Finally, after I’ve changed her bedding, I help Mom get tucked in for the night and find a rerun of Wheel of Fortune on the television. She watches with rapt attention.
I drag the chair close to her bed, sit, and hold her hand while she watches her show. We don’t talk, and that’s okay. Sitting here like this makes me think about how Mom did this for me when I was a child. No matter how tired she was, if I wanted her to sit by my bed with my little hand in hers until I dozed off, she did it.
When we’re like this, I can pretend for a while that we’re still at home and I’m still taking care of her. I can pretend that I didn’t fail her.
I try to stay positive; I really do. But tonight, I’m drained. Mom’s long-term care insurance doesn’t cover supplemental help at home, so I couldn’t continue to take care of Mom there. On top of that, they only cover half of what this place costs. It leaves me at a loss for what to do.
This—I look around her room—is what six thousand dollars a month buys. Sporadic subpar care. Even worse, what about the residents who don’t have family checking in or advocating for them? What kind of care dotheyreceive?
“You’re sad.” Mom startles me, and when I turn to her, she’s looking at me with a frown.
I force a smile I don’t feel.
“No, I’m okay. I’m not sad, Mom.”
She reaches up and touches my face with her fingertips. I freeze. It’s been so long since my mom showed me any affection, and the daughter in me doesn’t want it to stop. If I don’t react, maybe it won’t end.
I’m wrong. As quickly as it happened, it’s over, and Mom’s attention is back on Pat Sajak. Twenty minutes later, she’s asleep. I turn off the TV and I stay ten more minutes to make sure she doesn’t wake up, then I stand and move the chair back into its usual place as quietly as I can.
I lean over and place a soft kiss on Mom’s forehead.
“Goodnight, Mom. I love you,” I whisper. I walk to the door, but stop before moving through it, and glance over my shoulder to look at her one more time. “And I miss you so much.”
Chapter Eight
Delaney
Isit on one of the vinyl-upholstered chairs, fighting to prevent myself from gagging. The odor coming from the hall that leads to the skilled nursing wing at Mom’s facility permeates the air. I’m pretty sure it’s coming from poop somewhere other than in a toilet, and I’m uber grossed out.
I’m waiting for the facility administrator, who was supposed to meet me twenty-three minutes ago. To say I’m frustrated she’s late is putting it lightly.
With Mom staying in a memory care unit now, I’ve gone from working eight to twelve-hour nights. The extra money from the four additional hours should help with any unforeseen costs for the nursing home care. God knows there’s always a hidden cost.
It’s nine-thirty a.m., and I’m exhausted since I was up all night, and I still haven’t been to bed. I hate my job, but it served its purpose when Mom was home. She slept, and I could work remotely until four a.m., then sleep for about four hours before waking up to care for her again. It was the perfect setup. Well, except forthosetimes when my plan collapsed in on itself.
Mom got out of the house three times, despite my being home with her. Why? Because I fell asleep. I failed at myonlyjob those times. All I had to do was take care of my mom, and instead, I allowed myself to doze off. If something had happened to her because of it, I never would have forgiven myself.
The clicking of heels on the tile floor draws me out of my thought spiral. I look up, and the administrator, Jill, is standing in front of me.
“Hello, Ms. Larson. I’m surprised to see you again so soon.”
She’s imposing, standing over me, so I grab my bag and rise.
“Well, I’m surprisedanddisappointed that I have to be back here so soon.”
Jill frowns at me and gestures toward her office, so we can continue the conversation. Once there, she sits behind her desk and folds her hands on top of it. I sit across from her and feel like I’m at a bank applying for a mortgage or in the principal’s office getting in trouble in high school.
I glance around the office and wonder why medical facilities don’t make the area where difficult conversations happen more comfortable. Maybe that would make the whole situation feel less adversarial. But who am I to have an opinion? I still haven’t even finished my degree. Maybe this is something they teach in business school—always hold a position of authority over the person you’re speaking with, keep the setting cold and neutral. Who knows?
“From your phone message, I understand you have some issues with your mom from earlier this week. You also had concerns about our nursing staffing ratios, I hear.”
“My issue is not only with your nursing staffing ratios. It’s with the overall care and the condition in which I found my mother. When I arrived here on the day in question, it was well after dinnertime, and my mother and two other residents were still sitting in the dining area, unattended, with their traysin front of them. The other two at least looked like they had eaten some, but Mom’s tray was untouched. We had previously discussed that even on her best days she needs—at a minimum—a lot of help with eating. But most days lately she needs feeding because she doesn’t seem to understand how to manipulate the utensils anymore. I sat down to feed her and could get her to eat a little and then some ice cream.”
“You brought ice cream in from the outside for your mom even though she’s diabetic?”
I don’t care for her condescending tone, and my hackles rise.
“Yes, I brought ice cream in for my mom, who isborderlinediabetic, but we’ll come back to that in a minute. She’s also only sixty-six years old, but she lives in a nursing home because her mind has failed. Her ‘neighborhood’that she lives in smells like feces and urine nearly every time that I’m here. I believe I understand the reason for the odor if the other residents are in the same condition my mother was in that day.”
