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From Behind Our White Picket Fence Week 170
By Freddy and Eddy
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Optimism…

Monday, March 2nd, life began anew with the departure of Mom for the sunny confines of Santa Monica Convalescent Center. She’ll now receive the proper, 24/7 care we couldn’t provide at home, served nutritious meals at regular intervals, and surrounded by fellow seniors in an upscale environment. With a full slate of activities and exercises to keep her busy and engaged, she’ll be able to live a meaningful existence and interact with the friendly staff, who stand ready to keep her comfortable and happy. With the center being only a short 10 minute drive from our home and business, we can easily visit and bring her home each weekend for dinner and visitation with our son. Best of all is that it doesn’t cost us a penny out of pocket; MediCal picks up approximately half, with Mom’s small pension sufficient to cover the rest. With Mom gone, we can now focus 100% on bringing our business back to profitability, catching up on those pesky high-interest credit cards, and socking away a few dollars for when the recession turns toward depression.

And then there’s reality.

Oh sure, the place really is only 10 minutes away, doesn’t cost us anything, and the residents do get fed decently enough. Other than that, however, we can’t imagine a more depressing way to spend our “golden years.” The attitude of the staff is more gatekeeper/prison guard than caregiver, and the senior population itself is like an army of zombies with walkers, meandering about aimlessly when not parked in front of the soap operas or participating in so-called “activities,” which are nothing more than a DVD on a television screen directing the audience to flail about like Teletubbies in wheelchairs. Mom’s room is as Spartan as it gets, shared with two other roommates, one of whom pees all over the bathroom (when she bothers to get up at all), the other an unseen apparition who never emerges from behind her curtain.

After moving what few items they’d allow (we were warned of “wanderers” who grab things not nailed down), we returned a few hours later to find Mom sitting by the entrance, a scowl on her face the likes of which we hadn’t seen since her infamous New Year’s Day meltdown (whereby we had to drag her screaming rape from our car and strap her down to her bed until her sedatives kicked in). Blocking Mom’s path was rather stern looking employee, who makes it clear by her presence that no one escapes and lives to tell the tale, keeping Mom from bolting to freedom and liberation to parts unknown. Once we managed to get Mom up and walking back toward her room, she defiantly explained how everyone was out to kill her and that we were too “trusting” of those around her. An hour later, though, with Mom’s dementia as our ally, she forgot the entire episode and parked herself next to a couple other residents to nod off in front of “All My Children.”

The guilt from this transition has been palpable, as we expected. Placing Mom in a nursing home is not how we imagined her life to play out. This once proud woman, one of 16 children born and raised on a Victoria, BC farm and single mother who struggled to raise Alicia with barely a 2nd grade education now living out her days battling both Parkinson’s Disease and severe dementia just doesn’t seem fair. That we couldn’t manage to care for her ourselves through these difficult years leaves us with feelings of guilt and shame we may never be able to shed, even after she finally passes.

And yet, even with our failure to keep Mom from the sterile confines of convalescence, we look forward to focusing on putting our shambled life back on track – sexually and otherwise. Tuesday morning, as we rushed to get to our house in order and run off to work, we paused, crawled back into bed, and napped for an hour.  With nary a care in the world, we then made love with a passion we hadn’t felt in years. With a slew of toys waiting in dusty boxes for us to “evaluate,” the world is looking up, even if tinged with the sorrow for our departed loved one.