Even if it’s just for one day.

I’m flying home to Miami at dawn tomorrow, Tuesday morning, and returning on Wednesday early enough to go straight into work.  

On Tuesday evening, my Mother will be attending a preview of Ken Burn’s new documentary (set for release in September of this year) about U.S. National Parks.  My Mother played a major role in establishing Biscayne National Park, a Park that ultimately protected a major part of Biscayne Bay, and she's featured in the project. 

On Wednesday morning, my Mother is heading up to Tallahassee, Florida, to move into an Assisted Living Facility. After 50 years, she’ll be leaving Miami for good.

Typically for my Mother, she didn’t tell me about the presentation until last Thursday. 

“Why did they have to plan it right now?  It’s such a bother!  I wish I didn’t have to go. I have so much to do!” 

For weeks she had been sounding more and more harried and overwhelmed as she prepared for the move to Tallahassee. 

I looked at my schedule. I could make the trip to attend this honor without missing work.  This is important because if I don’t work, I don’t get paid.  That’s life for a part-time worker.  Plus, I had frequent flyer miles and could make the trip for free!  This is extremely important because I’m desperately poor, and I couldn’t have done it otherwise.

I gleefully called my Mother with the news. 

“Hey, Mommy!   Your beloved baby daughter is coming down to shower you with love and affection, and to witness you receive yet another honor!”

 Silence.  Then the hammer struck.

“No.” She said in a panicky tone.  “I don’t want you to visit! It’s too much. I won’t be able to spend any time with you, I have far too much to take care of; I just can’t handle it right now!”

Silence.  My Mother didn’t want to see me.  I was devastated.

Ever since my half-sister instigated, and championed this move, my mother has been all over the place, emotionally.  

At 84 years old, my Mom is still a vital part of the fabric of the political and social scene in Miami.  She spent 30 years as a well-known, well-respected journalist for the Miami Herald.  A nationally recognized environmentalist, following her retirement she focused her attentions on the Florida Everglades National Park.  My Mother and her cohorts have been very successful in holding off those who would exploit this vital eco-system, and they have even taken their defense of the Park all the way to the Supreme Court.

She has a vast network of friends and acquaintances, and a busier social life then I could ever hope to have.  I can never reach her.  She’s at the ballet, the opera, the symphony, having lunch with an old friend or dinner with a new one.  She’s at a hearing, a seminar, a committee meeting.   She’s having a grand old time.  My Mother is a Player.

Now she will be leaving all that behind. 

I will forever suspect my sister was motivated by personal financial concerns rather than from great fear and concern for my Mother’s well being.  I don’t like my sister much.  I think holding two huge mortgages because she got greedy, and had to build her new dream house before selling her old dream house can turn anyone into a conniving bitch!  Plus, she and her husband, (who hates my Mom), are co-owners of my Mother’s condo.  Sure, the situation is complicated, but I like the bitch even less now.   Huh.  I’ll save that rant for another day.

When the decision was made to move Mother to The Shady Oaks Adult Community, or as I call it, Buttsville Old Folks Home, her spirit began to fade.  

For a brief time, hope was regained.  Few people, including my Mom, believed she needed to leave Miami and move into such a place.  Fiercely independent, the idea of her giving up her lifestyle seemed like utter folly.

“I’m in pretty good shape.” She said cheerfully, “Maybe a daily visit from one of those home care people would be enough?  As long as they don’t hit me or treat me badly.  I’ve heard stories, you know.” 

Through some Facebook networking, I discovered that the wife of a high-school classmate runs a company that, while costly, provides high quality, stringently vetted aides with medical backgrounds.  My Mom’s anxiety was assuaged, and she felt confident she could remain in Miami.  Her mood improved dramatically, and she felt her life was back on track.

The reprieve didn’t last for long.

Somehow my sister convinced my Mother that she was old and weak, and needed the kind of care she could receive only at a facility in Tallahassee, 5 minutes from where my sister lives.  The decision was final.  My Mother was to sell her condo, and move into a studio in ButtWhack Olds Folk Home.  That was that.   

“It’s for the best,” Mother said to me in a defeated voice I didn’t recognize, “It’s better for me to do it now while I can.  Soon I won’t be able to take care of myself.”   What the hell? Where was my Mother and what had they done with her?

In record time, in a depressed housing market, my mother’s condominium was sold at a fire-sale price.  Some people think my sister had the realtor purchase it with the proviso that the agent could then sell it for whatever she wished.  Okay, at least I think she did.  Cow.  Fiend.  Bitch. 

I might, eventually, see her point of view.  Huh.  I'll save that rant for another day.

In the six weeks prior to the move, a slightly hysterical tone became to creep into my Mom’s conversation. 

“I have so many things!  How will I get this done?”  Several willing friends came over to pack. 

“I don’t want a farewell party, that’s the last thing I want!”  Her friends threw her one this past Sunday.

“What about my dog?”  She asked, voicing her greatest fear, “They say if the dog barks, I’ll have to get rid of her!”  Dogs BARK!  That’s what makes them dogs.  She’s not a Serial Barker.  Someone walks by the door, the dog barks.  Sure, the dog’s a little spoiled (see http://open.salon.com/blog/notes_from_joblessville/2009/01/05/little_old_lady_with_a_dog_a_fun_new_recipe but she means everything to my Mom.  Besides, Caesar Milan couldn’t get this dog to quit barking.  If ButtHollow Old Folks Home makes my Mom get rid of that dog, I’m driving down to Tallahassee, and bringing that pup back to New Jersey.  Then I’m making an anonymous call to the Tallahassee Health Inspector and reporting mouse droppings in the ButtStop's communal kitchen!  And my sister will start to receive subscriptions to Big Bottomed Babes, and Jugs O’Rama because my Mother’s heart will have finally been completely broken.

Did I mention that my sister hates the dog?  Huh.  I’ll leave that rant for another day.

This whole thing is a cluster fuck.  I’m too poor to have any say in the matter, and my guilt makes it hard for me to breathe. My heart stutters and my chest tightens because I’m 50 years old and working in a grocery store, and can’t do anything to keep my Mother from living what I believe to be her worst nightmare.  How did I let that happen?  How did I mess up so badly that I can’t come to my Mom’s rescue?  After all the rescues she performed for me, I can’t help her now.

There’s a widely held belief that when some elderly people break their hip, that’s the beginning of the end.  I’m afraid that moving to the Shady Oaks Adult Community will be my Mother’s “Hip”.  Cut off from her friends, and the active life she led that kept her mind sharp and vibrant, I fear she’ll start that slide into the beginning of her end. 

I knew it would come eventually.  Everybody dies, even beloved Mothers.  There are hundreds of scenarios that might have played out when my Mom’s time comes.  I just didn’t think it would be beneath the shade of oak trees in a strange part of the world.  I’m fairly she sure she didn’t think it would happen this way, either.

So, without her permission, I’m going home to Miami to surprise her on the night of a great honor, to see her in her glory, surrounded by friends, in the city that she loved, to witness the legacy she will be leaving behind.     

To see her at home. One last time.