The Costco Whisperer

I have not dismissed them. They are my parents after all. I have an incredible amount of love for them. 

And a stitch of compassion.

While my husband and our children and I are geographically isolated, I have not abandoned my folks.

When the stay at-home orders caused by the COVID-19 pandemic started in March 2020, my dad, who is an aging Baby Boomer, was understandably very worried about leaving the house. While we didn't know much, we knew COVID was capable of rapidly spreading between people. At the time, most of us were watching as seniors in nursing homes were rapidly dying in large numbers.  Because of science, and the importance of knowing our nation's health history, we know that when community-based illness hit, the young and the old are the most vulnerable. My folks are in a larger city and my dad was on high alert about contracting COVID and meeting his maker. 

Because, then what would happen to Mom? Not that she'd been diagnosed yet. Shhh, don't talk about it, you guys. Remember? #iCulturallyReferenceMyself

sometimes I'm brilliant

At the start of the shutdown, there was also understandable anxiety, and over the first couple of weeks, I had several long talks with my folks. 

They always have me on speakerphone. It's not my favorite but I roll with it, you guys.

In one of our conversations I offered to help them by placing their Costco orders. Online. Because the Internet is awesome like that. 

While I do come from the oppressively misogynistic culture that is the Sonoran Desert, I'm also an adult.

Ultimately, I was happy to help ensure that they at least had enough essentials to survive. I mean, I saw 28 Days Later, you guys. You know what I'm sayin'?

I'm saying that at that point in time, we were coming together as Americans and making sure that we each hoarded as much goddamn toilet paper as we could possibly hoard! 

RIGHT?! #ToiletPaperCrisis2020

Over the past 16+ months, I've had more in-depth phone conversations with my dad...who I love very much...about the different softness levels of toilet paper, than a person ever really needs to in their lifetime. 

Scott toilet paper is no longer something he can use: "It's like sandpaper, ya know what I'm saying?"

Yet, Charmin is too fancy for him. "That's for people with really tender a-holes. I'm not that person. I'm a little tougher than that. I'm a quarter Mexican."

Me: Got it, Dad.

Him: I  mean, I don't have hemorrhoids, or nothin'. I've had hemorrhoids. They are not fun. Did ya ever have hemorrhoids?

Me: Yes, I've had hemorrhoids, Dad. I've been pregnant twice. 

#JesusDad

Him [silence]: Anyway. Do they have the Kirkland brand of TP? That's between Scott and Charmin. It's like a five. On a scale of one to ten, ya know what I'm sayin? It'll do. Get me a couple packages of Kirkland toilet paper if they got it. I mean, they've gotta have it. It's Costco. It's their own brand."

Thank you, Kirkland, for making Dad Approved TP. 

Me: Dad, Costco does have Kirkland toilet paper, but they have a limit on one case. The case contains a total of 30 rolls of toilet paper.

everyone poops

Him: Okay. That'll be fine. As long as your mother or I don't get diarrhea...? I mean, I'll go out sometimes. I gotta get to the lab once a month for my blood draw.

Me: Dad, I got it! One case of Kirkland toilet paper! What else do you need?   

#FocusDad

Him: Ha! I was joking about getting diarrhea! It's not like we're leaving the house. We'll be fine.

Humor always helps, you guys. #PoopJokeFTW

Him: Get two cases, though.

Me: But, Dad, there's a one case limit on toilet paper. I'll check other online retailers and if I find something that's not horribly expensive, I'll arrange for it to be sent. 

Him: That'd be great. Keep checking Costco, too, though. I mean you're on the computer a lot more than me. 

Me: Dad, do you have a computer?

Him: No. I was joking.

I also told my dad that I know he and mom are on a fixed income, and to help, we could also help contribute to the expense of my parents' bimonthly Costco bill. My husband and I were both incredibly lucky, and very very thankful, to both have employment during the shutdown. #gratitude

But Dad sternly refused. "I can pay my own way," he said. "There may be a time where I'm not gonna be able to pay my own way and then you can pay my way. But right now, I'm paying for this. No. But thank you."

Me: Got it, Dad. And you're welcome. I'm happy to be able to help you and Mom with the Costco ordering online. The order has been placed and will be to your home within two hours.

Mom: That's amazing! Thank you, Rachel.  

Me: You're welcome, Mom. 

Today I am thankful Mom still knows my voice.

