My Mother at Age 91

7/29/2019 My Mother at Age 91

1/7

My Mother at Age 91

By

A. Rod Paolini


2/7

My Mother at Age 91

Within a few minutes of landing in Rochester, I was rolling through farm country for a three-day

visit with my mother in her hometown in Minnesota. Most of my previous visits were in summer, when

the sky was a clear blue and the sunlight so bright that its reflection shimmered on the rows of corn and

soybeans that extended as far as the eye could see. On this January day, gray clouds hung low in the

sky, and a hazy mist blurred the horizon. The fields were just a dark gray of dirt or a dingy yellowish

brown of dry grass. The trees were barren of leaves, and the farm sheds and houses looked disheveled

and run-down. Frigid air swirled about my legs despite the valiant effort of the cars heater. My mood

was no lighter than the day, for I was not looking forward to this visit. I was going through the motions,

my mind and body on autopilot.

Three years ago, my mother suffered her third psychotic episode, and I brought her to my home

in Reston, Virginia. After eight months of living with my wife and me, we relocated her to an assisted

living facility in town. Feeling cast out, she quickly got her act together and moved back to her

hometown. She bewailed the disposition of her home and furnishings for which she believed that I was

to blame. You betrayed me! she cried.

The love went out of me. I continued to fulfill my duty as a loyal son by phoning and writing,

but not with any great deal of enthusiasm. Almost every time we talked, she would bring up the loss of

her house and furniture which she claimed that I had forced her to surrender.

She lived independently for two years, then crashed again in August 2012. As the 2012

Christmas holiday approached, she gave subtle indications that she would like to visit, but it became

obvious, even to her, that she could not manage the trip. When she declared that she missed me, I

relented, and I promised that I would visit her in January though my heart wasnt in it. In the last two

years, I felt frustration, guilt, anger, remorse, and helplessness. Would I be subjected to three days ofher recriminations?

And so here I was, traveling U.S. highway 52 through the towns that I now knew by heart:

Marion, Chatfield, Fountain, Preston. As I crested the last ridge, I could see a cluster of buildings in the

distance crowned by the towns water tower, ironically proclaiming, Harmony!

I entered the day room of the assisted living facility, and my mother, sitting at the dinning table,

immediately recognized me and rose to greet me, arms outstretched. We embraced for a moment, and

then looked lovingly into each others face. She smiled and held my arm, then turned to introduce her

associates: This is my son, Rod. She proceeded to introduce each of the residents that were present.

This is Betty, Martha, and Carrie. When she turned to introduce the young resident aide, she paused,and then apologetically asked: Im sorry; I forgot your name. Im Nicole, the aide responded. I

should remember that, replied my mother. Nicole is that name of my granddaughter.

The day room was spacious, bright and cheery; the furniture was country casual with an

abundance of knickknacks, gingham patterns and country folk art. The day and dateThursday, January

-2-


3/7

24 was written in large letters on a white board. We were in the memory unit, somewhat of ath

misnomer as the criterion for being in this unit was a lack of memory to some degree. The exit doors

were locked, requiring a four-digit code to exit. The doors of the residents rooms face onto the day

room, and my mother ushered me into her room for a visit. Furniture from her house was there as well

as many of her pictures. In contrast to the folk art in the day room, my mother had framed prints from

art catalogues and books; they had been tastefully placed around the walls. I thought the room quite

pleasant.

How do you like it here? I inquired cheerfully. Its all right, she demurred. These are nice

people . . . but theyre not family. This was a somewhat ironical statement as almost everyone in

Harmony is related in some way. In the past, whenever my mother would introduce someone to me,

invariably she would mention some genealogical connection that would require a family tree diagram

for me to comprehend. But being related doesnt mean being close. I dont have Rod and Ferdy any

more, she addedreferring to her brother and sister-in-law, both having recently passed away, leaving

her the last living sibling of her family. I tried to stress the bright side: I noticed that Jim and Harriet

are living here, I said, they being cousins. Yes . . . but Im here in the memory unit and theyre in the

assisted living unit. I hardly see them. And so continued our conversation with little enthusiasm or

cheer. She did ask about my children, Nicole and Jared, but she hardly responded with any questions or

comments.

My mother seemed to attract many friends, those in Harmony and every other place that she

lived, but I dont believe that she ever felt close to anyone save her siblings and me. In fact, I think she

confided more in me that she did my father.

