AS SOON AS I LANDED at the Miami airport the next day, I called my friend Kate and asked if I could swing by on my way home.
“I need your advice about my mom,” I said.
Kate, a nurse with a master’s degree in public administration and a doctorate in leadership education, had been written up in the local paper for her work in end-of-life care—but mostly, she was my trusted friend and confidant. When I arrived at her house, she made tea, and we sat at the huge butcher block island in her kitchen, a place where I had cooked and eaten and cried before. I filled her in on the trip to New Bern and my conversation with Mom the night before.
“I’m afraid she’s going to back out,” I said.
“Mel, I keep telling you, you have to get a professional involved—a doctor, a social worker. Somebody other than you and Barbara to tell her she’s going to have to move.”
“I keep thinking she’ll come around. She’s always been so sensible.”
“It’s way too scary for her.”
I took a sip of my tea and added a little more honey.
“Why can’t she just trust us?” I moaned.
“It’s not about trust. It’s about fear. She doesn’t want to leave her familiar cocoon, even though she’s outgrown—or, more accurately—outlived it.”
A few days later, I talked to Mom. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she was waffling about McCarthy Court. She listed the same reasons I’d heard before—she didn’t really need to be anywhere else; she liked it where she was; it would be too hard to move.
“How will I get to New Bern?” she whined. “And anyway, if I need help, I can hire someone right here in New Port Richey.”
I took a deep breath and reached back to pet the cat, who was sharing my office chair and cuddling up against my back.
“Mom, I know this is hard, but honestly, I think it’s the best option.”
I reiterated that Barbara and I were too far away from New Port Richey, and that we would take care of all the moving. I reminded Mom how perfect McCarthy Court was.
The cat moved, and I edged her onto my lap. “It isn’t going to get any easier to make this move,” I said. “You have to be tough. I promise, Barbara and I will make it all as easy as possible.”
“I don’t know, Mel. I just don’t think I can do it.”
Please don’t make me come over there and take this out of your hands, I thought. In my head, I sounded like a parent warning a misbehaving child with “Don’t make me come in there.” I had always thought of it as a threat, but now I understood that it was a plea: Please don’t make me be mean. Please be good. Please be my smart, capable mom again.
“Alright, Mom, but think about it some more. We still have a few days before the payment is due. I really think you’ll be happy there.”
When I called Mom two days later, she told me she had discussed it with Lenore.
“I decided to do it, even though I’m scared. I sent the check this morning.”
Yes! I thought. I punched my left hand into the air to signal a win, and sent a silent word of thanks to Lenore.
“That’s great,” I said.
“We’ll see,” she replied.
After I hung up the phone, I stared out my office window at some seagulls dive-bombing the water where my neighbor had tossed out breadcrumbs. I tried to put myself in Mom’s place—leaving friends and her home of thirty-five years. I wished I could do the I Dream of Jeannie blink and instantly transport Mom and all her belongings from New Port Richey to New Bern. I wished Mom had a pussycat like mine to comfort her.
I let Barbara know that the check was on its way. She said she would call Diane to fill her in. I encouraged her to call Mom in a day or so.
About a week later, Diane called Barbara. The check and paperwork had not arrived.
“Give it another day or two,” I said when Barbara called me.
I questioned Mom, and she assured me she had sent everything to Diane—but two more days went by, and nothing had arrived at McCarthy Court. Now we were past the deadline. Barbara told Diane that Mom definitely wanted the apartment, and she agreed to hold it for another week.
“What in the hell?” I said on the phone with Barbara.
“Maybe she got the wrong address.”
“Damn. I think I’ll have to go over there, figure this out, and get another check in the mail. I’ll go this weekend. Damn.”
I called Mom, and told her I had just set up a meeting with a colleague at Hospice of the Florida Suncoast for Monday. It was a lie. I told her I’d be coming over on Sunday to spend two nights.
“Oh, good,” she said. “I love it when you stay here.”
I didn’t tell her that the check had not made it to McCarthy Court. I figured I’d deal with it when I got there.
I arrived at Mom’s condo around noon. We shared a turkey sandwich and an apple. It had only been a few weeks since our trip to New Bern, but she looked smaller to me.
“Mom, have you lost weight?”
“Maybe. I’m not very hungry these days.”
“You have to eat,” I said. I decided to make a big pot of lentil soup for dinner. I thought the smell of food might perk up her appetite. I’d freeze the leftovers for her to have during the week.
Mom and I went to Publix together to get the lentils and other things I needed for the soup. I also picked up the ingredients for a beef stew, some frozen Stouffer’s Swedish meatballs, and some whole-milk yogurt. I wanted to be sure that Mom had nutritious—even fattening—food around.
