When you stop laughing at that television commercial with the old lady on the floor yelling, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” because your mother spends more time on the floor than on her feet, it might be time to get Mom some help. If your mother invites you to cuddle with her in bed and not in a normal mother-son way but in a Greek-tragedy way, it might be time to get Mom some help. It was, and we did.
Tag Archives: Eldercare
“Be Patient”
After Mom woke up, my sister asked, “Did God talk to you?”
Mom nodded.
“What did He say?”
“Be patient”
Or was it my dad, who died 14 years earlier, telling her not to rush?
A Cup of Tea on the Commode,
a son’s multitasking adventures caring for his mom and surviving to tell the tale.
“The Call” Book Teaser
When the call came
Two lives changed
His carefree bachelor life ended
She decided to wake up.
And their journey began.
A Cup of Tea on the Commode,
a son’s multitasking adventures caring for his mom and surviving to tell the tale.
Mum’s the Word (excerpt)
Mom’s uncle, William, never married, had no children, and lived with his mother until her death. Writing this, I realize the irony as I too never married, have no children, and lived with my mother until… damn, did I just ruin the ending of this book? Sorry. Anyway, William had issues, profound issues. I am, on the other hand, perfectly fine, thank you very much. Okay, back to William. Apparently, he couldn’t come to terms with the loss of his mother. Again, I am fine. So, he decided to leave this earth early, on his terms, perhaps comforted by the thought of reuniting with her in Heaven. On second thought, a Catholic committing suicide is a mortal sin and therefore bound to spend eternity in hell. So, there’s that. Third thought, he never considered the second thought.
Does Wiping Butt Cause Amnesia?
To boost Mom’s spirits and to keep her socially active, Michael signed her up for Senior Connections. Though it sounded more like a dating site, the only dating happening there was of the expiration kind. Most members played cards or competitive bingo, all—day—long. Some sat in front of the television as Wheel of Fortune droned on at ear-piercing volume. Others just drooled while dozing off in a corner. The slogan “Misery loves company” would all but guarantee a steady stream of customers, forever. Mom put up with it five days a week by gravitating toward the rare “with it” members. For her, it served as a welcome diversion from the Tweedles.
Genevieve’s Warehouse (excerpt)
Providing for six kids required shopping, lots of shopping. While Ridgewood offered several upscale clothing stores within walking distance, the real bargains were just a short drive away. The Garden State Plaza, the Fashion Center, Paramus and Bergen Malls, as well as several New York City designer outlets—in less than designer locations—all beckoned. If and when jonesing for a sweet deal, she could score relief in minutes. It was all too tempting for Mom and her addiction.
The UPC Label Mystery
Mom’s obsession with Universal Product Codes began years ago after discovering if she collected enough and mailed them in—along with a substantial check—a beautiful “Collector’s Item” awaited at the end of the UPC rainbow. That’s all she needed to hear. So, throughout our house, whenever we opened a bag, a box, a bottle, a jar or can, all we heard was, “Save the label. Save the label.”
Just the Two of Us
‘Twas the night before Christmas… No, ’twas the night of Christmas. The first without Dad. Or the second. Sorry, things got hazy in the aftermath of his passing. I flew in from Los Angeles to spend the holidays with my mother in New Jersey where it was bitter cold outside, and warm and toasty inside. Just as it should be this time of year. In LA, it’s quite often the opposite. Mom’s house was decorated as usual, the tree, the Nativity scene, the stockings. Even with one less this Noël, they still crowded the fireplace. But there were none of her mouth-watering cookies. No homemade apple, cherry, or pumpkin pies. I guess it was too soon to embrace the new normal.
Genevieve’s Vision
On a crisp, sunny spring morning, a merry band of well-dressed young children parades down Emmett Place, looking like they’ve just escaped Mass at Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Some skip, a few hopscotch, others weave, but most march in unison. The girls—hair in pigtails, ponytails, or pixie cuts—wear frilly white dresses, white lace socks, and patent-leather shoes. All carry flowers: a single stem or bouquet. The boys sport combed hair, dress pants, shiny black shoes, and starched white shirts neatly tucked in. Neckties are the norm, but a couple flaunt their individuality with bow ties. Each lad clutches a string anchoring a brightly colored balloon bobbing to and fro in the wind. The entire procession appears to be from an innocent time long past. As the parade rounds the cul-de-sac and approaches the second house from the end, each child turns, smiles, and waves toward a window on the first floor.
Inside, beyond the billowy curtains, propped up in a hospital bed, sits a frail, ninety-two-year-old Genevieve. Her kind eyes dance with delight as she waves to the children. It’s uncertain whether she knows any of them, but that doesn’t matter. What does is the long-absent and much-needed joy these children seem to bring her.
The last girl, holding a single daisy, stops and beckons Genevieve to join the parade. Amused and tempted, Genevieve chuckles for a moment before a wave of sadness erases her smile. Her eyes drift to an old black-and-white photo hanging on the front wall. In it, a young girl with a soft brown bob that frames her cherubic face. She, too, wears a frilly white dress, white lace socks, and patent-leather shoes, and holds a posy of daisies.
If You Rebuild It, They Will Return (excerpt)
The rebuilding phase began with daily trips to the—luckily not so far from home—Home Depot. As a special treat for Mom, I always stopped by McDonald’s for a berry smoothie. And though she always requested their latest “Collectable” trinket, the smoothie was all she got. Lucky for me, her disappointment melted with her first slurp of the chilly delight. While her lips never left the flexible straw, her curious eyes followed me back and forth as I carried load after load of materials down to the basement. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I’m redoing the basement.” She furrowed her brow. “Who’s paying for all that?” “You are,” I said. And every trip to Home Depot sparked the same conversation.