Fast Food and Back Rubs

What's it like to spend time with an aging parent? Absurd, poignant, bewildering, and beautiful--it's a lot of things.

April 5, 2018, Thursday

“This is killing my ass,” mom snapped as Anita and I settled her onto the couch in the t.v. room. We adjusted her among the pillows and cushions to get her comfortable and then returned to the kitchen. I could hear mom seething about “the bad lady.”

“Who’s that?” I asked Anita. “The bath lady,” Anita clarified. “I guess she could be the bad lady,” I said. “We will see,” Anita said. Anita’s tone of voice suggested there was little doubt in her mind which way mom’s encounter with the ba(d)th lady would go later today.

I returned to the t.v. room and joined mom on the couch. She put her head on my shoulder and we had some quiet time.

“You can’t pick that,” I told mom after she started to scratch at a mole on my leg. “That’s mine.” “You smell like garlic,” mom said. “I am sorry about that,” I said, “I bet it’s not a good smell.” “No, it’s not,” mom said.

Mom has a new sore on her right shin, on top of an old sore. Her skin is so papery it seems to have disintegrated.

After about twenty minutes Anita came back to the t.v. room and took the compression sleeve off mom’s leg, cleaned up the dried blood — “Ouch, Anita!” — and dressed it with a bandage.

“I am so tired,” mom said, “I am just worn out.” “I know,” I said.

April 6, 2018, Friday

When I get to mom’s this afternoon I see her car parked beside the front door in the grass right by the sidewalk. This is new. An emergency? No.

When I go inside I learn that she and Anita have just returned from a trip to a pizza restaurant called Pieology and that getting mom in and out of her car is easier when the car is parked at the front door, never mind about tire tracks through the bright green spring grass.

I join mom in the t.v. room and ask her about Pieology. “What do you like on your pizza?” “Everything!” mom says.

Mom is listing over on her right side toward the arm of the couch and trying to dislodge some pizza stuck between her teeth. “I’ve got a situation here, with, you know,” she says. “Your back?” I guess. “No.” “Your bottom?” “No, but that always hurts.” “Your teeth?” “Yes.” I get a flosser from a bottle on the table by the phone and give it to her and she goes after it.

Mom’s childhood friend Laura Lee arrives to visit. “What is new with you, girlfriend?” she asks mom. She sits catty-corner to mom on the other couch. “Not a thing,” mom says, leaning over still further and twisting up to look and smile at Laura Lee.

It’s a for-real smile of recognition and affection, as if I were not even there, like, Zap! the years and decrepitude are gone. In its place I see that inimitable familiarity that people share when they have known each other for decades. It feels very private, very personal. I decide that it’s a good moment for me to take a bathroom break.

When I was back at mom’s this evening I found her sitting at the kitchen table in front of an empty plate. “What’s for dinner?” I ask. “White Castle,” Jess says. I almost reel back through the door. Leftover pizza for breakfast this morning, heavy meds throughout the day, cigarettes, and now sliders? Okay, why not? I ask mom about her bath this morning. “Oh, God,” she heaves. “Stupidest thing.”

After Jess takes mom’s dinner plate I open my laptop to show mom some pictures of spring break. I work quickly because I am not sure how long mom might stay interested.

Sure enough, after about three minutes she says, “I don’t think I can do this much longer, Is there any dessert?” She turns to Jess. Jess gives her a small block of Hershey’s chocolate and dishes out some vanilla ice cream.

After mom has a few bites we relocate to the t.v. room and tune in the evening run of “The Golden Girls” but we don’t watch much because as the sun sets so does mom. “I don’t know what to do, what to do, whatever it is I do,” mom begins. “It’s so hard,” she says, “it’s so hard.”

“What is so hard?” I ask. “Staying calm,” she grits. “You look pretty calm,” I assure her. “Do I? I’m not. I am all too pieces inside, all too pieces, all sixes and sevens. It is so hard.”

“I think I will put her to bed now,” Jess says.

April 7, 2018, Saturday

The fiber-filled gummy bears that mom snacks on every day worked their magic this morning but by the time I got there mom was no longer feeling relieved or satisfied. She was on the couch in the t.v. room, frowning, trying to sit up, so I tried to help her but failed. “Should I get Sylvia?” I ask. “No,” mom says. “Her voice, it’s so loud and harsh. It’s awful,” she hisses.

To me Sylvia is bubbly and cheerful but I can see how that could annoy someone in mom’s position. “And Jazz, she is the meanest,” mom gripes. Jazz is Jess’ daughter. I am not familiar with Jazz so I don’t know how accurate mom’s assessment is but I have a feeling that anyone who is not Anita or Jess is going to come up short in mom’s estimation.