After chatting for a while, I thought some soft music would fill the void of pauses and provide a

pleasant background for our conversation. My mother had a very large collection of classical records

which she had converted to cassette tapes several years ago. I popped one in the tape player, but no

sound emitted as the reels didnt turn. Has the tape player been working? I asked. I havent played

anything since Ive been here, she replied. I spied a CD that could be played by the DVD playerconnected to the television; but no, that was not working either, nor was the television as the cable

wasnt connected to the buildings network. Only the VCR was operational as I tested it with a tape that

I found in the recorder: Mamas Family, circa 1978.

We started to reminisce about our lives when I was a young child and our family was living on

George Street in Chicago. You always played with Neal and Harriet, she exclaimed warmly. Do you

remember that Harriet always tied your shoes, and I said once to her, Hes never going to learn if you

tie them for him, and she replied, Well he cant, can he? I smiled sweetly, though I had heard this

story many times. She then pulled out one of her scrapbooks, and we perused the photographs, one by

one, recalling names of neighbors and incidents which she could recall with unfailing memory. I

remember when Harriets little brother died, she said sadly. I visited Harriets mother, but it was sodifficult to know what to say.

Having exhausted the many photographs of these early years, I noticed an assortment of letters

on the table, even my most recent, and also one from her dear friend in Rome, Jacqueline Laran, whom

she met several years ago on a tour of Eastern Europe and Russia. She writes these wonderful letters

-3-


4/7

to me, but I just cant write anything in return, she lamented. I cant put my thoughts together. I

tried to assure her that Jacqueline understands as I am corresponding with her via E-mail. I tell her

about you and how youre doing. You are writing to her in Rome? she inquired in a surprised tone.

Yes, she tells me of her various architectural and artistic discoveries in Rome, and she reminisces of her

tour with you. She always asks about you.

Are you reading anything now? I inquired. My mother had been a voracious reader as long as

I could remember; and no light fare: I still remember that she read the French writers Albert Camus and

Andr Gide in the 1950s. No, Im not reading any books. What happens when you try to read? I

asked. I cant follow the gist of what Im reading. After I read a paragraph, and then start the second, I

cant remember what I just read. She said this without a tone of frustration or resignation, but almost

in a matter-of-fact sort of way that puzzled me. I would have thought she would have been more

disappointed and perhaps even determined to overcome the problem, yet she seemed to have

accepted this loss.

That evening, I dined with my mother in the main dinning room and not in the memory unit.

My mother introduced me to our table-mates, and we conversed a little. After the initial preliminaries

of where I lived, how I arrived, and the cold weather, the conversation slowed to a trickle. Shortly after

supper, it was bedtime at about eight oclock, and we all retired for the evening.

As I sat in the darkness of my room and watching a full, bright moon rise in the night sky, I

thought of my mothers life at Heritage Grove. It was pleasant and it was safe. She was confined to the

memory unit for most of the time. There was only one other resident with whom she seemed to

interact, though the staff tried to engage her as well as the rest of the residents. There were few

activities for the residents, but it wouldnt have mattered as my mother never had interest in games,

puzzles and exercise. She seemed to have lost all interest in reading and listening to music of which she

had been so fond. In short, her life seemed quite empty; on the other hand, she didnt seem to really

care.

It was brisk the next morning: 10 degrees Fahrenheit, yet the sun was shining with only a few

clouds. It seemed a good day for a drive. I thought that my mother would appreciate getting out of the

memory unit, and so I scheduled a visit to my cousin Barryson of my mothers sister, Bayonne Daniels.

Barry resides in the neighboring town of Le Roy, about forty-five miles away. Unless one takes a

connecting flight through a hub city, such as Atlanta, theres only one way to travel from Harmony to Le

Roy: west on county road 44; south on U.S. 63; west on township 56, which is Main Street in Le Roy.

Even I couldnt get lost! Yet ten minutes out of Harmony, my mother began to worry. I think we may

have gone too far, she fretted. This doesnt look familiar. I thought to myself, How can you tell one

farm field from another?, but I censored myself. You better call Barry! she urged. I thought to

myself, What was I going to say? I see a farm house. I see a farm field. And then ask: Am I on the

right road? He would think that I was an idiotand hed be right. I put my mother off, and within afew minutes we were entering the metropolis of Le Roy, population 925.

