Viera’s Vignette

I first noticed her straw hat lying on a chair next to the table in the corner of the coffee shop.  Not knowing whom it belonged to, nor really caring, I walked past it and sat down with my friend to drink my coffee and chat.  While we were intently discussing the future of the baby boomers, my attention was diverted.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see an older women leaning on a cane and struggling to balance a large cup of coffee.  She was maneuvering her way through the line of people waiting and heading to the table where the hat sat waiting.

I turned my head to see that the woman was quite thin, but not frail.  She didn’t seem confident, but she didn’t appear timid.  She was nicely dressed in a mid length camel brown skirt and a collared matching blouse with sleeves rolled to the elbows.  A multi colored striped cotton belt was tied in a knot, just below her waist.  She had brown hair, streaked heavily with bands of dull gray that she had twisted loosely into a bun at the back of her neck.  The woman was somewhat attractive, not pretty, but she conveyed the presence of a handsome European matriarch.  I guessed her to be in her early eighties.

 As she wound her way through the tables, her mouth was moving as if she were engaged in a conversation, but she was alone, and no one was nearby to hear what she said.  One may have described her as “strange,” had they not taken into account her age. She plopped in the chair next to the hat, and gave a deep sigh of relief.

 My friend paused mid sentence, when she realized I was no longer listening to her.   “I couldn’t help but notice that older women at the table near the window.  She’s here alone,” I said hoping that explained my lack of commitment to our conversation.  My friend turned her head to see the woman I was studying.  We had been engaged in a conversation concerning our neglected senior population, and we silently shared the irony of my unexpected diversion. 

The two of us studied the woman.  We saw her begin to stir her coffee, then stand, reach for her cup, grab her cane, and walk slowly back to the condiments bar.  She poured some half and half into her cup and made her way painstakingly back to the table.  Again, she looked relieved to be safely seated.

We continued to watch her.  We were not being rude, but we were fascinated by her determination to maintain an air of self-sufficiency.

We saw her pull out a clear bag of cookies that were tucked away in her purse.  Her head turned to the tables next to her, first right, then left to see if anyone noticed.  We felt sure she was unaware of us from across the room.  She quickly opened the zip lock bag and pulled out three very plain wafers.  After patting the plastic bag flat, she placed her cookies one by one beside her cardboard cup.  She then leaned back, smiled to herself, and began to nibble at her cookies and sip her coffee. Meanwhile, she continued to carry on a conversation with whomever she imagined was with her.

My friend and I returned to our conversation and forgot about her for at least a half an hour.  Then as I was walking to the refuse can to throw in our empty cups, I saw that the woman was also getting ready to leave.  She eased herself up by using her cane as support.  Then she reached to retrieve her straw hat.  She leaned her cane on the edge of the table, and with both hands, placed the hat on her head. She pulled it precisely to the center of her forehead and tugged the brim to tilt it slightly to one side.  She grabbed her cane and with careful strategic steps, she left.

My friend and I stood outside for several minutes finishing our conversation about seniors and about being seniors.  We bemoaned the fact that as we get older men don’t turn their heads any more, and others just walk past us as if we didn’t exist.  We have reached a stage in our lives when we feel almost invisible.  With a sigh of  “Oh well, it is what it is,” we hugged and parted.

When I pulled from my parking space, I was surprised to see the same older woman from the coffee shop.  She was walking back and forth; her head rotating from side to side as if she were a spectator at a tennis match.  One hand was pressing the top of her straw hat to keep the wind from whisking it from her head, and the other was struggling to balance her wobbling cane.  She was frowning and talking to herself.  Considering her wild gestures and the frantic look on her face, I guessed that she had lost her car.

I slowly pulled up beside her.  I rolled down my window, and I yelled, “Have you lost your car?”  “Yes,” she cried. I could see that she was on the verge of tears.

 “Get in. I’ll help you find it.”

She hesitated, then after a second or two, she nervously reached for the door handle.  “This is just awful…this is just so awful,” she repeated anxiously.

