I’m fingering a novel on the new books table at Hudson Books
at LAX when an 818 area code lights up my cell phone. My husband, Hank, and I are
delayed three hours on a flight to New York due to bad weather and we’re just
killing time. I stare at the phone and realize the only 818 number I know is
for my eighty-nine year old mother’s skilled nursing facility. I take a breath.
"This is Dr. Smith from The Jewish Home for the Aging. Is
this Heather?”
I put down the novel and feel my heart pounding out of my
chest. “Yes,” I say, preparing myself for what may be to come.
I move away from the other patrons to a souvenir display of
coffee cups and shot glasses. Beyond the glass partition, travelers are dashing
to and fro in Terminal 3.
“I’m your mother’s psychiatrist at The Jewish Home.”
My mouth is dry and my words sound like combed cotton. “Is everything alright?”
“Well, your mother’s an unusual lady,” he says, easy and
calm. I immediately relax. They don’t have the psychiatrist call when a patient
has a stroke or dies. At least, I don’t think so. Besides, I’m used to Mom’s
antics.
“Has she been complaining to you about me?” I ask. “She
constantly asks me if I love her, if I’m mad at her. Honestly, I don’t give her
any reason to question that. But, it’s Mom, she’s always been like that.” I
find myself rushing the words, defensive. “Is she upset with me?”
“Nooo,” he says, stringing out his response. I sense hesitation.
“Oh, ok…”
He explains that sometimes with Parkinson’s patients,
patients become obsessed.
“Obsessed,” I repeat, deadpan. “Yes, Mom gets obsessed about needing me to
bring her certain things. One week it’s Q-tips. The next, its more false
eyelashes…”
He lowers his comforting voice. “I’m speaking about an
obsession of a sexual nature.”
Oh, boy, I think, my eyes now fixed on a display of mini
golden Oscar statues.
“Sexual?”
“She seems to be obsessed with finding a boyfriend.”
“Oh, that,” I laugh. “Honestly, Doctor, that’s her baseline.
She’s been boy crazy since she was in Kindergarten when she kissed Ken Karrier
because he smelled good.”
“I’ve talked with the social worker about this,” he
continues. “Your mother’s clearly more anxious about having a boyfriend. And,
she’s having more hallucinations, seeing a cat at the end of her bed. Very
typical Parkinson’s.”
“I know,” I reply, “but, she says that the cats are nice.”
“There’s a new drug that is helping Parkinson’s patients
with obsessions. It helps to take that anxiety away and does not interfere with
the other Parkinson’s medications. I’d like to try it for her. On a low dose to
begin.”
My mind drifts back two years ago when I had to take her to
ER because of a fall. My mother loved getting an X-ray with all “these
good-looking guys lifting her onto the table.”
“Is this fixation with men normal?” the nurse had asked me
then.
"Yes,” I’d replied. “It’s nothing new.”
“It’s interesting,” the doctor says now as if he’s talking
to himself. “Your mother is very
specific about the culture of men she desires.”
I inhale, preparing myself. Although, I’m pretty sure that I
know what’s coming.
“She desires either a ‘Philippino, an Israeli or a Swarthy
Italian.’”
I don’t know whether to burst out laughing or cry. “The Philipino
is a new one on her list,” I tell him.
Who gets these calls about their eighty-nine year-old mother
confined to a wheelchair?
“Doctor, I understand why you might think this is unusual,
but Mom’s been like this all her life.” Dare I tell him that she sold her
diamond ring from her first husband, my father, to go to Italy to find a man?
“Yes, the social worker said that as well, but, well,
recently, this obsession with finding a boyfriend has increased. And, it’s
making her more anxious.
“If this drug will help her anxiety, I’m all for it, but I
don’t want her to become comatose. She’s still so vibrant. Maybe, a little too
vibrant.”
“It’s just a trial on a low dose. If she doesn’t respond
well, we will take her off it immediately.”
“I do want her to have quality of life despite her condition,”
I say, relaxed now and picking up one of the Oscars. Is it a coincidence the
label on it reads Best Mom?
I put it back and wander over to the magazine rack. The
doctor gives me the name of the drug, spelling it out slowly as I grapple for a
pen in my handbag. I write it on my boarding pass.
It’s hard to make these decisions. I trust her doctor. And, I trust The Jewish Home. They’ve
provided excellent care. “Well, let’s give it a try,” I say.
I slip the boarding pass into my handbag and call my sister,
April.
“You did the right thing, Heather,” she says.
I sruggle over the possible side effects and April brings me
to a halt.
“Stop, Heath. It’ll be fine. They’ll take her off if there
are any problems.”
When I rejoin Hank in the airport lounge and relate the story to him, he says: "You should have asked the psychiatrist where he was eighty-four years ago when this obsession emerged!”
I laugh so loudly that the two women seated opposite us look up from their reading material. I smile back at them. If they only
knew…
______________________
Postscript: I read this to my mother today at my visit. When I asked for her permission to post this, she replied: "Hell, yes!"
