Yesterday I made a quick run over to my mother’s residence to leave off a rent check. I had to make a quick visit–there was no room in the parking lot.

My mother has taken to leaving her door open when she is expecting meals or company and the tray from the previous meal is always waiting for pickup, leaning against the wall near her door.

Each time I see her she is smaller. She is probably about four feet seven inches but who knows? Her presence has diminished greatly but she still has an ability to make sure she is not taken advantage of. At ninety-six and a half she is still kick ass.

I see her ability to process information takes a while longer. I need to repeat, to explain, to reword, to remind. We discussed who and how to tip. I explained that the residents are not allowed to give individual tips to building workers. A flyer had gone around stating that tips would be pooled and divided. I quickly wrote a check to leave at the office.

I am still not clear about what goes on there and it looks like I will have to have a few discussions with those in power. I am told by my mother that her meal orders (phoned in) are sometimes delivered with missing items or are entirely wrong. And there are even times when it is denied that her meal order was phoned in at all.

Thankfully, she has aides with her and they go down to the dining room. My mother said that the aide informed a dining room worker that items from the order were missing.

“Well,” he said, “I’m busy now washing the tables. She’ll have to wait.”

“What do you mean ‘wait?’ She hasn’t eaten yet, the order was wrong.”

It doesn’t sound like this interaction got very far but it is not acceptable and it looks like I have to do some investigating. Residents come first, tables come second. It doesn’t take much intelligence to figure that out. I guess my hackles are up because this is shades of the food scene in Florida.

After all the talking, discussing, check writing, it was close to 5:00 pm and another aide was to arrive. The meal had not yet been brought. I had to leave.

My mother looked at me, I should say UP at me (I am not much taller than five feet) and started to cry. She cries easily. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Somehow it makes me feel uncomfortable, especially when she starts crying and looking like a mere child. Her life is in rewind, back to young adult hood, adolescence, childhood, pulling her back to the beginning and before.

“I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Who said that; did she or did I?

 This blog is part of a series.

The next installment is here:

Part 80: A Special Day