Groundhog Day

Los Angeles, California

My mom was hospitalized a month ago and is now in her familiar rehab/skilled nursing center; a facility which considers her to be a "frequent flier." It was her fourth hospital stay; and is her fourth stay in this rehab facility, in less than three years. At the rehab center, she is even in the same room and bed where she has resided over two of her other stays. A lot of the employees there know me. I like them, and I feel they take good care of her. But a rehab facility is a place that you want to get out of as quickly as possible. Both she, and me.

I spent almost nine hours sitting beside her bed after the paramedics took her the ER. You don't dare leave, because that will be the time that the doctor will show up at her cubicle. You must trust me about this, because when it comes to ERs, between my dad and now my mom, I am also a frequent flier. I know the drill. The call came, from the owner of her board and care home, that 911 had been called, and Mom had experienced yet another episode of syncopy, and had been taken to the hospital. Which hospital? I asked to no avail. She had neglected to find out, so some hurried investigative telephone work ensued. Once I learned where she was, I packed up an at-hand copy of her Advance Directive (never give the copy, make them copy it), two Luna protein bars, and a two bottles of water, and headed out. Then the sitting ensued.

After it was determined that she had a urinary tract infection, there was a time in the middle when they were going to send her home with antibiotics, but I pleaded that I was not secure with her care at the board and care home, and mentioned the fluid buildup that her primary care physician had heard in her chest when I had accompanied her to an appointment two weeks before. Dr. Baca took pity on me. At least I think that is what happened, because he changed his mind and decided to admit her. Meanwhile, Billy and several of my friends, including Lydia, were texting me. Each time, after the doctor would round by, I could escape into the hall to make phone calls. I told Carol that once she was admitted I was going to go home and have a big glass of scotch. She offered to bring it to the hospital for me. Another amigo offered to bring tequila and a burrito. They all provided that necessary sense of a safety net, while I went it alone, with only the Luna bars and water.

The nurse who had been with us all day (12-hour shifts, don't ask me how they do this), finally came to take her upstairs to a room. I kissed her goodbye and told her that she was in good hands with John, the nurse, and I drove home, calling Billy on the way. While I was updating him, a call came in from the hospital. While again, I'm very good at this drill, I had, nonetheless, forgotten that she can't do the intake because of her memory issues. And the stupid thing is that they don't transfer information from emergency to the hospital at large upon admission (really, people?). So I needed to answer about 20-minutes of information pertaining to her medical history. I finished off the last ten minutes in the garage. Billy came out of the house into the garage, saw me sitting in the car talking, and gave me the universal palms-up gesture for wtf? I had just answered the question about previous surgeries (four, including two knee replacements) and could hear the nurse keying away. I gestured to Billy, the size of a tumbler and mouthed: scotch, one ice cube. He slipped back into the house and returned with one of our crystal glasses. I sipped the scotch, still in the car, still talking to the nurse, still into the ethos of Bluetooth.

The next day I got up and did it all over again. And continued to do it through a week at the hospital, during which time there was a suspicion of pancreatic cancer which, after two days, turned out to be a large cyst on her pancreas. Billy and I were her only visitors during that week. The day she was in emergency, Billy phoned my sister to tell her that Mom was in the hospital with an uncertain diagnosis and outcome. "I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow," she reported. "And I can't change my plans because I've already boarded the cats."
Huh? So she flew away the next morning, and we never heard from her for the entire week. The hospital would only give general information to anyone, besides me, who might call, so she had no access to what was really going on. But, when you're on vacation, who wants to be bothered by a little thing like your mother being in the hospital? Seriously.

I visited my mom every day for the week when she was in the hospital, and exactly one week after our day together in the ER, she was transported to the rehab center. I had left the hospital at 8:00 pm, and picked up Billy. We were at the facility when she arrived. Billy helped her get settled, while I did the intake with the nurse, and turned over her Advance Directive (again, for copying). At 9:45 we walked into the bar at Kate Mantilini's. The Dodgers were still playing, and probably losing (but that's a whole other post, as we like to say in blogtown). I ordered a Glenlivet with one ice cube. It was a nice pour. We shared good sourdough bread, some fat, roasted asparagus, and their macaroni and cheese which tasted insanely amazing after enduring the week that had began that long day that had ended with my knocking back that glass of scotch in my car. It had been a long week, and would be a long week to come. I would visit her every day that week as it was her first back in a place which was familiar to me, but, because of her failing memory, much less so to her. Now, after her third week there, I can get by with visiting only 3 or 4 times each week. We had a Care Plan meeting in the second week. Their plan is to keep her for the one-hundred days that Medicare will cover. My plan is to get her some physical therapy to hopefully strengthen her a bit, and get her out much sooner than that. Meanwhile, each day I have spent with her, in the hospital or rehab facility, is Groundhog Day.