We picked up Barry and drove to a restaurant in a hotel, the town of Le Roy being able to boast

of having a quite grand hotel. As usual with kin, our conversation started with an update of each

others family, but as I was in the process of writing a story of my mothers estranged sister, Alma Jean,

-4-


5/7

I was hoping to glean some information from my mother, and so I shifted the conversation to her

familythe Daniels. Barry and I posed numerous questions of who, where, when and why. Naturally

there were questions that my mother couldnt answer, but I was struck by her ability to recall the

names and characteristics of persons from the past. Where did Bayonne and Alma Jean live? asked

Barry. They had to move out of the house on 4 Street and move in with Stella Smiley who lived at theth

end of the block, replied my mother. This happened seventy-five years ago in 1938! A little later, I

related that, The 1940 census shows your brother Rod, age twelve, living with his Aunt Anna Ellis and

cousin Rudy; but then he left for Colorado two years later. How come? He thought Aunt Anna quite

odd. Anna homesteaded in South Dakota for several years in the 1930'sliving in a sod houseand then

returned to Harmony. Mama always said, Anna got funny in Dakoti.

As we waited for our food, my mother noticed that it started to snow, and she became visibly

alarmed. Her eyes widened, and she grew agitated. She held her hands to her face, and rubbed them

up and down. Its snowing harder. Were going to be stranded, she said fearfully. I checked the

weather forecast before I left the house, said Barry. Its just a passing snow shower. As he

mentioned this, he pulled out his smartphone and checked again. See! he said, holding the phone up

to my mother which showed the radar image of the storm. Its predicted to pass in about an hour.

Still, my mother continued to fret until the falling snow ceased as predicted.

The next day, we traveled to Rochester to visit with cousin Bruce and his family, and then with

cousin Valerie. Along with Bruces wife Theresa, there were their two teenage sons, Brian and Ben,

their older stepsister, Shannon, and her toddler, Brooklen. The usual inquiries were made as to what

everyone was doing in their lives, and I noticed that my mother was quite attentive in listening to Brian

and Ben, even asking a few questions about their schools and fields of study. Unlike some teenagers,

these two seem willing to engage with their elder relatives, and my mother often remarks how

wonderful there two boys were.

As Bruce had expressed interest in his fathers family and ancestors, I brought along a video on

a DVD showing photographs of the Daniels clan. My mother had no trouble in identifying every person,often with a little background story to describe him or her, and how each was related to her or Bruces

father.

In this friendly environment, and with subject that of her life and her family, she could converse

with relative ease. Even with strangers in a social situation, usually she was able to up her game and

stay in the moment and able to follow the conversation. When she was alone with me, her daemon

returned: the worry of her finances.

Almost inevitably when we were alone, and we had exhausted a particular topic of

conversation, she would raise some concern or question about her finances. Her almost incessant

questioning was what drove me to take her out of my home and to put her in an assisted living facilityin Reston. When she recovered and returned to Harmony in 2010, she rescinded my power of attorney,

and when she became ill in August 2012, she assigned it to Vicky Tribon, her accountant. Now she had

doubts about Vicky. Why did Vicky close my account at the bank?, she asked. Im not receiving a

statement showing the deposit of my pension check from Pitney-Bowes, which was my fathers

company. Vicky is using the account at the bank to pay your bills, I said. She sends me a copy of her

-5-


6/7

invoice every month, and I review it. I dont think shes closed it.

Repeatedly over the three days of my visit, she asked why had Vicky closed her account at the

bank, and why had her statement ceased to arrive. Naive as I was, I thought that I could convince her

that neither was the case. I met with Vicky and reviewed her management of my mothers finances:

payment of invoices, receipt of deposits, and investment of assets. Everything seemed to be in order. I

asked for a copy of the first page of the bank statement which clearly showed a deposit from Pitney-

Bowes; the statement itself would serve as proof that the account was still open.

See Mom! Heres a copy of you bank statement from First Southeast State Bank. Youre

accounts not closed. And see down here: a deposit by Pitney-Bowes. Youre still receiving a pension

check. But why am I not getting the confirmation from Pitney-Bowes? Because Vicky has directed

Pitney-Bowes and your bank to send their correspondence to her, now that she has power of attorney

and is taking care of your finances. She has power of attorney?! she said with surprise. Yes, Mom,

you assigned it to her. Dont you remember? No, . . . I dont! she said incredulously. Instead of

accepting these facts, she then scrutinized each line item of the statement. Six thousand, four

hundred and twenty-five dollars! What was that for? she exclaimed! And now I was on the defensive.

I had allowed myself to be snookered againand I was the one that was suppose to have all his senses.

