My mother lives in an assisted living facility that can handle most levels of care. Unless she punches the daylights out of her annoying table mate, she can stay there until she dies. As long as we can afford the rent, that is, which goes up as her level of care increases. We go on until it is over. The old man in the room next door died a couple weeks ago. Across the hall, the mother-in-law of a friend of family lies dying. Her door was closed last night; she might be gone. Gone, as in, passed away, lost, well, let's just say it: dead. Can I admit it? I'm envious.
Mom has a routine. She doesn't like it when the routine is disrupted. Last month, she was unsettled by little children in Halloween costumes pelting up and down the hallway. Holidays are fast approaching. My intention is to keep the routine intact. That means no unexpected calls, no unannounced visitors, and no trips to the ER. We hope.
When we go outside to smoke in the evening (she and Jane smoke, I don't smoke, just so you know, eeew), Mom and Jane keep a close eye on comings and goings in the parking lot. We have a routine.
Jane is slim, more of a stick than my mother. They are of similar heights, but Mom has gained some weight over the past six months (probably from all the gluten-free cookies I bring her). Jane disdains food. She says she isn't hungry, but I suspect her motivation is vanity. She likes being thin. She pays attention to her appearance. She wears makeup. Her eyeliner is thick and black (but she eschews mascara). Her eyebrows are drawn with brown pencil in wobbly half-circles along the ridges of her brows. She wears no lipstick.
When we go outside, my mother bundles up with several layers of cotton knit and polyester fleece, I kid you not, plus a hat and gloves. No matter the weather, Jane wears one thin fleece coat. It's well worn, pilled, hip length, and printed with a faded blue and purple design that reminds me of a Peter Max painting. Underneath she wears close-fitting mismatched track suits. The velour tops are short, with zippers—she has multiple versions in pastel colors: lavender, yellow, blue. Sometimes she wears flared gray sweatpants that are cut off well above the ankle, but not hemmed. I'm not sure if she bought them like that or had them altered to suit. Her ankles are slim. I'm pretty sure she wears pantyhose. On her feet, she wears floppy black slip-on slippers or, if it is raining, little polka dotted shoes with white laces. Last week she finally put on a jacket. My mother was so relieved.
Mom usually plows ahead to the smoking area, and we stumble along in her wake. I am remembering to bring along a flashlight to light the path. As we approach the smoking shelter (formerly a wrought-iron porch swing frame), two battery operated lights come on in our faces. Blinded, we keep our heads down and duck under the shelter. The two old ladies sit side by side. I pull up the third chair and sit opposite. If I can sit still for 15 seconds, the two lights will go off and we will be in the dark. As soon as I move, the lights come back on. It is very hard to sit completely still, but I try.
Once she gets her cigarette lit, Jane has a lot to say. As a paranoid elder with an anxiety disorder, Jane complains about trucks, cars, kids on bikes, excessive noise, the food, the owner of the facility, and the roses growing in front of her window. As Mom smokes, she detaches with Zen-like calm. She measures her cigarette against Jane's cigarette, and when it is done, she's done.
Last night, as we do every evening, Mom and I trundled down the hall to Jane's room and knocked on her door. Mom stood, leaning on her walker as we waited. Jane opened the door and stood there in a mismatched velour track suit. She looked grayer than usual.
“Oh, thank you, but I think I will decline... I just don't... I don't know...”
Mom and I were astounded. Most nights, Jane is raring to get outside. Mom and I looked at each other in shock.
“Are you not feeling well?” I asked, thinking, oh, no, if Mom's smoking buddy craps out on her, that would be bad.
“I don't know,” Jane said. She wished us a good evening and shut the door.
Mom recovered more quickly than I did. She took off down the hall. I followed. We went outside to the shelter. I sat next to her. With some direction, she figured out where her cigarettes were and lit one up. The rain had stopped. The air was fresh. I wanted to take a deep breath but the breeze blew her smoke into my face. I coughed and waved my hands—that old passive aggressive signal for
your smoke is killing me. We switched places. Jane's curtains were shut tight. Mom didn't finish her entire cigarette. I'm getting used to handling slightly damp burned up cigarette butts. She got up and grabbed her walker. I shuffled along after, retrieving a fallen glove.
This morning I got a call from the facility saying Mom had fallen during the night. Not bad, just stumbled over her own feet, skinned a knee on the rug. I will visit her tonight and see if she remembers what happened. I hope Jane will be back to normal and the routine can resume. I begin to see I need the routine as much as Mom does. I don't know what I will do when she's gone.