For breakfast mom had some yogurt and strawberries and a buttered, toasted English muffin. No junk food, yet. Maybe a healthier breakfast can rectify the nutritional travesty of her fast-food binge over the last two days but maybe all that matters now is calories, calories, calories.

With mom calm but stewing I sit next to her on the couch, hold her hand, and compliment her on her sporty black sweatpants. “Ungh,” she says.

I check in with myself. I am a little tired, a little sad. But I am also looking around the room and sizing it up for future acquisitions.

“Would this couch work in the front room?” “That’s a nice chair.” “We might be able to use this rug somewhere.” “Does she still have that yellow-bottomed cast iron skillet she used to sear steaks to perfection?”

I remember doing the same thing when I was with Granny. “That’s a good-looking table over there.” “This two-seater sure is comfortable.” “How about those pillows?”

I notice on mom’s bookshelves some of the gardening and interior design books she absorbed after Granny died as well as a reading lamp on the other side of the couch. I also see propped against the side of the t.v. the framed silhouette mom made of Granny, kneeling in her garden, planting something with her spade, the brim of her hat flopping over and nearly touching the ground.

When she wasn’t gardening Granny kept the hat on a bench by her back door. I remember trying it on one time. It was far too small and the straw itched but it was supple and nearly weightless. It felt as if I could almost fold it and put it in my pocket.

I think of the pecan casket that Neville and I picked out for mom before spring break. And the pictures we are considering for her obituary. The other day I taped to the side of the refrigerator cabinet the Do Not Resuscitate Order that we completed after meeting with mom’s hospice team. This time is such a weird mish-mash, goulash, poke bowl of emotions and practicalities, one an antidote to the other, balancing out to keep an even keel, even though the boat is going down.

April 8, 2018, Sunday

“I don’t want any breakfast this morning,” mom says. “I am never hungry for breakfast.”

When I arrive mom is sitting at the kitchen table picking listlessly at some raspberries and blueberries and crunching through an overdone English muffin. The phrase “dry as toast?” I get it now.

I sit in the chair to mom’s left. “Well, you gotta have some breakfast so you can take your medicine,” Sylvia reminds mom. Mom turns her head in my direction, rolls her eyes to the ceiling, and whispers, “That voice.” Crunch, crunch, crunch. Sigh.

Mom takes a few sips of milk from the aluminum measuring cup that she has had for decades. She pauses, considers the unappetizing array on her plate, and says, “I would love to put these blueberries in a bowl of Corn Flakes with some cream.”

I do some kitchen reconnaissance. I improvise. In the cabinet by the refrigerator there are no Corn Flakes but there is Special K Vanilla Almond. I put some in a bowl. I open the refrigerator. No cream. I open the freezer — ice cream.

I take the bowl to mom, toss in the dozen blueberries from her plate, spoon out some ice cream, and pour in a bit of milk. “I would love some sugar on this,” mom says.

I go to the counter by the refrigerator, scoop some sugar into the measuring cup in the glass container there, and sprinkle some over mom’s cereal. “How is that?” I ask mom. “More,” mom says. She keeps crunching. She empties the bowl.

Before I leave I consider the brass handle on the back door. It has come loose. It needs an Allen wrench. I look in the bottom drawer by the ovens. I find bags and bags of things in bags in other bags and loose and stray items rattling around— a flathead screwdriver, batteries (AA), a glue gun, string, batteries (AAA), a Phillips screwdriver, razor blades, batteries (D), pliers, another flathead screwdriver, a bottle of nails, pruning shears, scissors, batteries (9 volt)—but no Allen wrenches.

I have a set at home. When I return to mom’s this afternoon I bring them with me and reattach the handle. Mom is as out of sorts as the things in the drawer. I join her in the t.v. room but after about five minutes she wants to go to her bed. She had just been in her bed. “Is that too much exercise?” I ask. “Is it? I don’t care,” mom says. I heft mom upright and then Sylvia maneuvers her to the steps and into her walker and wheels her to her bed in the dining room.

When mom is situated I kneel beside the bed to talk to her. I ask if there is anything I can do to make Sylvia’s time with her less unpleasant. “No,” mom says. “She is what she is.” Sigh. “Well, we all are,” I say. “We are, we are,” mom echoes, “‘tis true.”

I suggest to mom that maybe tomorrow Anita could style her hair. It is thinning and dry but barely gray, like her mother’s. “Good luck with that,” mom says. She muses about the comfort of her bed “for someone as crazily shaped as I.”

