Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Decision, part three

At age 77, Leta once again began to plan for her future. She lived alone on the second floor of a duplex. Her niece had been living on the first floor, but since her nephew-in-law had recently passed away, her niece was in the early stages of moving in with a daughter. Leta’s own daughter Vivian was behaving as if she was more and more responsible for her care, even though she was fairly healthy and strong. Still, she wore herself out by simply keeping her house clean, and Leta did not want to burden Vivian or her son as her physical capabilities declined.

Instead, with Vivian’s assistance, she would relocate to a senior residence. For the most part, Leta understood that these were like hospitals for the elderly to live out their final days, but they had specifically selected those that provided a variety of activities for the residents who were mobile and had their wits about them. Although she was almost always tired, Leta had no intention or crawling into bed for the rest of her life.

After making a list of potential places, Leta and Vivian began their visits. First on the list were the two Lutheran-based homes near Vivian’s. Vivian, her husband Ed and family were Lutheran, and when she went to church, Leta attended a different Lutheran parish where she could walk. However, one of the prospective locations was too costly and the other was poorly maintained.

They expanded their search, including a couple of residences some distance from where Vivian lived. Although one seemed very suitable, the travel time unsettled Leta. While she understood that Vivian would be performing necessary actions, such as taking her to doctor’s appointments or clothes shopping, and also be visiting regularly, she did not want to be so far away that her existence would become a burden to her busy and dutiful daughter.  She also wanted to be close enough so that her granddaughter-in-law and great-grandchildren would be able to visit.

Finally, they settled on a relatively new facility close to Vivian’s home. The single story building was completed only three years earlier and located on a large tract of land across the street from the city’s 190-acre park.  The rooms contained two beds, and featured round-the-clock care. All meals were served in the dining room, and there were several lounges and three outdoor patio or garden areas. Since Leta liked to walk, these were particularly enticing.

Nonetheless, there were two complications. First, there was a waiting list, and Leta would be twentieth on it. Second, the institution was owned and operated by the Little Sisters of the Poor, a Roman Catholic order of nuns. While the admissions director and the Mother Superior/Administrator assured Leta and Vivian that the home was open to Protestants as well as Roman Catholics, a significant amount of mild local prejudice and historic precedent sent a contrary message.

With Leta’s name on the waiting list and little expectation, they continued their pursuit of an alternative, even reviewing the previous Lutheran facilities. Finally, after two months of searching and planning, they reluctantly settled on a Methodist residence in Toledo, at least religiously more comfortable, and near the University of Toledo, an area Leta had lived for several years. However, the residence was a distance for both of her children to travel.

“Ma,” Vivian said after the admissions director telephoned Vivian to tell them that there was an opening for Leta, “this is a good offer.”

“But it’s so far to drive, Vivian,” Leta protested.

“Not really,” Vivian assured her. “The expressway will take me right out there. It’s pretty easy.”

“I am concerned that it will be so many trips. You like to stay in the East Side.”

“Yes, but I can drive out there. Sometimes we drive out there just to eat.”

However, Leta still felt that the driving would be too much for her daughter. While she was doing well, she could go without seeing her daughter for a week at least, but what would happen when she became ill or infirm. She would need Vivian there, and the strain might become unbearable.

“When do we have to answer?” Leta finally asked.

“I asked for a day,” Vivian answered.

“That’s all?”

“Ma, we already half-committed.”

“Yes, of course,” Leta said and went silent. Her mind was in turmoil. “I’m tired,” she said. “Will you take me home now?”

That night she tried to sleep, but she tossed and turned. Even turning on the radio failed to quiet her anxiety. She spent much of the time arguing with herself. Why was she so anxious about this? Now that an opportunity, a good opportunity, had presented itself, was she actually afraid of going into the nursing home when she wasn’t ready? That she would age faster there with all of those old people? Vivian said she would drive. And her son Dale had called later that evening to encourage her to make the move, assuring her that he, too, would visit regularly, and take her where she needed to go.

But still she resisted.


To be continued.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Decision, part two

This was not the first time that Leta and her daughter Vivian talked about a potential change in living arrangements in her later years. They had started when Vivian’s father, Leta’s ex-husband Ralph, became ill two years previously. He had no plan for his care, relying entirely on their daughter, as he had done when his mother became ill years earlier. After all, Vivian was already visiting twice a week to make sure his house and clothes were clean and he had enough to eat. She was even managing his finances. During his final months, even after Vivian had relocated him to a senior care facility, the wear on their daughter was palpable. Leta knew then and there that she would not burden her daughter that way.

Now it was late winter, nearly a year after Ralph’s death, and Leta decided it was time for her to make her own arrangements. Aside from some aches and pains and a growing inability to perform some tasks, she was still feeling fine and in her full mind, but she knew that this could change suddenly. She was nearly 78 years old. One of her older sisters had fallen in her home one morning and was not found until two days later, dehydrated and in terrible condition. This was not how she wanted to live.

Vivian arrived in the late morning with a handful of brochures for them to review. Having known several people that had moved into a variety of local senior residences, they had already eliminated several and had several potential locations on their minds.

After a couple of cups of coffee and some focused conversation, Leta and Vivian devised a plan that included a rearrangement of finances and a short list of places to visit. Although Leta would be in charge of her own future, her decision-making would be made outside of any conversation with admissions representatives and facility directors. Vivian would make all the public decisions, including phone calls and appointments. They were not trying to be deceptive, but protective. This would be quite emotional, and Vivian was a far more composed individual.

