When my mother was a young woman, I wonder how she imagined her future; I bet she thought that she would get married, have children. Did she think she would have two children?  Did she think she would have grandchildren? Did she imagine she would lose her husband years later in 1991? Did she think she would ever get old, and if so what did she think old age would be like? How old did she imagine she would live to?

Would she ever imagine that she, the little girl who was always ill, would outlive her three siblings and reach ninety-nine?

Today I went to visit my mother, to drop off her rent check and pick-up the mail. When I entered the apartment there was a new aide who appeared young and sweet, quiet and lovely. My mother was sitting in her recliner, as always, with her folding tray in front of her, as always. On this little table there is either a crossword puzzle with a large magnifying glass–she calls it a “spy glass.” And the television remote. Or, her food.

When the tray arrives, the aide plates it, warms it, cuts or adjusts whatever is necessary. The plate is set atop a spread-out paper napkin next to the “silverware.” This is how my mother has forever “set” the table.

My mother no longer recognizes me immediately when I enter the apartment. Her vision is compromised by macular degeneration. And tonight my mother’s mood was greatly compromised, by her food. It seems that either the food order comes up incorrectly, or something is missing, or something from another person’s tray spilled on her tray and her napkin got wet-or her food. Or the food is inedible. This evening the latter was the case. She ordered skirt steak, mashed potatoes, string beans and spinach. She was eating the vegetables and picking at a roll when I came in, and she looked exasperated; the meat was like slices of shoe leather and had no resemblance to “skirt steak.’ Ninety-nine year old teeth don’t do well with that kind of meal. The person attached to the teeth takes one look and becomes revolted.

And so my mother announced: “THIS is the year I am going to die. I cannot continue to eat like this, or, eat like this because there is nothing to eat. I AM STARVING.” She waved a hand with a strand of spinach stuck between her thumb and index finger.

There are times when we speak on the phone and my mother seems very pleased with a meal, but, most times she is not. This was one of them and it upsets me (to the point where I lose my appetite) because no matter how much we complain nothing changes.

I unloaded a goodie bag in hopes of distracting her from her fury and depression. I had found some very large print crossword puzzle books and two types of magnifiers with lights. She seemed pleased for a moment.

But all my mother could talk about was that the previous day she marched down, at 8:00 am to see the gentleman in charge of the building and she gave him an earful: She was always hungry. The food delivery was either not correct or the food was awful. The very elderly people in the building need a special soft diet.

But there was one other thing. The woman who takes the meal order was the catapult that launched my mother to make her 8:00 am trek. She allegedly told my mother on the phone that she HATES her, that EVERYBODY hates her. Everybody hates my mother?

Why? My mother had the audacity to ask.

Because she is “always complaining and sending her aide down to correct the order.” And why shouldn’t the order be corrected if you prepared it wrong?

And  NO she can only have salad OR soup. NOT both.

We seem to be in the land of David Copperfield. Or Oliver Twist. We are in a place we shouldn’t be. We are being sucked backwards.

If it is true that this phone conversation took place, then this worker, who has been harassing my mother for years should be fired. I no longer know what to think.  Is my mother hallucinating? But the social worker said it WAS true that recently my mother’s dinner was brought up 6:30 pm instead of 4:30 the evening before. Since the aide leaves at 7:00,  there was not enough time for my mother to eat and be readied for bed. So, there are issues in the building. And it could be that the issues, that not eating well could trigger hallucinations, when most of the time my mother is in her right mind.

But, I have still not been able to resolve the other problems. The biggies I have been fighting for since January, with  the Managed Long Term Care that continues to deny my mother any extra help. I asked for more hours. They sent my mother an old report with old info, old names, old, old, old. Everything is old. Essentially confirming her hours and that no more would be provided. So, I am providing them, and they add up to $600/month. Each month I cross my fingers that I can pay her rent, which has just had the annual increase, the bills for her personal needs, and the $600 for her aide which the Long Term Care is denying. Up until now, if you recall, she HAD a policy from years of private pay and she OUTLIVED it. I have been scrambling to move hours to try to cover her in the evening, It shouldn’t be like this.

I decided to write to the Veteran’s Administration and plead for help: it has gotten to the critical point of more money going out than is coming in, which worries the hell out of me. Six hundred dollars a month for a lousy hour of an aide’s help can drain whatever is left very quickly. The hour that insurance would not provide her.  My mother doesn’t know.

It seems to me that the elderly shouldn’t have to be concerned with such plight, nor the family.

So, I filled out papers on behalf of my mother, I substantiated facts with bills and I asked for help. Oh yes I did, I asked for more money for the rent and an aide. Maybe someone at the VA has a heart.

And I said, “Please hurry. I am now ninety-nine years old.”

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

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