Then mom wants to return to the t.v. room so Sylvia and I shuffle and shuttle her back to the couch there. Mom lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag, and then blows out a saturating stream of gray smoke that curls up into the sun coming in the window.

When I visit mom I wear shorts and my down jacket. I wear shorts because even though this spring is unseasonably cool and damp I am tired of wearing pants. I wear my down jacket because even though it may be too warm and even though it would ignite faster than a gasoline-soaked marshmallow over a bonfire if mom should drop an ember on it the jacket does not retain the odor of smoke like my fleece and other tops.

Sitting next to mom on the couch I start to rub her lumpy, humpy, curvy, swervy, “crazily shaped” back. “Does that feel good?” I ask. “Do you like having your back rubbed?” “Yes, I do,” mom says.

Mom asks for her nail file. I find it on the side table. She exchanges the cigarette for the file. I stub the cigarette out in the ashtray on the table, making sure to crush all the embers so it stops smoking.

“Have you met Rhonda?” mom asks. “Rhonda Ba Bamba Teeleo Tonda? That is her name,” mom explains. I doubt it but I go with it. “She comes some nights,” mom continues, filing her nails. Scritch, scritch.

“She spoils me rotten, and when I call her in the night she is there in a flash. Do you know what she calls me? ‘Pretty Polly.’ Have you ever? I am so ugly at this point in my life.” “It is not always how we look,” I suggest. “Oh, it’s not? Okay,” mom says.

Scritch, scritch, rub, rub. We ponder the whereabouts of the yellow-bottomed cast iron pan. “I think cousin Kit gave that to me,” mom says. But she can’t think where it might be now. She knows its origins but not its fate. The same could be said about any thing, or person.

Mom asks about the children. She wants to hear more about spring break. I tell her some of the things we did, some of the things we saw. I also tell her that when things get nutty at home I imagine I am still by the pool in a warm breeze, relaxed and peaceful.

Scritch, scritch, rub, rub. “I wish you would never stop,” mom says about her back rub. I remember when I was younger and used to sit on the couch in our t.v. room and lie across mom’s lap to let her rub my back. I used to think the same thing — I wish you would never stop.

For a long time I did not want to be around mom. I don’t know why. It is hard to recall the feelings that kept me away. Even if I were able to recall them I am not sure I would be able to articulate them.

I also wonder what took me so long to come around and why now. But guess I don’t really need answers to these questions either. All that matters is where I am now, not how I got here. Like Rhonda Ba Bamba’s name, I just have to go with it.

Before leaving I suggest to mom that when she finds herself “all sixes and sevens inside” she can think of having her back rubbed. “Just like I think of myself by the pool on spring break,” I tell her. “Okay,” she says.

April 9, 2018, Monday

This morning I call mom’s to introduce myself to Rhonda. She sounds like a good fit, gracious and patient with a soothing voice. Rhonda mentions that mom did not go to sleep until about seven this morning. She doesn’t elaborate as to why so I just assume that it’s because of some physical or psychological discomfort.

My assumption was wrong. “I heard you were up all night,” I say to mom when I am there this afternoon and join her in the t.v. room. “Yes, I was,” mom chirps. “Was it a bad night?” I ask. “No! Rhonda and I were celebrating!” she says. “We had carrot cake and ice cream! That cake is so delicious! It’s so spi-cey.” I have no idea what the occasion may have been but if mom wants to party all night, more power to her.

As I settle into the couch I try to adjust mom to improve the angle for rubbing her back but I can’t situate her right so instead I just pat her bony, fleece-padded left shoulder and stroke her twiggy left thigh, swallowed by the fabric of her pull-on denim pants. The compromise satisfies mom.

“I would love a cigarette,” mom says to Anita when she comes around to check on mom, “and some yogurt with blueberries.” Anita suggests that mom have only the latter instead of the former but mom is not down for a compromise. Anita returns a few minutes later with a small bowl of yogurt and blueberries.

Mom fires up her cigarette, takes a few tokes, starts spooning through her creamy, fruity snack, and then passes some serious gas. I fan it back at her with the most recent edition of the New York Times Magazine along with the smoke she’s just blown my way.

On the t.v. I can see Judge Judly but I can’t hear what she is saying. I muted the volume after I sat down. I figured that the racket from the t.v. would not only interfere with talking to mom but exacerbate the headache the cigarette would soon induce and I wanted to make my visit as tolerable as possible for as long as possible.

Earlier mom had a couple of Benadryl to mollify some itching she was having around her sores. Those appear to be healing. A nurse had come in the morning to check them. “I have been inspected from head to toe,” mom assured me. “It sounds like you are in pretty good shape,” I said. “Am I? Okay,” mom said.

