Last night Mom was peppy. We watched the millionaires choosing their houses on HGTV. We merrily criticized the host's garish fur coats, admired his dimples, and guessed which house the lucky winners would buy (I always guess wrong). At seven, Mom walked me down the long hall to the back door of her care facility, singing lustily all the way. We are great entertainment: I can't carry a tune and she can't remember the words.As we neared the back door, we heard the lady in the last room hollering “Help me!”
We've heard this lady before. She's lived there a few weeks. The first time I heard her yelling, I thought it was a man. Back then, I was shocked and confused. I continued out the door, sticking to the routine, pretending I didn't hear anything. I figured anyone who could yell like that wasn't in imminent danger of dying. When Mom didn't come to the window to give me the peace sign, I went back to the door. I watched through the window and saw Mom talking to Debra the Med-Aide, pointing over her shoulder toward the resident's room. I punched in the door code, wondering if I should get involved. I hovered in the foyer. Mom did not see me. Duty done, she headed down the hall back toward her room, forgetting our peace sign ritual. I thought, this is what she looks like after I drive away.
Debra rolled her eyes as she hustled into the resident's room. As I went out the door, I heard Debra say “We have a lot to do after dinner . . . we get to you as soon as we can.”
Last night we heard the same cry: “Help me!”
We broke off our song. “Where is that coming from?” Mom asked.
“The new lady, at the end of the hall,” I said.
“Help me!”
Mom, ever the helper, started to veer toward the lady's room. I grabbed the back of her embroidered sweatshirt (this one says Hugs are one size fits all across the chest).
“No, better not,” I said. “Insurance and all.”
We looked back down the long hall. No Debra in sight.
“Use your call button,” I called into the open doorway. I did not look into the room. No way was I going to make eye contact. I know what the lady looks like now: enormous, gray-haired, and scowling. I've seen her being wheeled back from dinner. I used to work in a nursing home. I know how hard it is to push a very large angry person in a wheelchair. As I often do at the care facility, I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have that job anymore.
“Help me!” The tone of the lady's voice reminded me of the tone my cat uses early in the morning when something needs to be addressed, pronto. Empty food dish, pile of barf . . . emergencies only to him. It's the kind of mrowl that makes me want to throw pillows.
“Use your call button!” Mom yelled back. We were at the back door. We looked at each other and shrugged. Oh well. I could see it in her eyes: things aren't great but they could be worse.
Earlier this week, I seriously contemplated renting an apartment and moving my mother in with me. After a few days, I regained my senses. Today I'm back to normal. I wasn't built to be my mother's caregiver. When she runs out of money, if she lives that long, Mom will have to take her chances with Medicaid, just like all the rest of us.
Tonight Mom did not walk me to the back door. She didn't feel like getting up. I understood. I feel that way most of the time.