We drove down all the aisles where she thought she had parked.  She described her car - a dark gray Volkswagen.  She repeatedly rattled off the license numbers hoping the information would help us.  After three circles around the parking lot, we did not find her car.  “Let’s go to the other side,” I suggested.

“No. I’m positive I parked near this door,” she argued as she pointed to the front of the coffee shop.

“I don’t see it here.  You’d still be near the door on the other side, I coaxed, but at a different angle.”

I turned toward the east side of the lot.  We drove up one aisle, and as we drove down another I knew immediately we had hit the Jack Pot. To our right was the 2008 gunmetal gray Volkswagen.

“Is that it?”  

Tears welled in her eyes.  “Yes.   Oh, yes.”

After she thanked me again and again, “ I said, “My name is Karen.”

“My name is Viera,” she said with a heavy Germanic accent.  “Thank you, Karen.  You are very kind.”

She opened the door and got out.  I waited until I was sure she had started the ignition, and then I waved and drove away.   I couldn’t help but wonder how many others had seen her wandering and searching for her car, or to them, like most seniors, had she been invisible?

    

 Facing the Dilemma of Dementia

Many of my residents live in their own “special” world.  Their minds have changed in mysterious ways.  It isn’t relevant whether it is Alzheimer’s Disease, dementia, or a vascular deficiency that is altering their thinking.   The end result is often the same.  Our loved ones remain in their own familiar body while their personalities morph into people we don’t recognize.  Occasionally, this different person is content, at ease and accepting of the new place that their mind has taken them.  But, more often than not, the new place is confusing and frightening.

Virginia is a charming and attractive.  She has a fluffy cloud of white hair that is bright and shiny and thick.  Her eyes are hazel brown, clear and bright; her glaring eye contact never timid. Virginia is kind, lovable, polite and accommodating.  Her biggest challenge is her memory.  She cannot retain a thought for more than several minutes, and she uncontrollably and incessantly repeats the same questions time after time.  If someone politely answers each question, that answer is lost to her in less than a minute or two.

Virginia is obsessed with spending time with her daughters and returning to her home.  Although she admits she is happy and feels secure in the community, she is focused on her former life as a mother and caregiver for her children.   Nervous and uneasy, she searches frantically for phone numbers to contact her family.   Sadly, after speaking with one of them, she will not remember a few minutes later.  Unwittingly, she will compulsively call again, and again and again.

At a time when Virginia should feel relaxed and content, she is forever anxious and apprehensive.  She cannot sit for more than 5 or ten minutes.   Unsettled and nervous, Virginia paces the living room and entryway.   She cannot focus on bingo, exercise, crafts, or even professional musical entertainment.  She is obsessed about being away from her girls every minute of every day.

Virginia was a dedicated grade school teacher.  When she becomes agitated and frustrated we distract her with various word games.  She will sit for a short period recalling her English skills to concentrate on word puzzles and anagrams.  Her attention spam is short, but her beaming smile symbolizes her success when she is able to focus and complete one of the puzzles.  From time to time, Virginia will

 solicit the staff for chores to assist them. We keep a ream of multi-colored paper at hand.  Feeling useful, she adeptly sorts the colors.  She returns the organized stack to us not recalling that she had finished the same task the day before.

Virginia’ solicitation for attention can be somewhat irksome, but she is a welcome sweet addition to our community.  It takes patience and understanding to join her world everyday, and it is emotionally trying to watch her always restless and troubled; we strive to keep her content. 

It troubles me to watch Virginia.  Not because she is confused, nor is it because she needs above average supervision.  Her universe is small and getting smaller.  Virginia cannot find a space in it where she is content.  She was a great mom, a woman with an above average intelligence, and a truly nice person.   I cannot eradicate the dementia, but I wish that I could help her find some special place in her mind where she can peacefully finish the rest of her life.  I regret that I can’t.