Over time, we worked out a system where I called once each week, and if I needed to be The Costco Whisper, then I'd place their order...and as if by magic...or perhaps a series of tubes...within a couple of hours, their purchase would be delivered to their door and unloaded into their garage by the Instacart shopper.

And, by the way, Dad, we always always always over-tip service people who are working during a respiratory pandemic. This is an incredible service folks are providing. Let's be thankful for the opportunity to help keep people employed. Because, really, we don't know what they are dealing with, but we are sure thankful to see them with all of our stuff. Seriously, you guys. #gratitude

Elsa letting it go

After the delivery was made and unloaded by the Instacart shopper onto the folding table in the garage, my dad proceeded to then wipe everything down with an anti-germ wipe and let it dry (his choice; let it go). He then brought his items inside and put everything away.

Then he'd call me. I'd ask him how the delivery went and made sure all items were delivered. I'd also give him the total amount of the bill, including the tip being agreed upon in the first phone call when I placed the order.

Sometimes he'd tell me to tip a couple of bucks extra and his feedback would be, "She was a real nice gal." 

Other times he'd provide me a commentary on the Instacart shopper's cuteness, but in a super sly way: "It's a hot one out today, so I slipped her an extra ten bucks."

To clarify, that roughly translates to "it's 100 degrees out today and that gal was so foxy she could have been in a 1980's ZZ Top video." 

Instacart women of the Sonoran Desert are so attractive they make men weak. That's a serious Super Power, you guys.

Me: Dad, I am paying for everything on my credit card. But, yes, go ahead and tip the cute ones extra cash if you need to.

Him: I'm an old man, honey. I'm not dead. Yet. 

Me: It's all good, Dad. No worries.

He'd then tell me when he was planning to mail the check, complete with a list of stops the mail would make between our cities, and predictions of when I should look for it in my post office box. 

He's usually pretty accurate. 

You guys, maybe my Dad could be The Mail Whisperer.  

 

Shhh, don't talk about it

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

That's been their mentality from the start.

Don't talk about Mom's Dementia.

Within the first year of my now 14-year-old son's arrival, she sent the same book twice. When I politely brought it up, she sang out, "Oh! I'm just a doting Grandma! [pregnant pause] But maybe I should make a list of what I send...?"

"No biggie, Mom. It's fine to have two copies of a book," I said.  Because: Books.

Way Out In The Desert(s)

To which she then suggested that since I have two books, perhaps I need to just have a second child. 

Yeah. Because children are like Lay's fuckin' potato chips. Ya might as well have more than one!

Fast forward 11 years to spring 2016, it was after my Breast Cancer Adventure. My first Port Angeles Friend and I took a field trip to see my folks. We went out to dinner, and after my mom excused herself to go to the bathroom, Dad addressed Mom's "problems with her memory."

"I know, Dad," I said. "That's a big reason why I'm here." 

We talked in hushed tones. I mean, we all know that every Mom has the Super Power of being able to listen to the conversation you're having at the table, in a noisy restaurant while she's in the bathroom, and the bathroom is on the other side of the restaurant, you guys. Right?

My dear first Port Angeles Friend was, as always, incredibly kind and offered my Dad her personal experience with her own mother-in-law's dementia diagnosis. The three of us conspired for me to have breakfast with my Mom alone one morning, so that I could express my concerns and offer ways to help. 

I mean, HELLLLLOOOOO? Health Educator since 1997! 

Oh! And as an added bonus: Special needs mom turned breast cancer survivor turned tonsil cancer caregiver, here! 

I wish I was lying.

And my day job is teaching college students how to make informed health choices! #DreamJob #Gratitude 

Dad! I am here to help you guys! This is what I do! Think of it as a return on your investment in my bachelor's degree. For real. I have specialized training, as well as personal experience, and can totally help you and Mom navigate the health care system and --

Here she comes!  

My dad had his eye on the bathroom door and watched my mother walk across the restaurant.

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

The next morning at breakfast, I explained to my mom how I found the lump in my own breast. That I promptly chose to talk with my spouse, and to see my doctor about a problem we could not deny. I stated that from my perspective, as a mom of a child who has neurological disabilities, I felt as though her brain health was beginning to decline. I told her I loved her several times, and I pleaded with her to please ask her own doctor for a referral to a neurologist or neuropsychologist. 

She said she would. 

But she didn't.  

Because shhh...don't talk about it. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, you guys.