Once I’d put the soup together, I joined Mom in the sunroom to watch a movie—Notting Hill was on. We’d both seen it before, but the cheerful romance was perfect for the day. As it ended, I pushed the mute button on the remote.
“Mom, we’re going to have to send another check to McCarthy Court. The one you sent never arrived.”
“What?”
“It never arrived. It must have gotten lost in the mail.”
“Oh, Mel, this is so hard. I want to be strong, but there’s so much to do. My place isn’t even up for sale.”
“I know. But I’m here now.” I could see that she really needed me to be strong. I told her I would call the bank and cancel the first check. Then we’d send another.
“And I’ll call Judy, the real estate agent, about getting the condo on the market. Please try not to worry,” I said.
“But what about your meeting?”
“It was cancelled,” I lied, then quickly followed with a version of the truth. “Anyway, I really wanted to see you.”
We were both ready for our glass of wine. I put out cheese and crackers, and made sure Mom ate some.
The next day, Mom and I sat at the table in the sunroom. I filled out the extra set of papers we had for McCarthy Court, and Mom signed them. I watched her write out the check in her now-wobbly handwriting. I put everything in the FedEx package I’d prepared using my business account. I wasn’t going to let this one get lost.
“Okay, now we need to make some copies,” I said.
“We can do it at the condo office,” Mom said.
“Perfect,” I said. “We can stop there, and then drop off the package on the way to lunch.”
Mom folded her hands on the table.
“Melly, I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“It’s okay, Mom. But this is good decision. Really, it is.” I took her hand and squeezed it.
I called Keith’s wife, Judy. Keith was Mom and Daddy’s longtime financial planner, currently with Smith-Barney. Mom always referred to Keith and his partner, Rick, as “the boys,” and she thought of them as extended family. Because of Mom and Daddy’s special relationship with Keith, I knew Judy would be the right agent to sell Mom’s condo. She said there was no rush to get the condo on the market if Mom wasn’t going to move until July. She thought we should wait a bit. I asked her to prepare some information on other sales so we could start thinking about price.
Mom and I went out to a local coffee shop for lunch, after making our copies and dropping the package in the FedEx outgoing box. Mom ordered a BLT, and I had a salad. She ate very little, and I did most of the talking. Back at the condo, Mom napped while I made beef stew for dinner.
Over our evening wine and cheese, I talked to Mom about my schedule. I could see how fragile she was, and I wanted to come back soon. I was going to Washington, D.C. for the annual conference of the National Hospice and Palliative Care Organization (NHPCO) in about week. I went every year—and that year, 2007, I was giving two presentations. I told her I would come back to visit her the week after the meeting.
“Are you sure you can do that?” she asked in a way that sounded like a plea.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “Now, let’s have some stew.”
The NHPCO conference was held at the Omni Shoreham, a historic hotel built in 1930. When I was a kid, Mom and Daddy would sometimes go to the hotel’s famed Blue Room to see Tom Lehrer, or a jazz quartet. In the early 2000s, the Shoreham was acquired by the Omni chain, but it still had the elegant look and feel of a grand hotel. I studied the hallway displays of menus from celebrity dinners, entertainment programs for the Blue Room, and photos of the clientele.
When I arrived for the meeting, the small garden out front was wall-to-wall blooming tulips surrounding a dogwood tree in full flower. It was a spectacular show. I took a photo on my iPhone to show Mom.
The conference was great. I always looked forward to connecting with colleagues from around the country. Barbara called it “hobnobbing with my fellow wizards,” quoting from The Wizard of Oz. Between the beautiful spring weather, my successful presentations, and the fact that Mom was set to go to North Carolina, I was feeling better than I had in weeks—maybe months. The last day of the conference, after the morning plenary session, I found a seat in the lobby and called Mom. I planned to tell her about the flowers and how the Shoreham reminded me of her, all dressed up in her tea-colored lace cocktail dress to go out with Daddy.
“Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”
“Not so good, Mel.”
I felt my good mood evaporate and my stomach clench.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do it, Mel. I can’t go to New Bern.”
“Mom, I thought we had made this decision.”
“I know, but I can’t. I really think I’ll be all right here.”
Right there, in the beautiful lobby of the Shoreham hotel, I was crying. I didn’t care if anyone saw me. In fact, I wished someone would come over and offer to help. I needed help, and after all, I was surrounded by all that hospice compassion—but no one seemed to notice.
“Mom, we’ve already been over this. You need to be nearer to one of us.”
“I know, but it’s just too hard.”
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.”