In the meantime, they would reorganize Leta’s finances. Although she was not wealthy by any means, Leta has managed to set aside funds to support herself in her later years. She had a small pension from the insurance company where she worked for ten years and, of course, social security. This was in addition to her savings and several savings bonds she had been carrying for years. As the standard rule was that new senior care residents basically turned over their income and assets to the facility to pay for their care, Leta wanted to create a separate fund for her own personal needs until she passed away.  As Vivian stood to inherit, anyway, the two of them devised a plan to create a separate bank account in Vivian and her brother Dale’s names that would serve as Leta’s personal money during her time at the facility.

“I don’t want to be broke,” Leta declared firmly. “I’ve been broke and I’ve been poor, and now I’m too old for it.”

“That’s fine, Ma,” Vivian agreed.

“And as good as these places may be, I am not about to give them everything!” Leta concluded.


To be continued.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

The Decision, part one

Leta looked out of the window on the gray spring morning. Although her apartment was warm and cozy, her bones ached. This always happened when a day of damp followed a clear one. She also ached because she had spent the past two sunny days doing her spring cleaning. This annual ritual included everything from washing the drapes to scrubbing the walls to hand washing all of the bric-a-brac on her tables and shelves. She wanted her entire home to be fresh and clean, which it was.

Still, the strenuous exercise and the change in the weather afflicted her. She stood stiffly in the kitchen while the coffee perked. She had recently purchased a bag of oranges from a Mexican fellow on the corner and had intended to squeeze herself a glass to go with her toast and coffee, but she had neither the strength nor the ambition. Instead, she just wanted to take a couple of Bayer aspirin and sip her coffee.

Perhaps she had done too much. When she was younger, spring cleaning energized her. She had fond memories of rousing her children, stripping their beds and putting them all to work to refresh their home after the long winter. But now at age 75, it not only took longer, but also wore her out for a couple of days afterwards.

Her daughter Vivian offered to clean, as she had been doing for her ailing father, Leta’s first husband, for several years, but Leta refused. Not only did Vivian have her own spring cleaning, but also what kind of woman couldn’t clean her own home? It was only a small four-room apartment, including the bathroom. If she couldn’t manage that, then she might as well throw in the towel.

The coffee helped. She liked sipping it when it was piping hot and nearly scalding her tongue. The sharp pinch in her throat as the beverage went down warmed her from the lungs out. The aspirin also helped. She considered taking three, which always made her feel better, but the doctor had warned her that her blood was thin and aspirin would not be beneficial.

The drizzle started while she was chewing on her toast. She buttered it first and then applied the raspberry jam that her daughter had made. She liked how the butter softened the rough toast before applying the sweet fruit. Vivian had taken extra care to remove the seeds. Both of them wore dentures. The discomfort of a wayward raspberry seed or two could cause discomfort for a long time. Still, her mood darkened, and the little voice of reason, the one she repressed on a regular basis, rose in her head, and she knew that it was time to make the decision she had been putting off for some time.

A little later, when she knew her son-in-law had gone to work, and Vivian would be home alone, she telephoned.

“Vivian,” she said, “it’s time.”

To be continued.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Independence Day

Grandma Eckman hated fireworks with a passion.  “What a waste of money and energy and time,” she said as often as she thought someone was listening, and even then, I think she said it sometimes as a spontaneous outburst that she couldn’t hold in.  She never explained why she felt that way, and I am not sure anyone ever asked her.

My father believed that the reason was connected to an experience she had a long time ago with a Chinese door-to-door salesman who she believed gypped her by selling her a set of fireworks that didn’t work at all. She had wanted to surprise her children during a time when they were struggling financially, splurged and then after their simple Independence Day meal, when the three of them were on the front porch at dusk, the sparklers that she had purchased failed to light. The entire neighborhood was witness to the failure, and according to Dad, Grandma Eckman fumed every time she saw fireworks after that.

Her embarrassment grew to dislike and distrust anything Chinese, including Chinese food, even chop suey, which both her daughter-my grandmother and my own mother made on occasion. Once when my mother, grandmother, siblings and I were shopping during the annual family vacation at a resort in central Michigan, Mom suggested that they serve it as one of our evening meals. Our grandmother stiffened immediately and firmly stated, “Not with Grandma Eckman with us.” We would have to have the dish some other time.

When Independence Day would come around, Grandma Eckman would become tense. For us, however, it was a great time. The local drive-in cinema presented a firework presentation on July 3 between the films of the double feature. It was our usual family celebration. We would arrive at the drive-in early enough to spend a little time at the playground on site, change from our clothes into our pajamas in the bathroom and then climb back into the car for the evening fun. Although there was concession food, it wasn’t very good, so Mom always made popcorn, brought cookies, candy and potato chips and a large thermos jug of Kool-Aid.

In our pajamas and sneakers (which we thought was a treat in and of itself), we would stand near the car and watch the display of exploding lights with great excitement. Meanwhile, Grandma Eckman would be at home with her shades drawn, playing her records as loudly as she dared to drown out the unwelcome sounds.

On Independence Day itself, our great-grandmother would join us for the mid-afternoon barbeque and mysteriously disappear when Dad retrieved the three or four boxes of sparklers when the sky began to turn dark. As a child, that’s all I remember—one minute she was with us, and the next she was gone. She didn’t drive, so someone must have taken her home.