Yet, from the perspective of the patient with dementia, it's gotta be the the hardest goddam thing to do. Walk into your physician's office and say "I need to be tested for dementia"...? Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. I imagine that's harder than, "I found a lump." 

But maybe making comparisons between their hard and my hard isn't the way to go with this. Their hard is their hard.   

And my hard is my hard. 

It's not a contest, you guys. 

Not my circus, not my monkeys. 

My monkeys fly...

 

 

The Valley of the Sun

I descended upon The Valley of the Sun on Thursday, a little more than 48 hours before My Little Brother was scheduled to be married to his Fantastic Fiancé.

Although my flight outta The Emerald City left on time, I had trepidation about leaving. Not so much because of who I was leaving. Or because who I was going to see. It was more about who I was seated next to.

Because, let's face it, you guys, on a jumbo jet, your seat mates could be your lifeline. I mean, we're flying by the Cascade Range and over the Grand Canyon, and do pilots take mental health evaluations?  Jesus. What about that fella that stole a plane at SeaTac? It'll be fine. Maybe the pilot is Iron Maiden front man Bruce Dickinson. Heh. Randy'd be totally jealous. But Dickinson doesn't work for Alaska Airlines. Oh well.

Why is the grown woman next to me wearing glitter finger nail polish? And are they are all different but also seeming to match each finger on her opposite hand...? Oh lawd. This is my curse. I did nails in college and notice such things. Where's my oppressively thick Stephen King book?

Why doesn't her hair move very much? Her hair is past her shoulders. When my hair was long it moved all the time. She must be using a serious amount of hairspray, you guys. At least she, and her hair, aren't all perfumey and going to make me nauseous and want to vomit all over the place.

Wonder Woman Talisman

Wait a hot goddamn minute! Is the younger woman her daughter? Sister? Lover? Wife? You can never tell. Well, they clearly know each other, Doak, so be kind.

Oh Sweet Baby Jesus! She has glitter on her shoes! Where's my Wonder Woman Talisman? I bet she's really soul sisters with one of my favorite Paras, MR (You Glitter Queen, you!). Oh, well, I suppose I'll just look out the window. And read my oppressively thick Stephen King book. No ear buds or music so I can stay alert and aware. Because my seatmates may need to join #TeamAnderson and help the three of us bounce the fuck outta there pronto! You with me?

I had my new Vans on. The Boob Shoes. Because I needed something easy on-easy off getting through security. Also, just so ya know, the shoelaces say "Do It Yourself"...so these are totally on point for me and my family.

The Boob Shoes #Vans

And if I've got boobs on my shoes, she can have glitter on her shoes. It's all good. Just don't shed glitter on me, mkay? Because I'm not shedding my boobs onto you. 

I've descended upon The Valley of the Sun before. The last time was in the late nineties. When my husband and I were dating...and then when we lived in sin...we'd head south on Interstate 17 from Flagstaff to Phoenix for the day. It took about an hour-and-a-half back then...In my day...and because of the numerous mountains and valleys in Arizona, yes, it really was up hill both ways, you guys.

When I lived in Arizona, Phoenix was never a destination for an extended time. It was a stopping place between Flagstaff and Tucson for gas and a bathroom break when I'd head home for a long weekend. Phoenix was a place for concerts. Except that time we were so poor in December 1996 we couldn't go see Garbage open for The Smashing Pumpkins. That defined serious disappointment for me.

So, long story short (too, late, I know)...the passenger next to me was a cervical cancer survivor: she had chemo and radiation, but she never lost her hair...the lucky girl. I told her that when I shaved my head, my older son chose to shave his head...but that my younger son freaked out and ran and hid and we couldn't find him for about 10 minutes. It was scary...to have Mommy look so different. Oh! And the younger passenger was a math major. So, cancer + math = BFF on a 3 hour flight to Phoenix. #Winning

The cancer survivor was heading to The Valley of the Sun for time with her family. She was also going to Sedona. As an alumnus of Northern Arizona University, I recommended she take 89A from Sedona up to Flagstaff. She asked what Sedona was like. I told her that the Yavapai Indians consider Sedona a holy place...but times have changed and sometimes there are people who tape crystals to their foreheads and sit in front of Bell Rock, waiting for a vortex to open. That usually the Vortex Seekers were harmless, but it was a good idea to keep your distance and not interrupt the energy exchange between said Vortex Seeker and the Vortex Site...because you sure as shit do not want to get sucked into a Vortex. It could be like a Black Hole and we'd never see you again. Also, be proud of me, you guys, because I refrained from telling her about Blow Job Rock. No really, it's a thing. You're welcome.

