Falling Off the Edge of the Earth

Los Angeles, California

Remember when I wrote funny posts? Do you recall my writing two, even three posts per month? Can you think back to my missives about the joy of those three things in my life: cooking; dancing; writing?  How about: Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow, and oh so mellow (if you're very lucky, you hear Jerry Orbach singing this in the ear of your brain)? Anyway. Mom was hospitalized, and now continues her residence in the rehab facility. And. Still. I am the only family she has who is willing to help.


Lest we forget, I do have a sibling. An older sister. But she opted out of Mom's care, let's see, just about as soon as Mom needed care. Billy has stepped into her shoes (well, not literally). So I have those Chinatown moments: he's my husband/he's my sister/he's my husband, he's my sister . . . Come on, you know what I mean. Like we all don't have those moments.


So I've been absent from my blog -- giving my faithful (or faithless) posse a respite while I have been spinning out, trying to figure out what happens next in the morass of complications that make up elder care. All the while watching my mom diminish to a shadow. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Anxious? Depressed? Hurt? Yes, yes, and yes. But as I wrote to a frister recently: We've either been through this; are going through this; or will go through this. And that is probably the truth, mas o menos.


Life becomes a run when you have someone in the hospital. You get up; you get dressed; you do some work; you run. A lot of things fall by the wayside: hanging up clothes, balancing checking accounts (with taking on the responsibility for my mom's finances,  I currently have seven); spending quality time with the spouse. Because he's running, too -- picking up the slack around the house, if not the pile of clothing on the bedroom chair.


I always think that she will be ok each time. But her congestive heart failure is weakening her. This stint at rehab to try to shore up her diminishing mobility is not as successful as in the past. And as she nears the fifty-day mark, she will need to leave rehab. Why? Because Medicare only pays for 100 days, and you cannot regenerate those days until she has avoided hospitalization for several months. Therefore, I always try to keep some days in reserve. So I will request her discharge shortly. And after that; who knows? My goal is to find the best place for her. As I have traveled this path, deeper and deeper into the woods, I have learned what she doesn't need. I have learned what to look for in board and care. And, what, at all costs, to avoid. Again, I just want to find the best place for her. All of this requires practical education in maneuvering the minefield of elder care. There is a lot of care to be had, but one quickly becomes cynical when you get caught up in the system. It's all about keeping the person going, my friend, Lydia (a doctor's daughter), recently commented about elder medical care. No, I corrected her. It's all about keeping the Medicare going. I know that sounds awful. I want my mom to keep going; to live out her lifespan. But when a myriad collection of "specialists" are called into the rehab center to see my mom and bill Medicare -- dentists, ophthamologists, podiatrists, it makes me wonder whether the Medicare pie is set out, and then everyone scrambles for their piece of it. After the doctors go away, Mom might be left to languish in bed if I were not there to advocate that she be up, and dressed so that her energy isn't further sapped.


I wish I could be around to see how you do when you're my age, my mom once snapped at me. And it was food for thought. My mom tells everyone that she was an acrobatic dancer. I'm not exactly sure what that means, as the story has changed throughout the years. My mom's bendable legend is that she was a dancer -- ballet, tap, and what was known as acrobatics, which, presumably, was like gymnastics. She also played tennis, and she bowled and roller-skated. But from the time I was born, when Mom was in her thirties, I never saw her engage in any physical activity, much less the ones listed above. When she reached her seventies, and we could see she was spending too much time sitting, I implored her to get moving. Use it or lose it, as the saying goes. But even as I talked to her about this, I knew that I was not the boss of her. The atrophy continued, and she is now wheelchair-bound.

Maybe I will be the same when I am her age. And, perhaps, that is the irony--that I will find that her statement about wanting to see how I do when I am her age is prophetic. But I am past middle age. And, unlike my mom, I move. I do Pilates. And I really dance -- last night, for about six hours, until my hair was literally dripping. Well, as I have written before, salsa dance--not for the squeamish.

Meanwhile I ponder where she will go from here. And I question the wisdom of elder care. I want to give her the gift of dying of old age as both her parents did. But you have to rage against the machine. You have to learn about palliative care. You have to focus on comfort. And it is a constant battle. Even as I write this, I was talked into authorizing metabolic lab tests for her, though I suspect it was, ostensibly, just about one more charge-off to Medicare. Elder care is a business. It is for profit. And, it is a shame.

So, at times it does feel as if I am balanced on the edge of the earth. Billy; my fristers and frothers; salsa dance; Dodger baseball; a brand-new taste for Negronis made with bourbon (thank you, Christopher!);  a prospective return to Carmel in September, this ALL keeps me from falling off that edge. When I start to waver, I get pulled back. But even if you don't really fall, it still feels like the edge of the earth. And that is plain, damn scary...Thank you all for hanging in with me. Believe me, I KNOW it's not been pretty...And I thank you for reading my blog.