April 10, 2018, Tuesday

Bath this morning — “Intensely boring. We just butt heads, that lady and I.”

Breakfast this morning — “Five-thousand pills. Phffft.” “And cookies! Bordeaux.”

Lunch this afternoon — “I want to go to Pieology!”

Dinner last night — “Mashed potatoes. They are just killer! So much butter, just heaven. And pork chops, baked and fried, and succotash. It’s all just killer.”

Back rub this morning — “Please don’t stop.” “You are spoiling her,” Anita says. I know. That’s the plan.

Bandages this morning — ”They itch!”

(More) medication — “May I have a Benadryl for this itching?” “You had one already,” reminds Anita. “Would you like half a Seroquel?” she offers. “You may have some of that to help you relax about this itching.” “Yes, please!”

Bathroom break — “I want to go the john and see about all this itching. Come on, help me up.”

Snack — “And get some pistachios on the way!” “You know you will need to wash your hands now before you go to the bathroom,” Anita says. “Oh, Anita, I know. Come on! Let’s go see about all this itching!”

April 12, 2018, Thursday

Mom is not in the best mood this morning. “I can’t take all these pills,” she says, looking dejectedly into her bowl of yogurt and berries.

The problem is that she is trying to chew some of the pills with the berries. They are not the chewable kind. Anita has to scold her a bit.

Then mom is preoccupied by some bodily functions. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she says, “I am going right now. In my diaper.” Anita reverses mom from the kitchen table and wheels her to the bathroom.

In the closet across from the bathroom I find a new pair of pants. As soon as Anita finishes with that situation mom starts to have a bowel movement but she is still on the toilet so it’s not a total do-over with a new diaper and pants. Figuring that mom and Anita will be busy for a while I decide to return home.

On the way home I go to the car wash. Charlie is working at the vacuum station but since I wanted only an exterior wash I pull around to go through that lane. I wave at him as I pass. He returns my wave and smiles his toothless smile. I could say the same for his zipper. It was open.

When I first started going to Sparkle Brite a few months ago I introduced myself to Charlie. I recognized him. He has worked there for fifty years, through a succession of owners and locations, the first of the latter being downtown where they used buckets of water to wash cars. He has never missed a day. I described mom to him. He remembered her. “She always had a dog in the car!” he said. “Yeah, I remember her!”

April 14, 2018, Saturday

This morning mom was up around five, enjoying a yogurt parfait for breakfast by seven, and reclining on the couch smoking a cigarette by the time I get there around nine. I am glad to see such leisure and indulgence.

“It just started raining,” I tell mom. “It’s raining?” mom says. “Oh, shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” I doubt whether the rain bothers mom. She chirped rather than cursed. It may just be the alliteration that pleases her.

Sylvia is with mom this morning. Mom has mentioned someone named Crystal. I turn to Sylvia sitting in the chair by the fireplace. “Are you Crystal today?” I ask her. She nods, Yes. She smiles and giggles and winks. I give her a thumbs up.

“I want to get up,” mom says after a few minutes. “Where do you want to go?” I ask. “I don’t know,” mom says, “this is how I travel.”

While I have mastered hoisting mom from the couch and guiding her up the steps into her walker I could use some practice driving the thing. Backing up I crash into the plant stand by the back door with the yellow Post-It on it on which mom has written TEETH in red Sharpie. Mom directs me to the bathroom and we make it there without another collision.

Mom’s note about her teeth reminds me of two that used to be taped to Granny’s thermostat, one in Aunt Lee’s handwriting and the other in MOM’S—

Leave switch on “cool” all the time. Top row numbers = temp you want. Bottom row numbers = temp that is.

DO NOT EVER SET BELOW 72*. IT WILL FREEZE UP AND BREAK.

When I come by mom’s this afternoon I learn that the upbeat, balanced tempo of her morning continued. More magic from the fiber-filled gummies, a big lunch, and a nap, Sylvia tells me.

I join mom in the t.v. room. She’s watching Judge Judy. ” “She is marvelous,” mom says. “Have you ever noticed how small her hands are?” No, but now that mom mentions it, I see. “And I love her glasses, how they don’t wrap behind her ears. Do you see?” “Yes,” I say. But I never would have caught that detail on my own either.

I remember the time that I showed Granny a picture of Joan Didion from a book review in The New Yorker. Granny studied it for a moment and then said, “Well, she’s certainly done a good job of keeping her skin up, hasn’t she?” I had not noticed. It had not even occurred to me to notice and I never would have noticed no matter how long I’d studied that picture.

When mom slumps over to my right shoulder I am able to rub her back. I also survey her arms and legs, padded and thickened here and there with assorted bandages, artificially and protectively bulked out.

