Nicole, a tall young brunette in a knit pantsuit and flat shoes ushered us into an office off the main foyer. First, she gave us the marketing collateral: a folder containing floor plans, pricing, amenities, map of the campus, activities calendar. Typical stuff. I zeroed in on the prices. A one-bedroom ran just over $2,500 a month. No big surprise. Meal credit of $150 per month. Jacuzzi, pool, hair salon, bank, computer room, chapel, weight room... typical stuff. Ho hum.
We sat at the requisite round conference table. “Do you have any questions?” Nicole asked my mother.
“What if I got a two-bedroom and had my daughter live with me?” Mom asked, gesturing in my direction. My heart fluttered a bit.
“We'd have to make an exception if she's under 55.”
I wasn't sure whether to feel flattered that Nicole thought I was under 55, or anxious that it was permissible that I could move into a retirement community, or terrified that my mother was actually considering having me move in with her. Somewhere along the way, something apparently has shifted in my mother's mind. I took a deep breath and tried to imagine living in a retirement community with my mother.
“A two-bedroom is $3,000 a month,” I ventured.
“Yeah, but we would split it,” said Mom.
“That's out of my league, Mom,” I said, laughing a little. Thinking to myself, we've now left earth. Approaching Planet Marjorie, galactic home of magical thinking. Normal rules do not apply.
“I just have one unit open to show you,” said Nicole, standing up. I think she realized then that we were looky-loos. “It's a deluxe one-bedroom apartment.”
“Do any of the one-bedrooms have bathtubs?” asked my mother.
“No, only the two bedrooms,” replied Nicole. That's when I realized, my mother doesn't want me, she wants the tub. Getting a two-bedroom and a roommate (caregiver) is the only way she'll get her coveted bathtub. The pieces clicked into place.
We took the tour, saw the one bedroom (spacious, airy, open, lots of storage). However, now that I've seen five places, I have developed some expectations. This place we toured today met most, exceeded a few (great location and village atmosphere), and fell short in one, namely, Nicole, after graciously explaining the options and showing us one apartment, failed to offer us a free lunch in the dining room. Mom and I were both surprised, but we decided to stay and pay for our own lunches, just to find out the quality of the food. Their dining room is open to the public, like a restaurant. We took a four-top near some other diners, clearly residents. A young Asian kid in a white shirt and tight black pants served us black coffee, and then we waited patiently for our server to take our order.
Mom looked perky in a red fleece jacket. She took off her white knit cap and multicolored knit gloves to eat. Don't get the wrong impression. Ladies in the 1940s, maybe even into the 50s, used to wear hats and gloves to lunch with friends at Yaws and Meier and Frank's tea room. My grandmother, maybe, but not my mother. She's not a tea room kind of gal.
I ate a cheese sandwich. She had a half a turkey sandwich and took a piece of cherry cobbler home with her in a bag. As we ate, I managed my vertigo and watched my mother eat her fruit with a knife and fork, thinking, I don't know anymore what kind of gal my mother is. She doesn't look like the mother I grew up with. This person is much smaller and thinner. Even her face looks different since the new teeth. She now has an endearing overbite. Actually, with her knit cap covering her wiry gray hair, she looks like a wrinkled 12-year-old with dentures. She's an adolescent who loses emails, phones, and car keys, an adolescent who assertively wrangles her old green Camry around corners even though she can barely reach the pedals.
She's upset that she's forgetting stuff and losing things. My mother, saddled early on with four kids and a domestically helpless husband, learned to be a master organizer. She managed all the schedules, made the lunches, albeit scowling resentfully, but the trains ran on time at our house. What I am saying is, her standards are high. You can imagine how she feels when she fails to meet her unreasonable standard now she's almost 86. She is scared. Her world is unraveling.
Old age is like riding a roller coaster in the dark (think Space Mountain). You can't get off. You can't see the track as it plunges into the abyss until you are screaming and falling. You are definitely not in control. You are along for the ride, hanging on for dear life, hoping that when the thing stops, they can pry your cold dead hands off the omigod bar. You don't get a do-over, and you can't go back even one inch, the only way out is forward full speed ahead. It does no good to drag your feet. All that means is you are a bystander as your life passes you by.
When we got back to her condo, I cleaned up Mom's cluttered computer desktop at her request, and explained that if she trashes an email, it's gone forever. She handed me the stack of marketing folders from all the places we've toured. “You won't lose them. I will,” she said. “Oh, and take this stuff with you, too.” She's jettisoning the extra clutter in her life. Her life is shrinking along with her spine. Meanwhile, the piles of clutter at my place continue to grow, a problem for another day.
As I drove away in the rain, a squirrel ran across the street in front of my car, straight under the wheels of the car coming toward me. Bam. It happened fast. I looked back in the mirror: the little body was in the street, not moving. The other driver had no idea he just crunched a squirrel. For a brief moment I imagined going back. What could I do for an injured or dead squirrel? The heavens opened up in a massive downpour. I kept going and finally made it back to the Love Shack. Fifteen minutes later, the sun came out.