We played this game several times during my visit. I lost them all! No matter how I varied my

approached or line of reasoning, the outcome was always the same: either she didnt believe me or she

would forget. A few times she requested that I telephone Pitney-Bowes to inquire about the pension,

and that I visit the bankask for the treasurer, Bonnieto see about the account. I was willing to

placate my mother to a degree, but I wasnt willing to put myself in jeopardy of joining her on the

memory unit.

At times I wanted to laugh because the situation was so absurd; but I didnt dare as I realized

that my mother was serious. I tried to understand her condition: she definitely had depression; she

suffered from acute anxiety; she was losing her memory. Memories are layered like sedimentary rock,the earliest layer at the bottom and the latest layer on top. With dementia, the later layers are the

ones more quickly forgotten while the earlier ones remain. Over the course of three days, she must

have asked me fifty times for the name of the staff aid, Nicole; yet she could remember Stella Smiley

who lived down the street in 1938. It was this loss of short-term memory that frustrated her and

contributed to her depression and anxiety. Sometimes her anxiety would

stem from some worry, however, improbable its occurrence, and

sometimes it arose for reasons even she couldnt explain.

On our last evening together, we were sitting in her room, I in her

easy chair and she on her bed. We had just revisited her finances yet

again, though this time she was worried that she didnt have enoughmoney to last her. Mom, I went over your investments with Vicky, and

we both concluded that you have enough money to keep you in Heritage

Grove for the rest of your life. She looked doubtful. What if I dont?

she exclaimed.

The Scream

-6-


7/7

As her anxiety escalated, her hands rose to her face and she ran them slowly up and down along

side her head, palpably frightened out of her wits and looking like portrait entitled, The Scream, by

Edvard Munch. She was trembling. I tried to assure her: No one is going to throw you out on the

street, I replied. Vicky and I will always take care of you. But her anxiety had escalated to the

point where it paralyzed her mind, for she looked at me puzzlingly: Youre . . . Jared, she stammered.

No Mom, Im Rod. Jareds my son. Oh Rod! she cried. At this point, my mother broke into tears.

To realize that ones brain is ceasing to function must be the most frightening thing imaginable.

At this point, pity rose in my heart. We cried together and I joined her on the edge of the bed

and held her in my arms. I felt that I could be the catcher in the rye. I could save her from loneliness

and abandonment. I could bring her back to Reston and care for her. She would feel safe. She would

be with family. She would be happy.

I went to bed exhausted, but awoke while it was still dark. Thinking it would be light soon, I

checked the clock: 2:40am. There was a full moonso silvery white that it lit the room. I gazed at the

moon and thought of my mother. It became clear that my expectations were unrealistic. I could assure

her that her money was safe, that her money was not being misspent, that she had enough money, and

that I would take care of everything for her; but she would never be convinced. Evidence, facts, and

logic were not going to change her mind. Whether it was dementia or an emotional problem was

beside the point. Neither her medical doctors nor the psychiatrist in Harmony had found a cure in the

last six months; it was unlikely that a new set of doctors would find one.

She would always be anxious; she would always have another question; she would always be

worried; she would always be frightened. Perhaps it had always been so, though not observable. She

had taken care of me when I was a child, and she had taken care of my father all their married life. My

father reigned in our house, but he did not rule. All the major decisions were made by my mother. All

the finances were managed by my mother. I recalled a small but telling incident told to me by my

mother. When my father became a tennis instructor, he was paid mainly by check by his clients, and he

put them on his dresser at the end of the day. My mother told me that she initially resolved not todeposit them for him, but as the weeks went by, the checks just piled up, and so she relented. I suspect

that she came to realize that she couldnt depend upon him to manage their finances, and so she came

to believe that only she could depend on herself; and now she could never trust anyone to take care of

her.

Gaining this understanding enabled me to have sympathy for my mother and forgive her harsh

words. My warm feelings for her revived. I realized that I could love my mother again, but I couldnt

save her. I couldnt make her young again, I couldnt restore her mind, and I couldnt dispel her fears. I

would have to leave her to the fate she had chosen which was to live her remaining days in Harmony.

We said our good-byes that morning. Ill be alright here, she said. These are good people.I think youll be alright, too, I said. But know that Ill be always thinking of you. And Ill call you

often.

About a week later, I received an E-mail from Vicky stating that my mother wanted to apply for

residency in the assisted living unit, and that she wanted to activate her cell phone service.

-7-

Documents

My Mother at Age 91