Life is a Gamble

I often take prospects on tours through our community.  Yesterday a woman about my age came to inquire about placing her mother with us.  As we wandered through the activity area, a group of residents were playing beach ball volleyball.  The noise and laughter were contagious.  My visitor was amused.  “They’re having fun,” she smiled.  I shook my head in agreement.

A few minutes later, seated in my office, she said, “I wonder how I’ll behave when I reach their age?”  I laughed out loud.  “I think everyone that works here asks themselves that same question--every day.  It is so very hard to predict just how we’ll accept getting old. “

“ I joke a lot.   Some days I assume I’ll be an exemplary resident; on the more trying days I am determined I’ll be the community terrorist. Regardless, I’m convinced one survives the process much easier with a positive attitude.  If you’re able to accept the changes that take place physically and mentally, you’ll be happier and more content.  I’m convinced it is all about attitude.”

As I spoke, the memory of a former resident flashed through my mind. She was a perfect example of how a positive half-full, not half-empty attitude, can affect the quality of one’s life.

Millie was not as chronologically old as many of our residents.  She was only in her late seventies. The majority of the residents living in the community were somewhere in their mid to high eighties.  Millie had Parkinson’s disease; her body was disfigured.  The muscles in her hands quivered, and her face was contorted by sporadic tremors.  Every physical movement was tedious and painful.  The disease ravaged her limbs and torso, but it never diminished her spirit. 

Millie was an inspiration to me, to her fellow residents, and to the team that assisted with her care.  She was a Jewish transplant from New York.  She spoke with that familiar New York accent, and although she missed New York, she was content to live in South Florida as she was close to her kids.

In the two years that I knew her, I never heard Millie complain.  She had good and bad days.  When the pain distracted her, she didn’t share her distress, but her eyes lost their sparkle.  She became quiet and less cheerful as she struggled to keep her discomfort to herself.

Millie, in spite of her disease, was a character.  She loved to tease the staff and the other residents.  She had trouble talking because her mouth and tongue were slightly distorted, but she continued to say things that made everyone chuckle.  She loved to surprise her peers with a clever or risqué remark, and she giggled joyfully when they reacted with obvious embarrassment.

Millie seldom missed an activity or an outing.  She enthusiastically attended the exercise class every morning.  She struggled with the repetitive movements, but she determinedly worked until the class ended.   When the life-style director took the more adventurous residents outside the community on weekly excursions (out to lunch, to the beach, and for picnics in the park), Millie was always happy and ready to go.  She had difficulty getting on the bus. She had to pull herself up the stairs, slowly and carefully using only her arms, but she was determined she would not be left behind.  I admired her gumption.  There were residents in the community who had few to no disabilities that seldom left their apartments.

Millie did have one amusing addiction.  She loved to gamble.  Every other month, a group would go to the casino just a few miles from the community.  Millie was first on the bus and the last one to board on the return trip.  Some months she won, and some she broke even, but I don’t remember her ever coming back in the red.   One afternoon I was in my office when I heard a hubbub of loud happy voices in the lobby.  Curious, I went to see why everyone was so excited.  There was Millie, surround by residents and staff, beaming and smiling from ear to ear.  She had won a $1000 at the slot machines.  I had joined in the excitement of congratulations when a resident turned to me and said, “She’s so lucky.”  “No,” I answered.  “She’s not lucky.  God is just smiling on one of his angels.”

No Complain – No Gain.

I am always confused and disappointed when a resident moves out of the community because they are dissatisfied with our customer service.  I am especially frustrated when I discover that the events that precipitated the move could have been easily remedied.  I would much prefer to have a family member call or stop by my office with a long list of complaints, than disappear without giving me the opportunity to address the things that displeased them.

Several years ago I transferred from Tallahassee to a new community in South Florida.  The first day in my office, before I even had time to collect my thoughts, the phone rang.  The caller, irate and upset, was a young woman who said her name was Evelyn.  Without warning, she began bombarding me with strong words and harsh complaints.  Then, minutes after calling, she physically appeared at my office door waving her arms and threatening to call her lawyer.  She was rattling on about an incident that involved her mother, Irene.  