The younger woman was a math major and looking at Grand Canyon University. She asked me what it was like to live in the desert. I told her that during the summer, it's like living in an oven, and you cannot get naked enough to cool off when it's over 100 degrees for over 100 days, but that with the A/C on, you can cool a room down to 72* and have the perception of being cool. I told her that wearing pantyhose in the desert is akin to wearing a scuba suit and trying to walk in water: ZERO FUN. And that, while 100 degrees for over 100 days is completely oppressive, your face will not actually melt off like that Nazi at the end of "Raiders." She was like 16 and did not get my cultural reference, you guys. She said, "But it's a dry heat, right?" And since she's lived her entire life in Klamath Falls, Oregon, and really had no idea WTAF a "dry heat" is...I simply said, "Yes. It's a dry heat," and left it at that.

And, yes, the two women knew each other because they met on the plane from Medford, OR to Seattle. Then they happened to sit next to each other on the flight from Seattle to Phoenix. Sometimes life just works like that. Why they chose to fly Medford-Seattle-Phoenix and not Medford-Portland-Phoenix wasn't discussed. And, really, it wasn't important. My seatmates were delightful and it was a great way to descend upon The Valley of the Sun.

I landed just before lunch and the plan was for The Kid to pick me up at the airport. And so he did. Here we are.

Me and My Little Brother. He's super adorable.

Upon My Little Brother picking me up at the airport, we drove 30 minutes all the way the hell out to East Mesa because he needed up some photo booth thing for the reception. Then we drove 30 minutes back to Phoenix because I was starving. And it was hot. Not melt your face off hot. That shit usually goes down in July. But it was hot for this #PNWWoman.

We ended up eating a delicious vegan lunch at a restaurant called Green New American. An old friend who lives in The Valley of the Sun said this place was delicious. And since The Kid knows his food because he spent a lot of his college career waiting tables, this place was on point and tasted nothing like sticks and leaves. French fries covered in vegan ranch dressing, vegan cheese, and red hot sauce? With a "burger"? Sure. Why not? #WhenInRome

I'm thankful we had the time together, just me and My Little Brother, alone. We had some pretty rich discussions about things related to his wedding: Our Parents, members of the Egyptian Cohort who were also descending upon the Valley of the Sun, my husband and our kids, and life in general. When I asked him if he was happy, he said yes. And I truly believe in my heart that he is.

Since his Beautiful Bride was in clinic until after dinner, and needed to manage the Egyptian Cohort, The Kid and I made a plan to have dinner with just Our Parents. Really it was for me to get eyes on them and for The Kid and I to have time alone with Our Folks. And, it was during this time I learned more about My Parents and their capabilities as senior citizens...and how scary it can be to age.

The last time I had eyes on My Parents, it was in the spring of 2016. It was after My Cancer Adventure...and about six weeks before my husband was diagnosed with his own cancer. And when I last saw them, it was in Tucson. So, seeing them in Phoenix...not in their natural environment...and out of their comfort zone...combined with the myriad emotions that come up during weddings...it was bound to be eye opening for me.

Before My Little Brother and I arrived at the Airbnb my Future Sister-In-Law arranged for My Parents stay at for the weekend...well let's just say that may or may not be a blog post for another time. At this point, I'll simply say that teaching people who are not tech savvy to use an electronic keypad to unlock the front door didn't go over well...my Dad's flip-phone ran out of minutes...and the "helpful neighbor across the street who seemed nice" because he let My Dad use his phone to call My Little Brother...and then My Dad repeated the keypad code to My Little Brother and the neighbor ended up with the code for the keypad...which is essentially the keys to the house...yeah....

So, my entire family is very thankful the owner of the Airbnb was incredibly compassionate, came over and disengaged the electronic keypad, and gave My Senior Citizen Parents a plain old key to get in and out of her rental property. My Little Brother the Public Defender diplomatically pointed out to Our Folks that for all we know, the "nice neighbor" could be the neighborhood meth dealer and my Dad just accidentally gave the keys to the house to him. #Whoops

In a way, I left my family in the Pacific Northwest with all of it's health issues...to go to the Desert Southwest to manage my family with all of it's health issues. It was setting up to be quite a fun-stressful-supportive-crazy-once-in-a-lifetime experience in the Valley of the Sun.

