The fog burned off to reveal an unusually balmy January day, perfect for touring potential retirement communities. (Not for me, for my mother! Argh, what are you thinking! I'm not even 60!) I picked my mother up at 10:45 this morning; she was outside waiting for me. She climbed nimbly into the passenger seat, wearing black slacks and a bright red fleece jacket. Her pockets were stuffed with her stuff: keys, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, used tissues. She was ready to go.
Our destination was a nearby retirement community that takes up about three city blocks in SE Portland near the MAX transit rail line. Some of the place consisted of regular apartments, some apparently was assisted living and memory care units. We were going to look at the independent living apartments.
We finally found street parking a block away. My mother navigates curbs warily, but otherwise she is a steady and determined walker. I trotted along in her wake to the lobby. She'd been to the place before to visit friends so she knew exactly where we were going.
Inside the front lobby we met Doug, the senior placement advisor I found on the Internet, and Kerrie, the marketing coordinator for the facility. Doug was tall, middle-aged, exuberantly gray-haired and wore a name tag on a lanyard around his neck. He looked like a chubby basketball coach. The marketing person was an energetic mid-40s woman with fluffy whitish-blonde hair like a bubble around her face.
“Hi, Welcome to the X Retirement Community!” she said enthusiastically shaking my hand. I noticed she had clear braces. I wish they had had clear braces in my day. “I'm Kerrie. Let's go have lunch and then I'll take you on the tour!”
She led the way down a brightly lit hall toward a archway, over which was a sign designating the space beyond as the dining room. “This is our dining room!” she said proudly. The room was large, but not cavernous, more like a group of rectangles and squares configured into one space. It was just past 11:00 am, so many tables were empty. There was plenty of light, and the chairs were on wheels.
My mother and the marketing gal both ordered the Chinese chicken salad. I ordered a cheese omelette with bacon. Doug the senior placement guy ordered a gardenburger. The food was a long time coming, but there wasn't a lack of things to talk about, with two marketing people at the table (I'm not counting me). I didn't have to say much. Mom wasn't shy: She bragged about her four kids (“My kids are so smart!”). She told them about her stint as a young scrub nurse for a mean doctor (“He threw a bloody sponge at me!” she said indignantly, and added, “He was Jewish.”) Cue eye roll.
Finally the food arrived. Not the worst omelette I've ever had, but definitely not inspired. Compared to the first retirement place we toured, though, I'd give it five stars. Authentic edible food. Good sign.
After the free lunch, the marketing gal led us up and down elevators and along long hallways to show us the amenities: laundry rooms, libraries, game rooms, dance floor, gym with personal trainer, hair salon, garden courtyard with fire pit, hot tub, two restaurants and a cafe (with tiramisu!), and a bar with a big screen TV.
Then we invaded the apartment of a genial geriatric named Yvonne, who was happy to show her one-bedroom apartment to us in exchange for free meal tickets to share with her seven children. I hesitated in the kitchen area, loathe to walk on her light beige carpet with my dirty outdoor shoes.
“Go on,” Yvonne said. “I do it all the time.” I looked at her feet and saw she was wearing slippers. I took my shoes off and took the rest of the tour in my socks. As I shuffled through her living room, bedroom, bathroom, and back to the kitchen, my eyes slid off the knick knacks of her life: photos, her desk, her perfectly made bed, her wall decorations, her shower and sink, and her well-organized closets. My mother boldly examined every detail, every closet, and especially the bathroom.
“I would really miss a bathtub,” she said with doubt in her voice. The marketing gal immediately jumped in. “I know what you mean, I would die without my Epson salt bath every night!” I looked askance at her. She plunged on, “We have a huge spa that might work for you!” She proceeded to remind us about the hot tub, a communal pool of warm water and bubbly jets in the next building. My mother looked skeptical.
Despite her misgivings about the lack of tub, by the time we exited into the hallway, my mother and Yvonne were arm in arm. It was charming. I think my mother was trying to imagine herself living there, making new friends. She's a chummy extrovert; it's like breathing to her to embrace a total stranger. I think when a person is over 80, they automatically become family. At least compared to young almost 60-somethings like me, who of course cannot be trusted. (Hey, eeew, I'm older than the president!)
Next we looked at a studio apartment and then we went back to the marketing woman's office to talk prices. First the tour, then the sales pitch. My butt was dragging a bit, but Mom still seemed pretty chipper.
We sat around a cramped table in a tiny conference room. Kerrie pulled out a folder of papers. She took a breath and dove in: “The one-bedroom apartment that we looked at is $2,650,” she said, “but it didn't have a balcony. I think you would really want a balcony. The narrow balconies are an extra $25 per month, the wider ones are an extra $50 per month. Plus if you keep your car, it's another $40 per month. And there's a one-time move-in fee of $1,500. And a refundable deposit of $1,000 to get on the waiting list. But you get a $300 meal credit per month to use at either of the restaurants or the cafe.”
We sat quietly for a long moment. I watched Kerrie watching my mother.
“We also have a special studio apartment that is more like a hotel room, with just a little kitchen area,” she said. “People sometimes move into that studio to wait until a bigger unit becomes available. That runs only $1,450 per month, and you get a $500 meal credit because you don't have a full kitchen.”
When it became clear that we weren't committing to anything right then, the conversation trailed off. Doug walked us up the street to our car, reassuring us the whole way that he was happy to show us more places, just let him know when we were ready.
“We need to figure out the money,” I said.
“I understand,” he replied, shaking my hand. He drove off in his little Toyota Prius, and my mother and I drove off in my old Ford Focus, which I guess can officially be classified as a beater, now that it is terminally ill. “Maybe this whole process will give you some ideas for when the time comes for you to move into a retirement home,” she said. I nodded, thinking, yeah, driving off a cliff before that time comes seems like a viable option. Or a bottle of Jack and some pills. I didn't say that, of course. I know she worries about who will take care of her children—we have no children to take us on tours of nursing homes.
As we drove home to her condo, my mother said, “That place is too posh for me.”
So, there you have it. My mother is now officially Goldilocks. The first place wasn't good enough for her, this place is too good. I hope the next place will be just right. After dropping her off, I went home and collapsed. Who knew this whole moving mom thing would turn out to be such an energy suck? I can't find my own life now, I'm so caught up in hers. I guess I'll watch TV and try on other people's lives for a while, until I can move back into my own skin.
