Today

Sometimes I just stay on the line and listen

My parents live at home. I live an hour away but am there twice a week to check in. I bring takeout and we all have lunch together. My kid, who is the light of his grandparents’ lives, chatters nonstop. It’s nice.

From home, I manage my parents’ groceries, bills, medications, doctors’ appointments, dog care and household maintenance. I coordinate, schedule and arrange. My husband helps as much as he can, and I tag-team with my siblings during emergencies, but the day-to-day is just me. I have alarms set to call with medication reminders five times a day. I talk to each parent in turn, walk them through it, check and double check that the pills have actually been swallowed. It takes twenty minutes. I’m patient, but don’t want to be.

Sometimes, when I call, they put the phone down to do something and forget I’m on it. I yell “hello” over and over but they don’t hear me, which reminds me, right there in that moment, that soon they never will. I think about things like that a lot—aware of the grief now and the grief to come.

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My parents have trouble working the TV. Last week I put Pride and Prejudice on for them to watch while they ate dinner. They hadn’t seen it in a long time, but they know that book better than anything. My dad, a former literature teacher, taught Jane Austen in his classes for years. To me, Pride and Prejudice is a part of who they are.

The next day my mom had to go to the hospital for a mild flare-up of diverticulitis. She was kept overnight so I stayed with my dad. He didn’t seem to notice that she was gone. I kept reminding him that she was, and that I was there in the meantime, and that she’d be home in the next day or so.

We sat outside for a while. The sun was shining and the jasmine was blooming and the birds were chirping. My dad tilted his head back a little, eyes closed, smiling. When my mom came home I put Pride and Prejudice back on. They were so delighted to watch it again. I wish they could just go out like this, I thought as I walked away. I wish this were my last image of them.

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My mom calls to tell me there’s a strange man on the property. I explain that it’s the gardener. He’s been coming for years. She gets mad. I don’t need gardeners, I love gardening! She says. I explain that I’d hired a series of gardeners and this was the one she liked. Everything was dying and he brought it all back to life and it was great. Rosendo is a great gardener, mom, we’re lucky to have found him.

I call Rosendo and tell him that my mom doesn’t know who he is anymore or why he’s there and can he please introduce himself?

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My mom has some paranoid convictions—thinks there are hidden cameras around the house—but much of the time she lives close to reality. It’s mostly that she doesn’t remember very well—from day to day, or hour to hour, or, more recently, minute to minute. My dad is about the same. Their long term memory is still there though. They don’t wander off. They know who everyone is.

The idea is to keep them living at home as long as possible, using more and more outside caregiving as things get worse, but I’m not sure how to piece together care for this kind of in-between situation. It’s a flimsy patchwork at best and I don’t know how to make it hold. I initially thought the extra help would give me a break but that’s not really how it works. A lot of the time my mom won’t let the caregivers in. Over the last two weeks alone three of them have come and then refused to come back.

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I call to remind my mom that I’m picking her up soon to take her to an appointment. She says that’s ridiculous, there isn’t any appointment and I don’t know anything about it. I take her anyway. On the way home she remembers something funny my son said a month ago that I had completely forgotten about.

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I call my dad in the morning and he asks me where he is. You’re at home, I say. He asks where I am. I’m at home too, in Ojai. I’ll come see you later today.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.

Well, that will be good, he says.

Yeah. Have you had your pills yet?

I think so.

Can you ask Mom?

Ask Mom?

Yeah.

Ok. Hey, Anna wants to know if she’s had her pills yet. Did you give her her pills?

No Dad. Your pills. Can I talk to Mom?

He hands her the phone.

Did Dad get his pills yet?

Oh yes. I just gave them to him.

Oh. Could you check please?

I just gave them to him! Don’t be ridiculous.

Just please double check?

Oh alright. Well that’s strange, I guess he hasn’t had any yet. I’ll tell him to take them now.

No Mom, you have to give them to him, and his water. I’ll stay on the line.

My mom sets down the receiver. I listen as she tells my dad how to place the pill on his tongue, how to hold the glass, how to swallow the water. Don’t chew it! She says.

They forget I’m on the phone. Sometimes I just stay on the line and listen to their wanderings a little before I hang up.

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I call my dad. His mind is clearer today. He knows where he is. He asks about James, who he adores. He asks what Jesse has been up to and laughs when I tell him.

We’ll see you tomorrow, I say, we’re spending the day.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. I know we were just there yesterday, but—

It’ll be good to see you again, he says—I’ve missed you.