And I missed my husband all weekend.

Flying Solo

Due to events that are beyond my control, I'm flying solo to My Little Brother's wedding.

He and his Fantastic Fiancé have decided to get married in a church.

Not just any church. Like, if it was A Little White Chapel, in Vegas, my family would be more likely to make more of an effort swing that...maybe.

Alas, My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé are getting married on Saturday in Phoenix, in the Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria. My future sister-in-law is an Egyptian immigrant. She and her family moved to America when she was about five years old.

And the ceremony is gonna be at least an hour.

By way of comparison, Vegas weddings are like 5-15 minutes, depending on the Chapel. When I worked at the Treasure Island Hotel and Casino's Wedding Chapel, the longer versions of the ceremonies were 15 minutes.

Yes. Yes, I was a professional Wedding Coordinator on the Strip. It was before grad school. I can tell you that not everyone is happy on their wedding day. So, being a Wedding Coordinator is actually part of the reason I went to grad school. My 9-month stint in Corporate America enhanced my record-keeping skills, and as a mom of a child with special needs, those skills are employed frequently.

My children are not church trained.

Circus trained? Yes.

Church trained? No.

And neither my husband or I have any desire to church train our children.

I certainly planned on taking them...My Little Brother's wedding...after all this is a once in lifetime event...and my kids worship their Uncle...and #JesusKnows in my family, with the myriad health issues that plague us, we certainly need to party and celebrate whenever we are given the opportunity.

Well-meaning friends who attend various church services said that most churches have a family room...? Like I could take my kids if they started acting like the monkeys that they are...?

Nope. Not happening. But thank you, well-meaning friends, for the suggestion.

When people who are autistic are taken out of their comfort zone, and expected to be on their best behavior inside of a place where they've never been in...a church for a minimum of an hour...and let's face it, it'll be more like several hours because pictures...there will be no chilling.

I hate to think of the discomfort and stress my older son would have...the increased case of the giggles...the increased chance of him wetting his pants. Not to mention the different shades of red my husband's beautifully bald head will turn trying to manage his own frustration and subsequent anger with the entire situation...no, thank you.

As parents, our primary job is to set our kids up for successful experiences. Yes, our kids need to fail every so often. But I'm not hauling my monkeys all the way from the North Olympic Peninsula down to Phoenix and expect them to sit quietly and not interrupt their Uncle's wedding...when they are hungover from traveling like they never have before in their entire lives...all in heat and sun they are not at all accustomed to...and, let's be honest, when it's 85 goddamn degrees outside, would you want to sit in a church with a fancy outfit on? No. You'd want your ass in the pool. With SPF 20 Million. Because my family of Pacific North Westerners have pasty white skin...and as a cancer survivor...SPF 20 Million is required, yo.

When My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé came up to visit us in July, which was the second time inside of ten months, they graciously told my husband and I that if we needed to not go to their wedding, they totally support us and our parenting decisions.

Due to life circumstances, My Little Brother is the only person from my family that came to help me, my husband, and our boys when I was going through breast cancer treatments in the summer of 2015.

My mom's brain health is declining; dementia is a bitch. And the way my parents tend to cope with life-altering health issues is to not address it. Denial is a powerful coping mechanism for them.

And I get it.

But I don't.

Because if I didn't speak up when my son was three and having these weird eye movements, who knows what would've happened. Turned out he has epilepsy.

And had I chosen to not speak up when I found a lump in my breast in February 2015, I'd probably be dead. Cancer sucks.

Had I not pushed my husband to persevere through his own battle with HPV-caused tonsil cancer in the summer of 2016...we'll he'd probably be dead...and my kids would be orphans...because that's just how life shakes out for some families...and that totally sucks.

My point is, I choose to parent my family very differently than my parents parented me. (Is it socially acceptable to use three different forms of "parent" in one sentence?) It's not good or bad. It just is what it is.

And, for those of us who are parents, we know our kids better than anyone. My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé know my kids pretty well. My parents, on the other hand, have no idea who my kids are...they have never seen me parent my children...the last time my parents were in Washington State, my older son was 10 months old; he is now 13 years old and in 7th grade. They've never even met my younger son, who is 10-1/2 years old and in 10th grade.