I know how it is when you visit someone in the hospital, Mom says, looping this phrase over and over. I don't know what it is, but it doesn't feel good. I tell her that it doesn't bother me. And, in some ways, it is the truth. It is so familiar to me that I fall into the pattern easily, in spite of the stress and fatigue that rides along with me in the process. I know who to be nice to (everyone), I know what to bring with me in a heavy tote bag, I know how to listen to her and how to respond. I tell her every time when I see her that I will always be there for her. I remind her that we are family. When, each time before I leave, she tells me she loves me, I always respond I love you more.

My mom wasn't there for me when I needed her the most. When I was a teenager, even though my mom was a housewife and was ostensibly at home each day, I was left to flounder around and rely on my friends and my friends' families for the support and grounding all teenagers need. My dad wasn't really around. He was working long hours with a ridiculously far daily commute. I was left to find my own way when I was too young to do so competently. Now she is too old. And I won't do to her what she did to me. So, I loop along with her, telling her what I hope will be a comfort. I've done this over and over and over again, and will continue to do so for the rest of her life.  Groundhog Day.

Danger UXBarbecue Sauce

Los Angeles, California


Yes, there's been lots of fun this summer. But it hasn't all been fun. There have been a couple of breaks in the force: the situation with my mom, of course; the freakin' economy and stock market (at this rate, we may never be able to retire. I mean, who knows?); and, last but not least . . . the renter.


Billy and I own a rental property, which was the first home we bought the year after we were married. We kept this house as a rental, in spite of the fact that Billy did not want to do this. I did. So, when we moved away after purchasing our second home, we put the house on the market with the understanding that if it sold, it sold. If it did not sell, we would rent it. Billy set the price a bit higher than was recommended, and it was a soft market (ha! We now know what soft markets really are, eh?), so I was pretty much assured that we would have it as an income property. And, being in business for ourselves, it made sense to do this. Diversification for retirement purposes, I loftily thought. And, in retrospect, it has been a very smart thing. Until this year, when the renter who has lived there for over a decade conned us on his rent (check is in the mail . . . check is lost in the mail . . . someone cashed check that was lost . . . bank will make good on check in 45 to 60 days . . .). Now I, with my impeccable bulls^#* detector, did not believe any of this. But Billy and our property manager went with the half-full glass theory and waited this out. At the point where he owed two full months of rent, we proceeded with eviction.


This is where owning a rental property turned into a worst-case scenario. He fought the eviction, then filed bankruptcy just before our court date. By the time we actually got him out, he owed us a lot. And, let me say (in case I sound as if I am lacking in compassion), this guy was always a nightmare. He fought us over maintaining the yard and lawn, his ex-wife got a restraining order against him for emotional cruelty, he harassed our gardener, and, last but not least, he virtually destroyed the house. So, since mid-July, we have been in the process of setting it straight. This involves: bringing in our contractor to do painting; much of Billy's free weekend time to do repairs; a lot of cold, hard cash; and requisite amounts of regret, anger, and fatigue.


So, on Monday, after we ran around in close to triple digit heat all day buying a dishwasher, a garbage disposal, a hose, a broom, and a ton of bedding soil at Lowe's -- which, incidentally, was a welcome change from the many trips to Home Depot we have made over the last month (carpeting, toilets, plumbing fixtures), we ran a couple more errands then took ourselves out to happy hour at Kate Mantilini's. We are not usually happy hour people, though I suppose we could be, if the timing worked out a little better. But on Mondays, this can work. We each had a pretty good-sized martini, and split a roasted artichoke, some oxymoronic jumbo shrimp, a small order of ribs, and a Caesar salad. The ribs came with a ramekin of barbecue sauce, which we did not use. When the waitress cleared, she tipped the plate, and the sauce fell off the plate, hitting the floor in a manner which caused it to arc up in a spray that more or less covered me in red spots like instantaneous chicken pox. I was wearing a strappy little dress with my shoulders exposed (red spots), just a little bit of make-up (more red spots), and my hair half pulled up into a ponytail (and again, some more red spots). It was all over my dress from my lap up. And all over my arms. I was still finding barbecue sauce on me when I got ready for bed that night. Of course the server was mortified, but we pretty much laughed about it (did I mention BIG martinis?) and reassured her that accidents happen . . . but so does dry cleaning. The manager gave me a card to bring back with my dry cleaning bill. I look forward to another martini when we come back. And an artichoke, and maybe some shrimp. Not so much with the ribs, though. Think this is the cosmos way of telling me I should be a vegetarian? Nah.


And, by the way, with the debacle at the rental property, do I regret that we kept the house as a rental? Not for one nanosecond. There is little that can be done to a house that can't be repaired, and in the long run solid investments always make sense. Especially in an uncertain world of flying barbecue sauce. My only word of caution would be to screen prospective renters carefully. Oh yeah, and on that other front, don't forget to duck. "Spotty" thanks you for reading her blog!