“Why are you so skinny if you eat so much?” I ask. “Have you been exercising?” “Are you kidding?” mom says. She clicks her lighter at the cigarette in her mouth. Puff, puff. “I am just very lucky,” she says, “very, very lucky.” Puff.

“I wish I could settle down,” mom says a little later. “You seem calm to me,” I say. “I’m not,” mom says, “I’m all mixed up inside.” “Are you worried about something?” “Yes.” “What?” “Oh, everything and nothing,” she sighs.

At some point an ad for Wendy’s comes on featuring a hamburger close-up. The image is big. The colors are intense.

“That looks so good,” mom says. I was thinking the same thing. I suggest Wendy’s for Fast Food Friday with Jess. “Their burgers are a lot better,” I tell her, “they’re more expensive but — ” “You know that doesn’t matter,” mom interrupts. Puff, puff.

Mom asks about the children. “What do they think of where I have moved to?” she wonders. “You haven’t moved,” I tell mom. “You are still at home.” “I know that,” mom says, “I just don’t understand it.” “The only thing that is different is that you sleep in the dining room now,” I tell her. “Okay,” mom says. Puff, puff.

A little after five Rhonda arrives to spend the night with mom. I have stayed to meet her.

“Are you going to keep Rhonda up all night?” I ask mom. “Why would I do that?” she asks. “That’s what you did last time,” I remind her. “Oh, well, no. I don’t think I will. That would put her off, wouldn’t it?”

Rhonda has a gentle, positive presence. She and mom make each other laugh. The more of that, the better.

Rhonda explained to me the genesis of her nickname. “At first she called me Phoebe,” Rhonda began, “and then she called me Donna for a while. And I said, ‘Come on, we got to get this straight!’ so she came up with Rhonda Ba Bamba.”

Maybe it is another instance where alliteration helps. The same for routine. “Are you about ready for dinner?” Rhonda asks mom, “it’s 5:12.” “Whatever you say, Precious,” mom says.

April 17, 2018, Tuesday

In addition to seeing mom Saturday the children and I stopped by to see her Sunday. I thought I might need to cajole them but neither one resisted and both seemed to enjoy our visit.

Mom was pretty spirited and alert but I cringed at myself for feeling as if I were treating her like a trick pony. “What did you say Saturday morning when I told you it was raining?” I prompted mom. “Shit!” mom said. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” The children giggled.

But some spontaneous and genuine wit from mom erased my unpleasant feeling of contrivance. William told her about getting his nose punched at recess recently playing with a friend. “Did you hit him back?” mom asked. “No,” William said, “it was an accident.” “So?” mom said. William and Polly giggled again.

As we were leaving William took a handful of gummies from the kitchen counter. I hope they’re not the fiber-filled ones.

April 23, 2018, Monday

When I got to mom’s this morning I joined her in the t.v. room. She asked me what I will be doing the rest of the day. I answered in the same way each time she asks me this — laundry, cooking, driving the children around, other errands, including returning later in the afternoon to try to unclog her dishwasher drain.

In general over the past few weeks I have found mom calmer and more lucid and even jokey and cheerful. Perhaps I am just catching her at good times on bad days. But it could be that hospice agrees with her. If that is the case, hospice also agrees with me.

April 25, 2018, Thursday

When I got to mom’s Tuesday she was resting on the couch “just whipped” from a trip with Anita to McDonald’s. She had her usual Big Mac without the middle bun and a large fries.

Donna was also at mom’s. Donna styles mom’s hair. She was waiting to see if mom would rally. Donna has a lot of patience.

Donna has had a lot of practice being patient. Not only is she the mother of five grown children but she has been working at a nursing home for 42 years doing the hair of residents there. “I just like working with the elderly,” she said.

Anita and I brainstormed about how to revive mom. We decided to try a Coke and ice cream float but when I left after about an hour mom was still flat-out on the couch.

This morning when I get to mom’s she is sleeping. She and Jess were up most of the night talking and smoking.

I talked with Anita — about eliminating the rank odor from a kitchen closet, getting the dishwasher fixed, the microwave — and then mom’s dog Missy trotted to the front door and started barking at something that turned out to be nothing and woke up mom.

“Missy!” mom barked back from her bed in the dining room. Mom looked pale but her eyes were clear and she was cogent. “You want some yogurt and flakes for breakfast?” Anita asked. “With sugar,” mom said.

To read more about my time with my mother, please see Cookies and Cigarettes, Peace Plants and Passing Gas, and Diapers and Depression.

You may also support my work at Buy Me a Coffee.