Assisted Living
Rebecca D. Elswick, Grundy, VA
It was the voice in the commercial. “Comfortable, spacious apartments offering the latest amenities including meals, housekeeping, and laundry service, with as little or as much assistance as each resident needs. We take care of you without infringing upon your privacy.” I sighed. Paradise. There was just one problem; it was for elderly people. Assisted living, they called it.
Assisted living. That’s what I’ve done my whole life. I assisted my husband by working two jobs while he got a law degree and established a thriving practice. He rewarded me by having an affair with his younger and much blonder secretary, followed by a nasty divorce. With three children in diapers (twins almost three and a one-year-old), I picked up the pieces and moved on. Without any assistance, I might add. Fast forward twenty-nine years, and the three children I assisted to become successful and independent adults have rewarded me by moving back home, where they live like giant parasites. Oh, yes, I know all about assisted living.
Three days later, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing chili stains from my carpet when I heard the commercialagain. I sat back on my heels and watched. Beautifully furnished rooms with plush carpeting scrolled across the TV screen. A sweet little old lady sat on a sofa reading a book. A fire glowed on the hearth across the spacious room. All the while, a voice as soft as an angel’s wing spoke in the background. “We take care of all of your needs.”
The tingling in my ankles brought me out of my reverie. All I did was take care of somebody’s needs. I finished scrubbing the carpet and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen; from there, I went to the mess in the bathroom. None of it was made by me. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have someone take care of me for a change?
That night, I watched my children, eating the dinner I’d prepared. I picked up a knife and tapped my glass, just like I’d seen in movies. One by one, they stopped eating and stared. “There are going to be some changes around here,” I said. “From now on, I expect you to do your own laundry, clean your rooms and bathrooms, and help prepare meals, including cleaning up the kitchen.”
“But mother, I work every day!” Emma said.
My twin sons went back to eating like they were not a part of this conversation. I leaned forward and said, “Boys, what have you got to say?”
Ron, the oldest by six minutes, said, “Huh? About what?” His brother Russ just glanced at me and reached for another piece of chicken.
“You two haven’t heard a word I’ve said! Have you?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” said Ron, “You said Sis should help you more.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“Me? I work everyday. Besides, I don’t make messes.”
I felt anger roaring like a lion in my chest. “Really? Then who made chili last night and left the kitchen in a mess? And who spilled it all over the living room carpet and didn’t even attempt to clean it up?”
“Sorry about that. You know I like to cook.”
“Well, I don’t!” I stood up slamming my chair into the wall behind me. “I hate cooking and cleaning, and taking care of three adults who should take care of themselves!”
I stalked out, grabbing my car keys. My daughter called after me, “Mom, can you pick up my dry cleaning while you’re out?”
I drove for almost an hour before I saw the turn off. I followed the road as it curved around a hill dotted with weeping willow trees. They waved their lacey fingers at me in welcome. When I reached the top of the hill, I pulled off and got out of the car. Across the valley, the sun was setting - such peace pervaded this place. I watched until the sun melted and dripped behind the mountains, then I drove home.
The next day, I picked up the phone, and even dialed the number, before hanging up. I must be losing my mind! I tried to concentrate on first one TV show then another, but my eyes kept resting on the telephone. I even went to the grocery store but came home with half of the things I needed. I turned on the TV and started putting away the groceries. When I heard that voice, I dropped a bag of apples. They bounced around my feet like red rubber balls.
“Call us or just drop by,” it said. I picked up the phone and this time, I didn’t hang up.
“Hello, I’m interested in, ah, your facility. I mean, I’m calling for my mother.”
(Pause).
“A one bedroom apartment, definitely, just one bedroom. When can I visit?”
(Pause)
“Tomorrow afternoon sounds fine. Thank you. Oh, and Miss, just one more question. What’s the age limit?”
(Pause)
“No, Miss, you misunderstood. I meant, what’s the youngest age a resident can be to live there?”
The next morning, I dressed carefully for my visit to Hidden Valley Estates. I was nervous on the drive over, but when I entered the grounds, landscaped in a rainbow of flowers, I could not stop smiling. Once inside, I was surrounded by comfort and good taste. A receptionist settled me in the administrator’s office with a cup of tea. She promised me it would only be a few minutes.
I sipped my tea and waited. In the distance, I heard it – that voice. There was no doubt about it; it was the one from the commercials. I closed my eyes listening, when I opened them, a middle-aged lady in a designer lavender suit was smiling down at me.
“Hello dear,” she said extending a delicate hand. “I’m Helen Shelton. You must be Ms. Anderson.”
“Please,” I said, “call me Carolyn.”
“Carolyn, then,” she said. Her smile deepened. “Will your mother, Mrs., ah?” She hesitated.
“Anderson.” I said. “Carol Anderson.”
I saw the look of confusion on her face, so I hurried to explain. “I use my maiden name, since the divorce, and I was named after her.”
“Of course. Will she be joining us?”
“No, my mother is a bit shy, and she wanted me to come first and check things out.”
“Well, Carolyn, let me tell you all about Hidden Valley Estates and what we can offer your mother.”
An hour later I left, clutching a folder of materials. I’d made an appointment for my seventy-five-year-old mother to tour the facility. I had one week to get ready.
On the drive home, I came up with a plan. It started with the hatbox that held old family photographs. Since my mother died when she was only fifty, her pictures wouldn’t help. It was my grandmother’s pictures I spread out before me, taking note of the age spots on her face and hands, her cap of short gray curls, and the highway of wrinkles that fanned out from her eyes when she smiled.