I know that this past springtime I said I was gonna train my monkeys to get on a plane, however, plans change...and ours sure did. Honestly, part of me says there's no fucking way I'm gonna haul my kids all the way the hell down to Arizona and back to Washington State at any time because my parents have put forth zero effort to get to know my kids. So, they don't deserve to spend time my kids, especially during the school year. And regardless of when you travel, traveling is expensive.

So, the best decision my husband and I made was for him to stay home with the boys, while I fly solo to Phoenix. Do I wish they were with me? Kinda. I'm not gonna lie, I'm thankful for the much needed break. Do I wish things were different. Of course I do. But I can't change it...so why waste time and energy on things you can't change?

The bottom line, My Little Brother loves his Fantastic Fiancé so much that he's willing to learn about the religion she was raised with and get married in that particular church. And my husband and my kids love My Little Brother so much that the best choice is for the Male Andersons to stay home.

Choices

The information I found about the University of Arizona's Center on Aging...I never sent it to my parents.

Well, I should say I haven't sent it yet.

Or any pictures of my trip to Tucson.

I made a choice.

It's printed. It's on my desk. I have an envelope.

I have yet to print pictures, address the envelope, or mail that shit down there.

Why?

Because I have a lot on my plate.

Not because I'm a bad person.

Not because I'm an irresponsible daughter.

But because when I got back to Port Angeles, I had a little post vacation depression.

Because who DOESN'T want to say at Ventana Canyon and drive that goddamned convertible camaro around?!

Right?!!

When I got home, it was spring break for Isaac, so it was full time mommy mode.

AND, when I got back, it was the first week of the spring quarter for us at the college. So, even though I did all my prep for the quarter before I left...I was replying to students, interacting with them, and, well, I was working.

I've spoken with my mother a few times since I've been home.

The most recent time was on Mother's Day. Dad wasn't there; he was at the pool, getting his exercise, taking care of himself, which I know he needs to do. So I asked her if she'd been to the doctor yet.

"About what?" she asked, surprised by my question.

"Jesus Fucking Christ, Jill!" I screamed in my head. Clearly she'd forgotten. I know that when a person is starting to experience a lapse in memory issues, they are typically surprised to questions they are not accustomed to being asked. My question was out of the blue and not part of her daily script.


"About your memory issues...?" I asked as gently, but as firmly as I could. "When I was there in March, we talked about you seeing your doctor....about getting a referral to the U of A's geriatric medicine program...remember?"

She hesitated. Not too long, but enough that it was obvious to me. She was thinking back. Did she go to the doctor? What did the doctor say? I could almost feel the wheels turning.

"OH! Right! I did. Yes. Yes, I did," she said, clearly proud of the fact that she remembered. And that she'd gone.

Or was she making it up? Was she remembering incorrectly? Was she simply trying to placate me, so I'd get off her ass about going?

"Good! I'm glad you went!" I said. "What did your doctor say?"

Hesitation.

"Well...he said...he said that sometimes he forgets things too."

"Oh...well, that's true...everyone does forget things from time to time," I said.

Long silence.

"Did you get a referral to the University?" I asked.

"Well," she said, with another long pause, "I decided that I'm going to go with my doctor's advice and not worry about it right now."

She was pleased that she made her decision.

"Oh," I said.

Another long pause.

"Well, I'm glad for you that you made a decision about your health care. However, I do not agree with it, either personally or professionally," I said.

"I've always prided myself on my health," she said. "And this is no exception. I'm ok with where I'm at."

"I see," I said.

Another long pause.

And then I asked, "How old is your doctor, Mom?"

"Oh! Well, I don't know...he's...well he's...."

"Is he older or younger than you?"

"He's much younger."

"I see. And what's his name?"

"Uh...his name is Dr. Murray. Yes, Dr. Murray. He's a nice Jewish doctor."

"Gotcha," I said.

And in my head I screamed "What the fuck does his religion or culture have to do with the type of health care he provides!?!?!? Oh...wait...right...never mind.... It's better to listen to the Jewish doctor who you maybe see once a year and you've chatted with for 7 minutes than it is to listen to your family members, particularly your daughter who has a fucking MASTERS degree in HEALTH EDUCATION and is a college professor and TEACHES a unit on aging!!!!!! Right. No vested interest on my end. None at all. Jesus tap dancing mother fucking Christ!!!!!!!!"

I changed the subject and asked her to have dad please call me when he gets home from swimming.

