Her Obsession

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!"

It Happened One Flight...

“My hair looked good at 6:00am,“ our female flight attendant remarked, swiping a wayward wisp of brown hair behind her ear.  “So sorry for the delays today,” she added as we taxied to the runway en route to New York after a three-hour delay due to weather.

Facing diagonal from my husband, Hank, and me, we’d struck up a conversation after she’d buckled in.  “I’m Lisa, by the way,” she’d smiled.

Lisa told us that she’d been lucky as a flight attendant. “I’ve never had any really bad incident with a passenger and I’ve been at this for ten years. In fact, I was just telling that to the two newer flight attendants working in back.”

Just then a chime sounded.  Lisa reached back to the receiver of the interphone behind her head. Hank turned back to his work and I gazed out at the line of planes ahead of us waiting to take off.

“Oh…oh, boy. Ok,” she said, nodding, the smile gone. “I’ll be right there.”

As our plane inched forward in line, I turned around to see what was happening. Lisa was talking to two young male passengers midway back. “What’s going on?” I whispered to Hank.

Soon, she was back in her jump seat.  At last, we were at the start of the runway, ready to take off. As we listened for the revving of the engines, instead came another chime. Another call. Lisa’s face registered calm.

I turned back to my book, reading the same paragraph over and over. “Look,” Hank said, pointing out the window. “We’re going back to the gate.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever was going on back there, I didn’t want to fly with it.

Passing the gate, we continued on to the remote terminals of LAX with no announcement from the pilot.

When there are a lot of unknowns, that’s when passengers become uncomfortable. This was becoming uncomfortable.

“Hank, we’re so far west from the terminal there are weeds growing on the cracks in the tarmac.”

One of the young female flight attendants came into our cabin up front while Lisa went in back.  She faced the cabin; her red naturally full, red-painted lips framed a smile.

 “What’s going on?” I asked her.

“I’m not at liberty to say anything just now. I’m sorry,” adding, “I’m just here smiling back at the passengers who are looking at me for some sort of sign.”

“This is the Captain speaking,” came the strong male voice over the PA. “We have a situation on board and need to return to the gate. There is no danger. But, unfortunately no open gate at this time. One should open up in about ten-or-so minutes. I apologize for the delay. Thank you for your patience.”

I turned on my phone and began texting my daughter, Hilary. “Looks to be some sort of problem with two young guys who looked pretty out of it when we boarded.”

“What? You’re still in LA? You were supposed to leave four hours ago?”

“Delays,” I typed.

“Ugh…”

Eleven minutes later, the pilot announced that a gate had opened up and we were heading to it. “We will take care of the situation and we can be back on the runway to take off.”

Even though our “situation” wasn’t affecting safety, or threatening in a violent way, the Captain and crew couldn’t disclose the problem. In the meantime, Lisa and her crew maintained calm.

After what seemed like a slow drive on the 405 at rush hour, we finally turned into our gate. As soon as the cabin door opened, four or five policemen and two EMT’s (very good-looking -I typed to Hilary) moved down the aisle and took the two young men off. No one said a word to them as they made their way down the aisle, clutching their soft carry-on’s, sweating at the brow, pale and clearly having had too much of something.

A young blonde woman came up soon after and stood behind the purple plastic partition. Lisa put her arms around her and the girl fell into sobs. She’d been on the window seat next to them. What had they said or done to this young woman?

Within minutes, a middle-aged woman in a print dress, a representative of the airline, was at the cabin door taking in the situation.  In swooped a ground agent, a tall gentleman, his airline tag dangling wildly from his neck. “Thank you for your patience,” he said, “unfortunately, our pilots have maxed out their hours due to the this situation and the delay.”

Groans and a symphony of sighs followed.

“But, hey, we’re going to get you some new pilots as fast as we can. Give me ten minutes.”

I turned to Hank. “Now, that’s impressive. At least they’re trying and not just having us deplane and hope for the best.”

Meanwhile, Lisa is calming the traumatized woman who now has decided to deplane. “Don’t worry,” Lisa told us when I asked. “We’ll (the airline) take care of her.”

Returning with the tags still swinging from what must have be a marathon in Terminal 3, our gentleman ground guy returned. “Good news. I found two pilots.”

Behind him, the two pilots emerged, carry-on cases in tow.  The Captain, exclaiming: “Hey, we thought we were going to Dallas. Now, it’s Newark!”