To avoid a yelling match, I calmly and quietly led Evelyn into my office.  I sat facing her in the two comfortable chairs that I saved for visitors rather than hiding behind my desk.  I told her to repeat her story slowly so that I could take notes.  Admittedly, at the time, I was irritated by her attitude, and categorized her as rude and demanding.   But now, in retrospect, I appreciate that, despite her methods, she was challenging me to correct what she felt was a serious shortcoming in the community. I now realize that by complaining she was giving me an ideal opportunity to win her confidence.

I listened while she told me her concern.  At dinner the previous evening, one of our wait staff had given her mother, Irene, who was a diabetic, a cup of regular ice cream rather than the sugar-free.  Irene knew she should eat only the low sugar or sugar -free desserts that we have available from our kitchen, and the server, who was trained to monitor the food offered to diabetics, should have known not to give Irene the bowl of chocolate ice cream.  Instead, when the server offered it to Irene, she accepted it without a word, and according to her table- mate, who tattled on her, Irene relished it without reservation. Luckily, she suffered no serious consequences, but the error needed to be corrected.  I promised Evelyn I would investigate the situation immediately.

After speaking with the Dining Services Director and the employees who worked the shift in question, I surmised that the system of tracking diabetics was broken. In the kitchen there were pictures posted of the residents who suffered from diabetes, but there was no way to identify them in the dining room unless the servers knew the residents personally.  The server in question was new, and therefore did not recognize Irene. 

Residents often neglect to tell their waiter they should be restricted to sugar free options (what could be better than big dish of chocolate ice cream?).  If an unseasoned server is not familiar with the residents who are diabetics, a resident could easily sneak by with a choice that may or may not be life threatening.  It appeared it was not unusual for a diabetic to receive a dish of the wrong ice cream.

My Dining Services Director decided to put an inconspicuous small white doily between the cup and saucer at each place setting where a diabetic sat.   The doily alerted the server the resident was not to have an excess of carbohydrates or sugar filled deserts.  The solution, inexpensive and simple, solved the immediate problem.

The second solution presented itself inadvertently.  Due to a high demand in the scorching summer heat, the kitchen ran out of the traditional ice cream.  The staff filled the requests for ice cream with the sugar free rather than disappoint anyone. No one seemed to know the difference.  From that day on we ordered only the sugar free.  No one was the wiser and everyone was much healthier. 

Evelyn and I had our good and bad days throughout her Mother’s tenure at our community. Despite the ups and downs we became good friends. The two of us worked together diligently to ensure that her Mom was happy and satisfied.

Yesterday, I received an unexpected notice from a resident’s son saying that he is moving his father to another community.  He did not offer an explanation in his letter, just an end date for his father’s residency.  I was surprised, and I felt I had been blindsided. The son had never come to the Director of Nursing or me. He never brought any concerns to our attention. In fact, I asked him daily as he passed through the lobby, “Everything going OK?” “Just fine,” he would answer. Of course, I called him immediately upon receiving his note, but he was not forthcoming with any details.  I am forced to accept that I am losing a resident without any idea of the reasons why.

Consistently meeting the needs of over a hundred residents is one of the toughest aspects of my job.  I continually face the challenge of finding creative solutions to numerous new and different problems. I cannot do that without our resident’s family members and loved ones being honest about our performance.  I need to know about small problems before they become big ones.  It sounds trite, but communication is the key.  My philosophy:  “How can I fix it, if I don’t know it’s broken.”

Neither of the above mentioned solutions were necessary in my present community.  My current Director of Nursing and my Dining Services Director have a precise method to track diets.  My story occurred years ago in a different community in a different city. 

Mother’s Day Model…..at 95!

Mother’s Day is just around the corner, and I lovingly recall one of the more memorable traditions that we shared with the mothers and daughters in a community in northern Florida.

