG THAT IN THERE! THAT’S WHERE OUR PHONE PLUGS IN!”

I plug the landline into the base unit . . .

“DON’T PLUG OUR PHONE INTO THAT BOX! PEOPLE WILL HEAR ALL OUR CONVERSATIONS!”

I push the button on the base unit to test the connection. A voice comes over the box’s speaker: “Hello. This is the monitoring center. Are you ready to . . .”

Pandemonium ensues. Mom and Dad are on their feet, pointing at the box in alarm: “SOMEONE’S LISTENING! THERE’S A STRANGER LISTENING THROUGH THAT BOX! GET HER OUT OF HERE! UNPLUG THAT THING AND GET IT OUT OF OUR HOUSE!”

How much worse could this possibly get, I think. And so . . . I reach into the shipping package, remove the call button pendants that go with the system, and place one around each parent’s neck.

Much worse, it turns out. It could get much worse.

“I AM NOT WEARING SOME OLD-PERSON CALL BUTTON!”

“I DON’T WANT SOMEONE LISTENING TO ME THROUGH MY SHIRT!”

“GET THIS OFF ME GET THIS OFF ME GET THIS OFF ME!!”

In their effort to pull the pendants off, one or both parents accidentally push the call button, which calls the monitoring station, and in seconds the voice is coming out of the box on their kitchen counter again.

“Hello. This is the monitoring center. We received an emergency call at . . .”

“THE STRANGER’S BACK!” Mom and Dad yell. “GET HER OUT OF OUR KITCHEN! WE ARE NOT WEARING THESE NECKLACES! WE DO NOT WANT THAT LADY IN OUR KITCHEN!”

Pendants are flung on the table. Dad yanks the monitoring box cord out of the wall. Mom grabs the box and tries to stuff it back in the shipping package.

I wait for the chaos to stop, the twins to sit, and blood pressures to stabilize.

It takes a while, but when it finally feels safe, I start all over in a nice calm voice. “Millions of people have this system, Mom and Dad,” I say. “It could be a great comfort to you! With the pendants on, you can press the button to get help any time you need it. If you fall and can’t press the button, it will sense you’ve fallen and will send help!”

For a second, I think they’re silent because they actually are comforted. And then we’re off again . . .

“THE BUTTON KNOWS WHAT I’M DOING? I’M NOT WEARING A BUTTON THAT WATCHES EVERYTHING I’M DOING!”

“No, no!” I say. “It only knows if you’ve fallen! If you can’t get up or are unconscious, it calls the paramedics!”

They stop and stare.

“If we’re unconscious, how will the paramedics get in?” they ask.

“We’ll have a lockbox outside your house with a key in it,” I answer.

“WHAT?? NO! WE ARE NOT LEAVING A KEY OUTSIDE FOR STRANGERS TO COME WALTZING IN! IF THERE’S AN EMERGENCY, WE’LL DIAL 911 AND LET THE PARAMEDICS IN OURSELVES!!”

“How will you dial 911 if you’re unconscious?” I ask, my benevolent caregiver patience wearing thin.

They look at me as if I’m the illogical one.

“We’ll dial 911 before we become unconscious!” Dad exclaims. “Honestly, honey! You worry too much!”

I try to regroup. Meanwhile Mom gets up, turns the front burner of the stove on high without putting a pan of anything on it, and walks into the next room looking for something or other. I turn to Dad to point out the fire hazard Mom just created, but Dad’s leaning forward in his chair to pick up packing material that dropped when I opened the shipping box and is on the verge of losing his balance and toppling on his head. I scan the room like I used to for my toddler—like a “What’s Wrong with This Picture?” puzzle—and see danger everywhere. Throw rugs with the edges curled up. Pointy table corners. Open staircase. Heavy things on upper shelves. Sharp knives way too close to the edge of the counter. A stack of old magazines on the floor exactly where someone could slide on it.

The twins are both on their feet now, going about their business. Defiant. Determined. Oblivious to all the potential disasters that are so clear to me. The qualities that have kept them so full of life, curiosity, and independence are the same ones that drive my sisters and me insane with worry. But so far no one’s tripped, slipped, fallen, broken a neck, cracked a skull, poked out an eye, or gotten scalded, stabbed, choked, or electrocuted. They’ve done an amazing job of taking care of our family, themselves, and each other without my sisters and me hovering.

I know I need to take a big breath and a little step backward. As much as my sisters and I want to protect them, the best thing we can do to help Mom and Dad stay strong and capable is to let them continue being Mom and Dad. As horrible as we’d feel if something happened when we weren’t guarding against every possible accident, we need to let them be in charge of how and where they live while they’re still so able.

And so I resist the urge to run in front of Dad with pillows in case he falls. I don’t hover over Mom each time she goes near an appliance. When they see me relax a little, I feel them relax. When I quit trying to be the boss, they take over, helping me do what I came to do. As soon as I stop trying to parent them, they resume being the parents helping me. Amazingly, by the time they’re ready to take a nap, they agree to keep the monitoring system call box on the kitchen counter “for now.” Mom shoves it behind the toaster “where no one can see it” with a dish towel over it “so no one can see us!” . . . but it’s there. They also agree to keep their emergency call button pendants. Mom’s keeping hers in her sweater drawer, Dad’s keeping his on a hook in his closet with his neckties. “We’ll run and get them if we have an emergency!” he says, giving me a little hug. “So you never have to worry!”

This is not at all what I expected when I came on this mission. This day, which was plotted as a way for my sisters and me to take care of Mom and Dad, has become, instead, a way for Mom and Dad to take care of my sisters and me. They’re not letting the emergency call system stay in the house because they think it will make them more safe. They’re letting it stay here because it will make us feel more safe. They understand the comfort we’ll have knowing they have a way to call for help, even if the call buttons are buried in their drawers and closets. This is Mom and Dad at their finest, tucking their girls in at night, making sure we have less worry and much better dreams.

I watch them walk back down the hall to their bedroom. Dad still without shoes, socks, knee braces, or his cane. Mom still in slippery slippers, this time balancing a pitcher of bedside water on top of three library books. But they’re okay. I smile because I will have better dreams tonight.

I pull out my phone. There’s a long line of text messages waiting from both sisters:

How’d it go? . . . Are you okay? . . . I’m so sorry for what I said! . . . I feel terrible that you’re there by yourself! . . . Please let me know what happened! . . . You’re the best!

I sit at the table. Feel a big wave a relief. All is forgiven. My sisters and I will recover from this, just as we’ve recovered from many things before. We have to. We have lots still ahead of us and are going to need each other.

I need my sisters now. Need to unload this day and everything I newly understand. Need to pour my heart out to them, tell them how important they are to me. I pick up my phone and smile. Then I type the three special little words that say it all:

“IT’S YOUR TURN.”