Soon, we were back in line, taxing to take off…and I was perusing the cocktail list on the back of the menu.  “I think I need a drink,” I whispered to Hank.

Somewhere over the Mid-west, Lisa was once again in high gear as she emerged from the galley. Having done an excellent job up front, she advised that there was a medical situation in back and that she could not serve us for forty-five minutes.

“Are you kidding?” I told her. “We’ll live.” It was all I could do to not put on an apron.

Toward the back of the plane, a twelve year-old unaccompanied boy had gotten sick all down the aisle. The three flight attendants where on it, caring for him, and the passengers, and cleaning up the aisle.

One of the newer flight attendants, on her hands and knees cleaning, was being harassed by an older female passenger who claimed that she “didn’t know how to mother. You’re too young. This child needs mothering.”

With a smile on her face, lipstick reapplied, this flight attendant continued her job. Later, when she was taking a respite for a few minutes up front. I unbuckled my seatbelt and went to her. “You are doing a great job. Don’t let some nut get to you.”

“You’ve been professional,” I added. “Don’t listen to anyone who says you are not doing the best you can – because you are!”

Similar in age to my own daughter, I wanted to mother her. It had not been and easy start to this flight. The weather delays. The “situation” with the two guys. Now a sick child. Yet, all three flight attendants were undeterred.

I’ve heard that passengers tend to complain more about flight attendants to the powers that be than give accolades on their service.

For flight attendants, it’s not easy these days. Passengers are crammed in. Often disrespectful with ear buds in their ears when a flight attendant merely wants to ask what they want to drink. I’ve seen it too often. It’s no wonder some get cranky. It can wear one down. Yes, it’s their “job,” but it deserves respect. We all want respect for what we do. It’s amazing the response when you just treat someone kindly.

Upon landing at 2:30am, the British fellow behind us still had his humor. He stood and reached for his bag overhead and gave us a grin.  “All that and all we get is Newark!”

*Lisa, Haley and Isabel - the flight attendants on the March 31st, Virgin America Flight 166, this is for you.  Thank you for your grace under pressure.

Taming the Shark

“You can stand anything as long as it is temporary,” my eighty-nine year old mother tells me this morning after I complain about my foot. Mom’s wheelchair bound and on the skilled nursing floor at the Jewish Home, but she’s still able to cut right to the chase.

“I’m going crazy wearing this Velcro surgical shoe. I need to move. To do things.”

“No sh**t,” she laughs. “Tell me about it.”

I dismiss her. It’s all about me, the recovering victim of foot surgery. “This toe / tendon thing. It’s taking forever to heal from the surgery,” I tell her. “Like yesterday, I had all this energy. It was great weather and I cleaned all the outdoor furniture. Washed the covers….”

Mom puts a hand up, the beaded bracelet she’s made in crafts dangles from her wrist. “Stop,” she says,  “who the hell cares if your furniture is clean?”

Dressing up last weekend for an event... 

“I do.”

She shakes her head. “What a waste of time.”

“Anyway, my foot got all swollen and I had to ice it for an hour to get the swelling down. Ugh, it’s already been 4 ½ weeks. I’m so done, Mom.”

“The bitch is, you’re like a shark,” she says, “you always need to be moving.”

“I know. I’m just not feeling productive.”

“Productive?  You sound like a goddamn machine!”

I laugh. “Seriously, Mom, I’m not out there, busy, doing things. This hanging around with my foot up is not relaxing for me.”

“Like what, that CycleSoul thing? That’s hardly relaxing, all that jinging on the bike.”

“I do miss the working out.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course, you do… Bor-rring.”

“It’s not just that, Mom, I don’t seem to know how to just be. To sit and enjoy this downtime,” I say, rearranging the jumble of framed photographs on her side table.

“I can see that. Quit with the pictures, will you? They’re fine the way they are.”

 “There’s really no way around it,” I sigh, taking a seat on the corner of her bed.  “It’s a 6 to 8 week recovery.  Nothing I can do but just ride it out.”

Mom listens as I go on.

”I’ve read two self-helps in the past week,” I tell her.  “One on meditation and one on how to unplug.” 

“No offense,” she says, ”but that sounds pretty methodical. It’s not rocket science, this learning how to be calm.”

I look over at her side table.  A stack of tabloids and her favorite magazines, Hello, are fanned out next to a bottle of perfume and a glass of water with a straw.