For five years, the Community Lifestyle Director, Sarah, and I planned a traditional tea along with a non-traditional fashion show on the Friday afternoon before Mother’s Day.  We hosted a high tea with scrumptious crumpets and scones and a fashion show featuring our residents. We sent out hand written invitations and dressed the dining room to resemble an elegant English tea parlor. We patterned a runway around and between the dining tables, and I acted as the commentator, always prepared to eloquently describe each unique outfit a resident was wearing.

At that time, I moonlighted at Casual Corner Women’s Fashions, so each year the store generously volunteered to provide the clothes. Sarah recruited the six ladies, 

(Walkers, canes and scooters acceptable) who were willing to parade through the large dining room and proudly display the donated items. 

The week before the event, Sarah and I accompanied our “models” to the store located at the nearby mall.    She and I swooped through the racks of woman’s clothes, carefully choosing fashions that would suit the various tastes of our illustrious crew. The dressing rooms were chaotic as the ladies tried on the dresses, pants, skirts and blouses that appealed to them.  It took at least a couple of hours to find the perfect fit with the perfect appeal, but eventually, each of our residents left the store content that they would look and feel “stunning.”

 Marion was a small quiet woman who modeled for us for each of the five years.   She was 90 years old at the first show, and she was 95 for the last.  She appeared frail, but she wasn’t.  She had been decorated for her courage and strength during her career as a nurse in the U.S. Army.

During those five years, Marion headlined our fashion show.  The clothes she modeled were simple, not fussy; she carefully chose them to fit her frail thin frame. She walked slowly, taking each step cautiously and deliberately.   She possessed a contagious “can do” attitude when making eye contact with the audience.   Everyone applauded her gumption as she circled through the crowd. She was the oldest model in every show.

“You are my inspiration,” I would tease her.  “I want to be just like you – a stunning 90 year old model.”  The next year I repeated,  “ a stunning 91 year old model,” and so on until I left the community convinced that my goal had been set at 95.

Recently, Marion celebrated her 100^th Birthday.  I doubt that she is modeling, anymore, but I haven’t changed my mind.  I still aspire to follow in her footsteps.  At 95 I want to be a “stunning 95 year old model” just like Marion.

Saving Takes on a Whole New Meaning

Saving seniors in the surrounding community is a goal for many of us who work with seniors.  In every city, there is a selection of elderly men and women who are alone and neglected.  They may be home bound, unable to shop for food, and often lack the basic necessities to keep them safe and healthy.   Often, it is a family member who lives out of state, or a state agency, or a civil servant such as a fireman or a policeman who alerts us that a person is living in a precarious situation.  In these cases, it is our goal to find a suitable way to assist or relocate any senior we feel is in jeopardy.

Recently, to reach out to those who may have shown an interest in our community, my associates and I have begun to make home visits.   Most often we drop by to find an older person who is lonely, but moderately happy, biding time vacillating between living at home and moving.  On rare occasions, we encounter someone who desperately needs to relocate, and we do our best to find an appropriate place for them to live.  Even if we need to recommend a community other than our own, we feel it is our duty to find a safe environment for seniors in need.

Eva was one such person. I met Eva through a concerned neighbor, Sylvia.  Sylvia, whose mother lived at our community, stopped by my office late one afternoon.  She was concerned about an older woman who lived across the street from her.   She described the women, Eva, as self-sufficient although somewhat reclusive.  According to Sylvia, Eva was known throughout the neighborhood as  “the collector.” 

Sylvia painted a visual picture for me of the outside of Eva’s home.  She described the carport.  It was filled with 20 or more plastic bottles; each containing various levels of a clear liquid, set side by side, outlining a path to the front door.  There was a collection of empty terra cotta flowerpots, chipped and broken, scattered among the bottles.  Also, there were faded and dented aluminum pie tins strewn throughout, while several half empty bags of cat litter leaned against the cement walls of the house.   The front porch, she said, appeared to be a buffet for stray cats that lived in the nearby woods. The steps were lined with various flavors of cat food in half-filled plastic dishes. 

