Be Careful What You Wish For

This is really long, but I need to vent.

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It was almost ten years ago that I moved into my home, and it was only a few days later that I saw my new neighbor outside working in her yard. Turns out she had been my neighbor many years before when I lived in the house on the other side of her’s. I was only a child then, so I couldn’t exactly remember what she looked like or if she would even remember me.

“Are you who I think you are?” she asked. Once I nodded yes and smiled, she immediately wanted a hug and told me how thrilled she was that I had moved in next door to her. She would go on to tell me over the next several years that God sent me back to her.

Over the past decade, I’ve spent countless nights with her watching movies, eating her delicious fried chicken, and taking her to see fireworks. Several months ago, we took her to see a film, and she said it was the first time she had been to a theater in 45 years. Coming from a family that usually doesn’t understand or feel comfortable with my sexuality, she became my surrogate grandmother and I’m actually closer to her than many of my blood relatives.

When I met Alan, she immediately took him under her wing and he often takes her to doctor’s appointments or to the grocery, helping her in and out of the car and making sure she uses her walker like she’s supposed to. She often tells strangers that we are her grandsons, which causes both of us to break out in giggles at the mere idea of our “incestuous” relationship.

When she fell last summer and broke her hip, we nursed her through three months in the nursing home, visiting her almost every evening, bringing her dinner (she hated the food they prepared), and laughing as we watched “America’s Got Talent” on the small television that she had to share with her roommate.

Just before bringing her home from the facility, a physical therapist toured Mrs. J’s home with Alan and pointed out all of the pieces of furniture that needed to be removed or rearranged to prevent her from falling. Unnecessary pieces like the coffee table were moved to the garage, while furniture items in hallways or close to doors were moved to more appropriate locations.

For the first few weeks after her return home, we took turns spending the night at her house, making sure that her transition was as painless and uncomplicated as possible. We bought groceries, cooked meals, kept up with her medication, and did any other household chores that a disabled person would need help with.

She often told people (and us) that she didn’t know what she would do if we weren’t there. We would simply smile, give her a hug, and tell her the same thing. We weren’t performing these tasks out of a sense of responsibility or obligation, we simply did them because we loved her, they needed to be done, and there was no one else willing to do them.

We often complained about her “real” family, although only amongst ourselves so that she would never hear. We were flabbergasted when her son arrived after her hip surgery and didn’t even offer to spend the night. We were amazed that he only came to visit her a couple of times during the three months she was in the nursing home. Although she always made excuses for his apparent lack of care, we knew that she probably realized his behavior was selfish.

Her nieces and nephews seem to be far more concerned with her well-being than her only offspring and grandchildren. They call and visit her very often, and one niece is always the person that I call when a medical emergency arises.

A few months ago, her son (who lived a couple of hours away) decided to sell his house and move in with his mother. FINALLY, we thought. This would have to be a big relief for us because we wouldn’t have to constantly worry about her falling and lying helpless on the floor, or leaving the stove on, or getting her medication mixed up. It was about time that he helped take up the slack and start contributing to his mother’s quality of life.

He and his mother started selling off furniture from their respective homes, knowing that they would have to combine everything that was left into her smaller house. His home wasn’t on the market long, so it was only a couple of weeks ago that he started bringing down his belongings.

Mrs. J bought her house when I was a child, so she’s been sleeping in the master bedroom for around 30 years. The adjoining bathroom with walk-in shower was very convenient for someone who has problems walking and getting in a bathtub. However, when her son decided to keep his king-size bedroom suit, Mrs. J asked us to come over and move her furniture into a much smaller spare bedroom so that he could have the larger room.

She sold antiques that she had purchased and cherished for years to make room for his more modern pieces. She boxed up glassware and dishes, advertised beds and sofas in the newspaper, and basically cleared out half of her belongings. I could tell that all the change was weighing heavily on her mind, especially due to the fact that these were items that she had meticulously dusted and looked at for decades. Change is hard for anyone, but certainly more so for a women months away from her ninetieth birthday.

When the son moved in for good last Monday, we really didn’t know what to expect. A couple of days ago, he asked us to swap out her television set with his and that gave us our first opportunity to see the house with new contents. It actually looked pretty nice, but was still very much in the process of being permanently arranged. What really caught our attention was all of the pieces of furniture that had been placed back in walkways and doorways. When I pointed out one of them to her, he interrupted a telephone conversation to tell me that she had plenty of room.

Yesterday morning, just before 7am, our phone rang. The son was calling to tell us that Mrs. J had fallen outside and couldn’t get up. Alan immediately ran over and found her sitting in the driveway in her bra, soaking up the blood from a head wound with her shirt. She had tipped over head-first while pulling weeds and gashed her head open on the concrete water diverter under her gutter downspout. After pulling her off the ground, he ran back over to tell me that she had to go the emergency room. I offered to go, but he said it wasn’t necessary.

A few minutes later, I look over to see her son unloading furniture from his truck and carrying it into the house. I just couldn’t believe that he didn’t ride with his mother to the emergency room! Alan soon called to let me know that her wound had required several stitches and that they were keeping her in the hospital for monitoring. He, of course, also called and informed her son of the same thing.

Alan came home a few hours later and the son was still at home, acting as if nothing was wrong. We went back to the hospital yesterday evening and I asked if he had been there to visit. No, she said. He had apparently started to the hospital and had a drop in blood sugar, so he had went back home.

Knowing that there was not even the slightest possibility that he would spend the night in the hospital with his mother, and realizing how she hallucinates when taking pain medication, we decided to stay. Finally, late in the evening, her son showed up in her hospital room and stayed a few minutes. As he got up to leave, there was no mention of whether anyone was going to stay with her, no explanation of why he couldn’t… nothing.

This morning, he arrived just before she was checked out of the hospital. We followed them home in our car and then walked next door to help get her settled in. The house was a complete disaster.

The blood and grass from where Alan had prepared to take her to the hospital was still all over the bathroom. The kitchen counters were completely covered in dishes and knick-knacks that he had brought in. As we led her into the den to sit in her recliner, I was appalled to see an antique goat wagon sitting right in the middle of the floor.

Once I was alone in the room with her, I asked about it. She explained that it has belonged to his deceased wife. I asked if it was staying and she said it was. I reminded her that she wasn’t even supposed to have a coffee table in front of the couch, and that this was much, much worse considering it had jagged edges and large wheels. She didn’t even respond. I found out later from Alan that this “cherished” wagon had been stored in Mrs. J’s garage for years and her son had moved it into the house while she was hospitalized.

So, we’ve come to the point where we have to step back and throw our hands up. We can’t protect this woman properly without alienating her son. It’s even strange for me to think badly of him when I consider that he’s almost 70 years old, but selfishness doesn’t only apply to the young. Even though we realize what a lazy, careless, and spoiled brat he is, we can’t do anything about it.

The only thing we can do is be there to pick up the pieces, because God knows he isn’t going to.