“Hell, consider yourself lucky,” she adds, picking up her reaching stick. “For, me, its permanent.”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry to be so insensitive.”

“I’ll get over it,” she laughs.

“So, Mom, what would you suggest I do to relax?”

Without missing a beat, she blurts out:  “Drink!”

Postscript:

“That was our childhood in a nutshell.”

                        - My sister, April’s, response when I read this to her.

My Left Foot

My left foot is propped up on a pillow, and getting better after surgery last week to repair my hammertoe and that nasty tendon attached to it.

It’s my fourth foot surgery. I’ve had two other hammertoes and I had the bunions done on both feet eighteen years ago.

Hammertoe surgery is not a “glamorous” one. No new unlined face, lifted eyelids or smooth neck. But, this is the kind that liberates me back into a choice of footwear.

More important, no more pain and no more stash of Dr. Scholl’s toe pads in my handbag.

It wasn’t the ordeal of the surgery that plagued me. I was adverse to the downtime of healing. Six weeks? In that Velcro shoe-thing?!

“It’s the torn tendon,” the doctor told me. “It’s added to the recovery.”

I thrive on dashing about. It fuels me. Relax? What’s that? The days leading up to the surgery you’d think I was going to the gallows. I took spinning class, yoga, you name it. I bought enough food for an army. Bought outdoor plants. And, when it wasn’t raining, planted them and fed the garden. Met with my mother’s tax accountant…

High anxiety. I knew what I was in for – a lot of lying around. I’m not good with lying around.

I’m a real sight since the surgery. I lost a front tooth – that veneer in front that they couldn’t straighten when I had Invisalign five years ago. It chipped on the breathing tube during surgery.  Pay attention when the anesthesiologist asks if you have any loose teeth or implants.  How did I forget I had a veneer front and center?

I look like Lucille Ball in a comedy bit. But, a visit to the dentist and an hour with the drill to remove what remained of the chipped veneer (no problem, foot was up on the chair) and viola, a new “tooth” in just 14 days. The cost? Don’t ask.

None of my pants fit over the bandage so I am living in workout clothes in that stretchy fabric that attracts all things lint. Tucker, our dog, keeps close but his fawn-colored hair grabs onto these legging things. I try to keep it at bay with a lint roller, but I’m a hairy mess.

Without the crutches, I hobble when I move using only the heel of my left foot. Somehow, I can’t find the right shoe in my closet that is compatible to the height of the boot, and my gait is just short of a prisoner with a ball and chain.

Hank aired me out, taking me to the movies several days after surgery. I washed my hair in the sink and found a pair of pants to fit over the bandage and threw on some bronzer and nude lipstick - didn’t want to draw attention to the missing tooth, you know…

I was feeling pretty snazzy. That feeling didn’t last long, though, as soon as we were on the street. Tentatively moving forward on my crutches, Hank beside me, cautious not to walk ahead of me on the sidewalk, I could sense the hold up behind us. We stepped aside, the couples whizzing by on this Saturday night.

Unaware, a woman in high-heeled boots, feeling “all that” grazed my crutch with the chic yellow handbag swinging carelessly off her shoulder.

My boring, sensible cross body bag fell forward as I gripped the crutch to steady myself. I felt feeble.

The theatre was below ground. No escalators for me. “Where’s the elevator?” Hank asked. I silently thanked all those modern building codes for wheelchair access.

The theatre was an I Pic with reclining seats. “Look, Heath,” Hank said. “I got us the back row." Foot up. All good.

“Want a drink?” He asked.

“I’m terrified I’ll never get up if I do!” I laughed. “Oh, to have a martini and swing my legs on a barstool…”

I’d felt vulnerable out there on the street. What an easy prey for someone to snatch my handbag, or worse, accidentally step on my open-toed boot with my line-up of stitches yet to heal.

I’ve heard people say to have gratitude. To be thankful that you can walk, ride a bike, even run.

My first night after surgery, I eyed the walker and the set of crutches in my bedroom…

“Be thankful,” my friend, David, had said during a Soul class. “That you are here. On a bike that you can pedal.”

“It’s a bitch,” my mother, confined to a wheelchair, has said. “I miss being able to just hop up and move things around in my room. Adjust a painting. Water a plant.” Adding: “It feels as if everyone is on the jet plane and I’m on the bus.”

In the scheme of things, this is baby business, my foot. But, something happens to you when you’re lying around.

You think.

And, what you think about, sinks in.