She said that Sam was down from Phoenix for the day, but was taking a nap. She said they were all going to go to eat later.

I told her to have fun, and Happy Mother's Day, I love you and all that jazz....

I got off the phone with her and immediately texted my brother, venting to him about the conversation I just had with her.

He replied that he'd talk to dad.

Later I kicked myself for not asking if my dad had gone with her to the doctor. Because when a person who is experiencing memory loss is at the doctor, it's really important that someone that knows them well is with them, so that the doctor can get a better understanding of what type of issues the patient is experiencing.

My dad still hasn't called. Maybe he hasn't had time alone. Maybe she forgot I called. Maybe she forgot to tell him. Maybe she made a choice to not tell him.

So, I'm making a choice too, and my choice is that I've said what I've needed to say. I'll send the paperwork about the U of A's center for aging. I'll mail them some pictures from when I was there. Maybe it'll help her. Maybe she'll remember I was there. Maybe she'll change her mind about seeking help.

In addition, my choice is that I'm focusing on my immediate family: my husband and my sons. They need me in a very different way than my mother does. My mother is a grown up and has my dad and my brother for support. They can make decisions. I'll consult with them if they ask me, but I am not responsible for my mother, or the choices she may, or may not, make.

Her birthday

Stacie and I talked about it on Wednesday night, and we decided that it was best for me to have breakfast with my mom, alone, on Thursday for her birthday. Given that she's starting to loose her memory, she may be more candid if it were just she and I, as opposed to feeling the need to be guarded if Stace was with us.

So, I picked my mom up at my parent's home about 9:30 on her 67th birthday and took her, in that awesome convertible camaro, to breakfast. It was a gorgeous spring day and we drove with the top down.

The restaurant she picked was closed, and wouldn't open until 11 am, so I took out my phone, opened Yelp, and did a search for breakfast. The first restaurant that popped up was The Good Egg, and it was about two miles away from where we were. We hopped back into the camaro, and I asked Siri how to get there. And Siri started talking, like she does, and I thought my mom's head was gonna explode, because she is simply not tech savvy (bless her heart). For her, emailing is a stretch; FaceTiming is outta the question (partly because of the tech challenges; partly because she doesn't like the way she looks on the camera. And, no, I'm not kidding).

We had a pleasant conversation over breakfast, I filled her in on what the boys are up to, Nathan's health stuff, how Randy's voice is doing, and a little about what it was like to go through chemo. I censored the nitty gritty of it because I know she's the type to bury her head in the sand and doesn't want to hear about the nastiness of chemo. Not that anyone really does...but you'd think your own mother would want to know what you went through.......

I turned the conversation to her and asked her how she's enjoying her retirement. At some point in the conversation, she used a phrase like, "I don't remember" and I jumped on it, knowing this was my chance, and it would likely not come again.

"Does that happen a lot, Mom?"

She looked at me, surprised, and asked, "What? Does what happen a lot?"

"You not remembering?"

"Well, I don't really know. Haha. I guess. I'm not really sure."

I looked at her, and said, "Well I am concerned that it does. I am worried about you."

"It's nice that you're worried, but you have a lot on your plate with the boys and with Randy and your teaching. You don't need to worry about me."

"Mom, part of the reason I'm here is to take a break from my life and the hell I personally went through with cancer...and part of the reason I'm hear is because over the past 7 or 8 years, I've noticed that your memory is slipping."

She looked at me in the way she has my entire life, clearly uncomfortable with where I was going, and unsure of what I'd say next. And because I'm me, I get a little bit of a charge of taking people out of their comfort zone, and my mother is no exception.

"I know because of the phone conversations. I know because I can feel it. I can feel your memory slipping the same way I can feel it when Nathan's seizes. I know your brain is changing because I live with someone who has a few brain disorders, and while what Nathan deals with is different than what you deal with, it's still a brain disorder. And, we have a family history of Alzheimer's disease. Your father didn't know who his wife of nearly 50 years was when he died."

She swallowed a few gulps of water, cleared her throat and looked at me, expecting more.

I spoke slowly, so that she had time to absorb what I was saying.

"I know you don't want to deal with the idea of loosing your memory. Believe me when I tell you I certainly didn't want to deal with the lump I found in my breast. But the fact is, if I didn't, I'd be dead. I know confronting a health issue is scary, and I can help you. I can help you navigate the health care system, I have a lot of experience, both professionally as a Health Educator for nearly 20 years, as well as a patient and as a care giver. I've already looked into it, and the U of A has a facility called the Arizona Center on Aging. They have neurologists who specialize in memory issues and can help you. Are you taking any medications?"