Sylvia admitted she had never been on the inside because she was afraid to venture further than the doorway.   She was intimidated by the shadows of boxes, old paper bags, and unrecognizable stuff stacked from the floor to ceiling.  She was concerned that Eva might fall, as the pathways appeared narrow and cluttered. “I imagine the poor dear doesn’t eat well,” Sylvia lamented.  “I’ll bet the stove is hidden under piles of junk. ”

“Does she have family, I asked.”  Sylvia pressed her lips as if struggling to control her anger.  “There is a son,” she answered, “but I don’t see him there much.  I know she is a cantankerous ole soul, but I would think that he’d at least help her clean the place up.”

“Your friend Eva’s a hoarder.” I explained. “She’s compulsive, and she can’t help herself.  I doubt that her son can get her to part with any of her treasures.  Would you like me to look in on her one day next week?”

“Oh yes,” she sighed.

My assistant and I visited Eva the next week.  As soon as she opened the door, I knew we had begun our next “good Samaritan” project.  Sylvia was correct in her description of Eva’s home.   From the door I could see that the entire two-bedroom house was stuffed with useless articles – old newspapers, plastic grocery bags, magazines, and various antiques from a former life.  Eva welcomed us; she seemed genuinely happy to have visitors.  We cautiously stepped inside the messy foyer, but we did not continue further. After a short conversation, I sensed Eva’s loneliness, and guessed that she was hopelessly submerged in her world of “things” and feeling lost and helpless.

For weeks, I appeared uninvited on Eva’s doorstep, which was still cluttered with cat bowls, at least once every ten days.  Each time I brought a gift; home made cookies from our kitchen, lunch complete with salad and dessert, or a big cardboard box to fill with items for the trash.  I was patient but persistent, and eventually I was able to convince Eva to visit a near by independent living community. I accompanied her to ease her discomfort.   She met residents who were social and friendly, and she liked the casual and affable surroundings. Slowly, after returning for lunch on more than one occasion, Eva began to recognize the benefits of moving to a happier place.  In fact, within a month after her initial tour, she signed an agreement to move into one of their studio apartments. 

It took another three months before we were able to relocate Eva and one of her cats to her new apartment.  Her son was helpful, but to some degree his hands were tied.  Eva ignored every suggestion he made, and even became combative when he attempted to sort and disperse some of her belongings. Finally, I introduced him to a professional who specializes in moving seniors (See my earlier Blog -Moving Mountains May be Easier Jan 15, 2012).  I knew that an objective third party was the only answer.  Parents often become resentful when their children try, even with the best intentions, to tell them what to do.

The community where Eva rented her new apartment offered to share the moving expenses, enabling Eva’s son to hire the professional senior movers I had suggested.  They painfully and tediously sorted through Eva’s eccentric possessions.  Finally, after several long arduous days they successfully extracted her from her home with only the items she needed.  Once she was settled in her new apartment, Eva quickly forgot about the things she was hoarding. The movers were then able to get rid of the rest at Goodwill, a large storage unit, and of course, the community dumpster. 

I periodically received reports about Eva’s progress from the director of the Independent Community.  It was surprising how quickly Eva adjusted. According to the Director, Eva participated in activities and became one of their more active residents.  Of course, housekeeping monitored her room closely, and encouraged her to discard her worthless items before they became a nuisance. 

Sylvia, my resident’s daughter, returned to visit with me from time to time, to inquire how her old neighbor was faring.  I loved giving her the gold star reports.

In early November, I asked her “Did you know Eva was an artist?”

 “No,” she replied. 

“Well, apparently she has blossomed and revitalized her talents.  She just won a Christmas Card Design competition.  The Corporation that owns her community sponsored a contest. They chose the Christmas scene that Eva drew to send to their professional clients.”

 I grinned as Sylvia’s face broke into a smile.  I leaned across my desk to enjoy the moment with her.  “It feels good, doesn’t it, to realize that some days, it is actually possible to make a difference.”  