Next, I was off to the mall. First I bought make-up, and then a wig. After that, I went shopping for clothes and shoes. Back at home, I taped my grandmother’s pictures to the bathroom mirror and set to work. Satisfied, at last with the make-up, I put on the thick support hose and new purple flowered dress that buttoned all the way up to my chin. After that, I laced up my new orthopedic shoes. Wow, these are comfortable, I thought. Last, I slipped on a wig of gray curls.
Now, for the finishing touch. I took off my contacts and put them in their case. I reached for on my glasses, the ones I wore only when I was at home. Coke bottle glasses - my ex-husband had called them. He said the lenses were so thick they looked like the bottom of a coke bottle. The thick brown frames didn’t add to their attractiveness. I smiled, remembering that my daughter had told me I looked like an old woman in them. Out loud I said, “Old woman it is.” I slipped on the glasses and stepped in front of the full length mirror. My grandmother’s reflection smiled sweetly at me.
A week later, my mother visited Hidden Valley Estates. The administrator said an apartment would be available in the fall. My mother told her to start the proceedings.
That evening, Russ was the first to get home from work. He came into the kitchen where I was stirring my special homemade spaghetti sauce. “Hey mom,” he said, “some idiot put a FOR SALE sign in our front yard.”
I smiled and kept stirring.
“Did you hear me? Some idiot…”
Just then, Emma burst through the kitchen door. “Mother, would you believe some moron put a FOR SALE in our yard.”
I nodded, my spoon gliding through the bubbling sauce. They were still staring at me when Ron stomped in carrying the sign under his arm. “Who the hell put this in the yard?” He said.
“Here, dear, give it to me,” I said. I laid the spoon on a napkin, took the sign, and went out the door. I was putting it back in the front yard when I heard a collective gasp. I turned around and smiled. “Guess what?”
I strode back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. My children burst through the door, all of them talking at once. When they stopped and stared at me I asked, “Are you ready to listen to me now?”
They nodded in unison.
“Then sit down and listen.”
I waited for them to settle down before I said, “I am selling the house.”
“Where are we moving?” Emma demanded, her eyes wide.
“We aren’t going anywhere. I am. For twenty-nine years, I have been taking care of somebody. First your father, and then you three. I am almost fifty-two-years-old, and I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of me. Each of you has a college degree. You have good jobs making more than enough money to support yourselves. It’s time you were on your own.” I paused. All three children sat dumbfounded so I plowed on. “I love each of you, but I am tired. I want a chance to do what I want to do, and that doesn’t include taking care of you and this big house.” I rose from the table and returned to the stove. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”
For the next month, my children alternated between a barrage of Why questions and the silent treatment. While they sulked, I cleaned out closets, stripped the clutter from the garage, and made numerous trips to Good Will. With every closet I cleaned, I grew stronger. When the garage was spotless, I felt ten feet tall. By my final trip to Good Will, I was invincible.
When the first offer came on the house, my children began apartment hunting. By the second offer, my daughter moved in with a friend. By the third offer, my sons found an apartment together. A month later, I sold the house and my mother moved into Hidden Valley Estates.
I took very little with me – my bedroom furniture, my mother’s desk, and a cedar chest that held everything I wanted to keep. The rest, I divided with the children. When I handed the key to the realtor, I walked away with a sway in my hips and a smile on my lips.
My new life fit like a pair of old leather shoes worn soft in all the right places. I sketched and painted, read books, watched old movies, and wrote page after page in my diary. Once a week, I called the kids. Most of the time, I left a cheerful message on their answering machines.
Gradually, I ventured out among the residents of Hidden Valley Estates. I played an occasional bingo game or joined neighbors for lunch in the dining hall. On a frigid January day, I joined a group of ladies for bingo. We played while snowflakes drifted by the window like soft whispers. From the front of the room, someone called, “Bingo!” At that precise moment, a lady at my table, Miriam Howell, slumped forward and slipped off her chair onto the floor.
I sprang from my seat, ran around the table, and fell down on my knees next to Miriam. “Get help!” I yelled starting CPR. “We need help over here!” I kept up the CPR until the staff nurse arrived and took over. When the ambulance came, I slipped away in the confusion.
The next morning, I sipped tea with the group of ladies from the bingo game. They reported that Miriam’s condition was stable. “You were amazing,” said Clara, her blue hair bobbing around her head.
“How did you know what to do?” asked Naomi.
“How in the world did you move so fast?” Mary Ruth chimed in.
Before I could answer, I saw Helen Shelton, the administrator, coming toward me. My heart leapt into my throat. I knew she was going to ask me the same questions.
Later that morning, I sat in her office with a cup of tea getting cold in my hand. I listened to Mrs. Shelton thank me over and over for saving Miriam. When she stopped talking and stared across her desk at me, I mumbled, “I was a nurse for many years; it was like a reflex action.”
“We are lucky you are still so agile,” she said. Then she added, “At your age.”
I felt cold sweat trickle down my back. Here it comes. I thought. She knows. I gathered my courage and looked at her. She smiled and stood up. “Well, thank you again, Carolyn. I won’t keep you any longer.”
I sat my cup on the edge of her desk and rose. My stiff slow movements were not an act. Mrs. Shelton strode across the room and opened the door. I had reached the threshold, when Mrs. Shelton placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. She sighed deeply. “I wish I could move in here,” she said, “especially now.”
I stopped, turning slightly toward her.
She continued. “My daughter is divorcing her husband. She’s moved back home with her three children ages two, five, and seven.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you, I thought you’d understand.”
It wasn’t until I got back to my apartment, that I realized she’d called me Carolyn.
