Long time, no see… since September 17!

I rotate between hobbies, you know photography and groups. And then there is real life. The non-digital, blood-pumping life with no creative escape. The stuff that dreams are made of. Or not. The ringing phone with my mother at the end.

My mother tends to call when there is an issue. When it is quiet I assume that all is well, whatever defines well.

Yesterday at about 3:30 pm I was half into an escapist nap when I could hear the phone ringing from afar and I could see on the caller ID that it was my mother. I let it ring. She left a message, to call her as soon as I got in. I was in and hiding. Can one take a nap after that? Nope. The brain is already processing and setting up for the next crisis.

I saw my mother around the 5th; I came over to drop off the rent, a donation to the building staff, and a little red bag of envelopes which I had filled with holiday cards with cash in varying amounts for my mother’s aides. My mother named one aide, Candy, because she is sweet and she can’t pronounce her Indian-Guyanese name. Candy is the best worker and I feel she is totally trustworthy although my mother maintains that she has stolen from her and then brought the things back. Candy had been kind and patient but when someone is accusatory and nasty, it ain’t fun: Candy has threatened to walk a few times. As has Sally, who is there several nights a week for a couple of hours to serve the last meal and get my mother ready for bed. My mother has the ability to pit the staff against one another, telling one about the other and causing angst all around. I am part of that inner circle as the observer. I’d be pissed as hell if I had to deal with that kind of stuff; it’s hurtful and nonproductive, however, the elderly can, and often do, lose their boundaries, become mean and accusatory and downright paranoid. Maureen is the other evening aide and she was the last one to be destined to receive a holiday gift. But it didn’t happen. She should have gotten it last night. But didn’t. Because it was no where to be found.

My mother didn’t wait for me to return the call, she called me back at 4:00, offering me a preface of something not so nice and I hate to tell you this. Throughout my life I have heard this very prelude before getting some kind of catastrophic news. I hate to tell you this. And then, my hackles go up, something takes over me, gets into me, something from years ago that carries on, like a parasite from my childhood: I get angry and defensive. I prepare myself for the worst. And I say, “I don’t know if I want to hear it, it sounds serious.” Then she counters with her stance of importance and necessity.

There is another aide. Ruth who fills in for Candy on Thursdays and Fridays. She’s rough around the edges and is full of tattoos and has a disabled daughter and another, a fifteen year old who, as my mother reports, takes care of the disabled daughter, her sister for pay.  At least, that is what my mother gleaned from Ruth’s story. And I tell you, my mother is always, always very convincing in what she recounts and then repeats. Again and again. How can a fifteen year old take care of a disabled sibling and get paid? I know my mother is on edge with tattooed-Ruth. Ruth who has been told time after time to lock the door when she leaves for the night, but doesn’t. Ruth, who can’t read the menu to call down for my mother’s meals and makes my mother do it herself. (Don’t forget my mother’s vision is greatly compromised by a lousy cataract she should have had removed years ago AND macular degeneration). Ruth, who occasionally works nights in the building and falls asleep in the chair.

When I brought the holiday gifts over I entered the room as always and announced myself. My mother was, at eighty pounds and recovering from a bout of bronchitis, unrecognizable. More unrecognizable, of course than at eighty-four pounds. She was dwarfed by her small, leather recliner that sits next to the heating/cooling unit at the window, between the two bureaus. She faces the television, on the nightstand, the bed to her right, the window and unit to her left. She is protected, ensconced by the furniture which, though not very large stuff, in proportion, diminishes her. That’s her spot, where she used to attempt to do crossword puzzles with a big magnifying glass, (which she calls her “spy glass),” but can no longer. Her eyes have given out, they say, “we are almost 102 years old, leave us the hell alone!”

Ruth. Let me try to piece this all together. Sometime on Thursday my mother gave Ruth her gift and it was accepted with joy and gratitude. Ruth hugged my mother. My mother asked Sally (evening lady) to give Maureen (other evening lady) the envelope as she would see her before my mother would on Saturday night. Sally told my mother she should give it to her and declined. (That was the correct response) So, Maureen’s envelope was remaining in the little red bag which was placed in one of my mother’s drawers … Friday Ruth came in to work and mother insists she was wearing a new outfit. Ruth approached my mother, never did this before, had her bag close to where my mother was, SAT very close to my mother on the radiator, tried to engage her by telling her some jokes which my mother didn’t find funny. As my mother tells it, Ruth waited for the heat to kick on producing a roar of noise, and when my mother wasn’t looking, reached in to my mother’s drawer and took Maureen’s envelope. My mother claims that she in fact saw a white envelope in Ruth’s bag. Of course this is what my mother thinks after assuming and pasting the alleged details together.

The bottom line: Maureen’s envelope is missing: She didn’t get her gift yesterday evening.

Candy worked yesterday and spent hours looking high and low over and under, in garbage cans and drawers. If I call, my mother is screaming in the background. Now it’s Ruth’s turn to be outright accused of treason. There have been many accusations over the years, many aides who have come and gone, who have gotten frustrated and angry working for my mother. But I will never really know the truth. Unfortunately there have been thefts, rummaging through my mother’s things, and strangely, stuff put in my mother’s closet, perhaps in trade.

My assumption is this: whatever happened just adds to the upset, to my mother’s distrust of tattooed-Ruth. It will only get worse and lead to a blow-up. I called the agency this morning and asked that they replace her with someone, please someone mature, and well-vetted. Please! But I know my mother will never be happy. Even the best workers are subject to this j’accuse and intrigue.

My mother may have conjured up the vision of a white envelope in Ruth’s bag. Her vision is poor and her mind fills in. She creates, expands, and is convinced that whatever she thinks is THE TRUTH.

And I remain, dear reader, stuck in the middle with you.

This series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

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