The Price of Guilt

Guilt is a powerful word for being such a short one. It is a word I hear almost every day either from an adult child, a spouse, or a resident.   

Guilt often seems to supersede all other emotions.  Despite the fact that adult children are juggling many things in their lives to satisfy a parent, the children still feel guilty because, in their minds, they are still not doing enough.  Many residents feel the same because they believe their children are doing too much to make them happy.  Of course, there is the other extreme; the parent who blames their children for “putting” them in a community and is therefore determined to make their children suffer for it.

I once had a resident whose son moved her in and out of every community in the city.  He was trying so hard to please her that he would relocate her each time she became dissatisfied with the community she was living in.  He had recently remarried, and his guilt stemmed from his inability to take care of his mother at home. He was a loving and faithful son; he was convinced that he was doing the right thing by moving his mom, Marion, at her whim. When Marion became dissatisfied, he dutifully packed her belongings, paid the extra entrance fee, and settled her into a new apartment in a neighboring community. This happened on average twice a year. It was inevitable that after a few years he ran out of nearby places to take her.

My community had been one of the stops on her list.  Marion was a cantankerous old lady who was never satisfied. She complained that she didn’t receive appropriate care, and she grumbled that the food was uneatable. She groused over the color of the carpet in her apartment, she threatened to sue if the care staff was not at her beck and call; she criticized anything and everything that came to mind.  It was not surprising that the staff soon became resentful. They avoided her when they could and despite their commitment to customer service, they had a hard time responding graciously to her nasty behavior.

I spent a lot of time with Marion, defusing the outbursts she had with our care aids and wait staff – hoping my patience and kindness would convince her that we had her best interest in mind.  I was somewhat successful, and she did eventually trust me.  But, I was unable to keep her from manipulating her son, and eventually she gave me her thirty- day notice.

I tried speaking to her son Kevin. He was extremely friendly, obviously intelligent, but it was impossible to penetrate his denial concerning her behavior.  I needed him to join our team and to work with us.  I beseeched him to stop responding to her constant whining and support us in our attempts to please her. My employees were dancing in circles hoping to win her affection, but he refused to admit that his mother’s e behavior was excessively unfair.  His guilt was so all pervasive that it clouded his decisions. 

Several months after Kevin moved his Mom, I heard through an associate that Marion had been sent to the hospital and would not return to the community where she was presently living.  Strangely enough, not sure what prompted me, I called Kevin.  “Marion can come back and live with us again,” I offered.  His silence betrayed his surprise, and after a few seconds he said, his voice somewhat choked “I will ask her.”

Despite the protests from my staff, Marion returned. Her new apartment was near my office, so I visited regularly.  We became close friends. She had softened somewhat, although her exterior remained hard and tough.  She even thanked me for taking her back.  “I didn’t think anyone liked me,” she admitted. “We didn’t,” I told her candidly.  “I just felt that, despite what you thought of us, we did a better job of caring for you than our competitors.  You are entitled to good care, despite your attitude. “

Soon after her return, her health declined. After only a few weeks, our nurse admitted her to Hospice.  She died in our community.

I had one last conversation with Kevin. He still harbored the guilt. He admitted how sorry he was that he had not stood up to his mom. He regretted that he succumbed to her constant nagging. He realized his willingness to move her so frequently made it impossible for her to make friends or become a member of an assisted living family.   “When I told Marion you wanted her back,” he admitted, “she cried.  She couldn’t believe that someone actually would tolerate her enough to invite her to return.” 

“Your Mom was tough,” I answered.  “She wanted you to prove your love for her by focusing on her and giving her your full attention. The only way she could do that was to manipulate your time and energy.  She coerced you to pack her things and move them again and again.  She knew how to push your buttons.”

“I didn’t know what else to do; I wanted to make her happy,” he said regretfully. 

“And did you?” I asked.

“No,” he said sadly.