Mary [Ekholm] Francis
(c) 1997
Ruth sat at the end of the faded sofa with her left hand resting on a large white cat and her right hand alternately crumpling and smoothing the crocheted doily that covered the worn fabric on the armrest. The cat purred and occasionally lifted his head and twisted his neck to reach back and lick Ruth�s hand when she went too long without stroking the cat�s bony back.
Carolyn looked at her mother and the cat on the sofa and was struck, once again, by their similarities: snowy white hair, blue eyes clouded by cataracts, long bodies with bones that stuck out at shoulders and hips, a quiet sense of satisfaction with themselves and their surroundings, and a tendency to sit doing nothing for long periods in order to avoid dealing with the stiffness that had come with age and arthritis. Carolyn remembered when her mother�s hands were firm, quick, and talented. Ruth could discipline a child, decorate a wedding cake, and play a piano concerto--not all at the same time, although her children never doubted that she could if she wanted to. Now those hands were barely able to get Ruth through the basic tasks of dressing and eating. The long, slim fingers had become twisted bones bulging with arthritic knobs at the joints; for years it had been impossible for Ruth to remove the wedding band that hung loosely from her thin finger.
Carl cleared his throat loudly. When Ruth looked at him, he said, �Mom, we can�t avoid talking about this any longer. It�s time to decide what to do and then do it.�
Ruth�s voice was thin, but determined, �You decided long before you got here. You want to sell my house and put me in a place for old people.� Her voice began to rise, �Eighty-seven isn�t that old. You can�t sell my house. You can�t make me go anywhere I don�t want to go.�
�Momma,� Carolyn tried to calm her mother, �You�re right, but please listen to Carl. He worries about you and wants to help.�
�Where was he when I needed the porch fixed? Where was he when my lawn needed mowing? Where was he when the apple tree needed pruning? Where was he when the house needed painting?� As Ruth became excited, her voice became stronger, and Carolyn worried that her mother might have another of the small strokes that had occasionally affected Ruth�s balance and memory.
Carolyn watched her mother's face and listened closely for changes in her speech or breathing. She had always worried a little about Ruth; lately, she had been worrying a lot ever since she told her mother that Carl and Connie were flying back to Minneapolis for the weekend. Ruth had feared that her two older children were coming to talk about her health and her house; Carolyn had confirmed her fears. �But we�re doing okay without them,� Ruth had insisted. �There�s no reason for them to come around stirring things up and trying to put me away.� Carolyn had assured her that Carl and Connie simply wanted to help figure out a way for her to stay in her house, so Ruth should wait and see what they suggested. �That�s easy for you to say,� Ruth had replied. �You�re not the one who�s lived in this house for sixty-five years and raised three children in it and lost a husband right out there.� Ruth had pointed a knobby finger toward the untrimmed hedge that lined the edges of her back yard. Carolyn had quietly agreed with her mother, but she wondered if Ruth ever realized how much statements like that hurt Carolyn. Of course she didn�t have the years or experiences that Ruth had, but Carolyn had listened closely to all of her parents� stories, and she had a good imagination, a good memory, and a talent for observing the details in other people�s lives.
Carolyn also had a tendency to let her mind wander during unpleasant discussions. She brought herself back to the present as Carl was responding to their mother�s questions.
�Momma, I live in Boston. I can�t do all the things you need done in St. Paul. I�d love to be able to, but you�re too far away.�
�Stop it,� Connie�s voice was tight. �We�ve hardly begun, and already we�re off the subject. Take a deep breath, and then let�s get this discussion back on track.�
�I have to use the bathroom,� Ruth said and slid forward on the sofa.
Carl stood up. �Let me help you,� he said as he reached out to help her stand up.
�I don�t need help. I�m just fine, thank you,� Ruth grasped the handles of her walker and struggled to pull herself to her feet. �Come, Andy. You may as well go, too.� The cat slid stiffly off the sofa and the two of them headed for the bathroom with backs straight, heads up, and toes dragging slightly. The three grown children watched their mother leave the living room.
Seconds after the bathroom door squeaked and the latch clicked, Connie gasped. �Oh, my God! They both leak!� She stared at two small wet spots on the sofa. �No wonder this place smells!�
�Smells?� Carl asked.
�Don�t tell me you don�t smell anything,� Connie stared at her brother. �The minute I walked in the house last night, I could smell cat and old lady and pee. Oh, Lord! We have got to get her cleaned up.�
�Well, of course, I noticed the cat smell. And I figured the other smells were from a litter box that Mom had forgotten to clean.� He stared at the wet spots on the sofa. �Maybe she just waited too long because we were here and talking. Maybe, because she was upset, she had a little accident.�
�No, Carl,� Carolyn hated to tell on her mother, but Carl needed to know the truth. �Mom has been having little accidents for several months. I bought her some Depends and other kinds of waterproof pads, but she refuses to try any of them. She says they�re all just fancy diapers and she�s too old to wear diapers. I can�t convince her that a lot of people--even some young people--wear them all the time.�
�I don�t suppose they make them for cats, do they?� Carl asked. �Oh, well, even if they did, if she won�t wear one, she probably wouldn�t make that cat wear one.�
Connie giggled, �I can just see the two of them getting dressed in the morning. One for me and one for Andy.� Carl and Carolyn glared at her, and she quickly became serious. �I know it�s not funny, but if I don�t laugh, I�ll cry. And once I start crying, I don�t know if I�ll be able to stop.�
Carolyn understood. She had been feeling like that for years as she watched her mother lose ground in her struggle to remain independent. She looked at Carl. �You�re partly right about the cat litter. Mom doesn�t forget to stir it; she just isn�t able to do a good job of digging deeply and mixing it up. And part of the smell is from Andy�s accidents on his way to the litter box. And part of the smell is from Mom not being able to wash as well or as often as she used to.�
�But you bought a seat for the shower . . . and the kind of shower head on a hose that she could hold in her hand and spray herself up close. Didn�t Carl and I pitch in on the cost of a bunch of things she needed for her bathroom?�
�Yes, but look at Mom�s hands. She has trouble holding the sprayer and controlling the spray. She has trouble soaping a washcloth, and she can�t reach every place that needs to be soaped. She needs someone to help her.�
�She�d get help in a home. All we have to do is convince her to move to one.� Connie sighed, �I don�t think that�s going to be easy.�
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