"No. I don't take anything," she said.

"That's great! And that's pretty amazing that you're 67 years old and you're not on any medications! Good for you, Mom!"

She smiled and took pride in my compliment. Then, just as quickly, her smile disappeared. She cleared her throat.

"Dad and I have talked a little bit about my memory issues, and I suppose I should get to the...where would I go first?" she said.

"I'd start with your primary care doctor. It's important that he or she have a set of eyes on you."

"Did you see your primary care doc when you were going through chemo?"

"Yes, I saw him a couple of times. And I think it's important that when a person is dealing with a major health issue, that they have several different care providers. Each physician is going to have a different perspective, and each of those perspectives are going to be valuable in their own way."

I was getting excited. She was opening up. I could sense her willingness to get help. This was going much better than I had anticipated.

"I think you start with your primary physician, and ask for a referral to the University's Center for Aging. Depending on your insurance, you may be able to self refer and go straight to the U of A."

"Our insurance allows us to self-refer. I can do that," she said.

"Mom that's great! I'm really proud of you for being willing to pursue this. So, what I can do to help you is look some stuff up on the web about the services the University offers, print some information off for you, and mail it to you."

"That would be helpful. Getting on the computer is pretty overwhelming for me."

"I understand. So, I'll get it in the mail as quickly as I can once I get home."

"Did you talk to Dad about this? Does Sam know that you're talking to me, too?"

"Yes, Mom. We are all worried about you and the memory loss we are witnessing. It is important to all of us that you get the help you need and deserve."

"What about Dad?"

"Dad is acutely aware of your fading memory. He's really very worried. He's told me that he makes accommodations for you by leaving you notes. He said that you call him every morning at work about 8 am so that he knows you're ok. He loves you very much, and he wants what's best for you."

By this point, we'd finished eating. I was thankful that she was as open as she was to getting the help she needed. I paid the bill and we left the restaurant.

My spirits were lifted by the ease and gracefulness of the conversation. I was pleasantly surprised.

The sun was out, the sky was blue, the top was down, and we headed towards the resort to connect with Stacie. It was a beautiful day.            

Problems with her memory

"Your mother's got problems with her memory, honey, " said my dad.

That's how the conversation started. We were sitting in a sandwich shop: me, mom, dad, and Stacie. Mom had gotten up to go to the bathroom. We'd been with them for nearly three hours at that point. It was Tuesday, the day we arrived in Tucson.

"I know. That's part of the reason why I'm here," I replied. "I've been worried for a long time and this is the first time since the boys were born that I've been able to travel."

We'd already spent a couple of hours at their home; it was the first time I'd been to Tucson in 13 years. We all visited; Stacie answered the questions they asked about her family, her kids, their ages, their names. Mom and I went for a walk with their enormous Golden Retriever, Sadie. Stacie visited with dad for a bit.

Then we went to dinner at a sandwich shop. Towards the end of our meal, mom asked Stacie about her family, her kids, their ages, their names.

Then she asked the same questions again, about 10 minutes later.

Stacie, who is incredibly gracious, and has personal experience with dealing with a parent who has dementia, answered my mother's questions again. I'm thankful Stacie was with me; she's incredibly supportive and patient. It's kinda in the job description of being my friend.

Then my mom got up to go to the bathroom, and that's when my dad said what he did about her memory.

"I'm more concerned that she's able to be by herself at the house. Do you think she's safe?" I asked my dad.

"I do. We have a routine. I get up about 4:00 to be at work about 5:30, and when she gets up, generally about 8, she calls me on my cell," he said.

I nodded.

He continued: "I write notes for her, so she can remember things. I need to write down what your plans are while you're here so that she remembers."

"That's great that you guys have a routine. Do you need to know what we're doing each day? Or...?" my voice faded.

He said, "Well, I know you're not going to see her tomorrow, and that's fine. But what are you doing on Thursday? It's her birthday."

"I was planning on picking her up at your house sometime in the morning and going from there. Since it'll be her birthday, I think she should decide what we're going to do," I said.

He agreed and then said, "She's coming back...."

It felt a little deceptive...but it was coming from a loving place.

We decided that Stacie and I would pick her up at the house about 9 am on Thursday morning.