Do You Remember the Malt?

No, but I remember the girl.

Jul 17, 2023

Many of us are left with the task of caring for aging parents, spouses, siblings, and sometimes life-long friends we love dearly. After my Father died I spent six years in Florida taking care of my mother for most of the final years of her life. I uprooted, gave up my career, and had to learn a new way of working and living. I can’t say it was easy. In fact, it was sheer hell for the first year. I was resentful and angry. I couldn’t uproot my mother and bring her back to Las Vegas with me where I had a dream job, friends, and lived with little responsibility. In other words my carefree life came to grinding halt. She insisted on remaining in Florida and as the middle-aged, guilt-ridden, (only) loving daughter she had, what could I do?

The following depicts a (fairly) normal day in the life of being my mother’s caregiver. I chose a random day we weren’t in the doctor’s office, heading to the the emergency room, or fighting with the bank legalities that were left behind in the aftermath of my father’s death, suddenly and without warning.

Two years after my father died my mother was diagnosed with severe heart disease and needed major open heart surgery. She chose to say no and decided not to go any further with what were deemed life saving measures. Her doctor, my brother, and I agreed to abide by her wishes… only knowing she was dying for certain (likely in the next year) wasn’t exactly something we could plan for day-to-day… and so, that year I lived on edge, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

My mother did not want to give anymore money to the doctors.

“I’ve had a good life. It’s time for me to go.”

“What about the rest of us?” I’d cry to her near daily, especially after particularly nasty bouts of relieving her angina, and living on nitroglycerine and dry martini’s.

Tuesday, Beach Day…

We both survived another one of Mother’s tired mornings and managed to get dressed and out of the house before noon. It’s our Tuesday trip down to the beach for lunch at PJ’s Oyster House, our favorite seafood restaurant.

“I hope we get our table, otherwise we have to wait to eat, and I’m hungry,” Mother said. Her favorite table had the most light, so she could see the menu and have our favorite server, Carrie Kenyon.

Carrie worked the front end of the restaurant, nearest to the door. She had the station with the best view, and we were her regulars which meant updates on personal lives, extra large servings, and a surprise desert; not to mention all of the extra attention Mother received; she loved being fussed over after being cooped up in her condo most of the time. Our weekly visits afforded her the much sought after cameo that made her feel special.

“Mom number two, yay! My favorite customers",” she yelled to anyone who listened. The place is packed with seniors, most are regulars like us. All heads slowly swiveled around to gawk and soon realized it was just us and reassumed their normal positions, slack-jawed and continued staring out the windows, watching the cars drive-by.

We exchanged hugs and kisses and headed to our favorite table by the window.

My mother and I having lunch at PJ’s oyster Bar

“I have a surprise, look!” Carrie pointed out the big picture window to the right, into the direction of a vacant side street where a bright neon yellow convertible stood parked by itself, sparkling in the sunlight. “I bought a new car!”

“Wow! My gosh, Carrie, that’s really something,” Mother said in awe, as she sat in silence for a moment; her eyes never wavering from the window, as Carrie spewed details.

“You bought a meat wagon,” Mother said, as Carrie paused to take a breath.

Carrie stopped talking and stared at mother.

“In my day that’s what the boys used to pick up the girls. You’ll get a lot of attention with your new machine.”

Carrie roared with laughter and I rolled my eyes and tuned out the chatter. I glanced around at the other regulars I recognized seated in our section; especially the old guy with the platinum-streaked hair at the second table with his latest paramour. He’d had the same young, cute dark-haired, and deeply tanned guy three weeks in a row, a record.

Mother and Carrie compared notes about dating in today’s meat market; and how it was all so different from back in her day. In Mother’s keen eye Carrie had upped her chances of meeting a nice young man, two-fold with her new meat wagon.

It always gets me when Mother starts talking about nice, young men. Doesn’t she realize Carrie and I are over 40 and well past our prime of ever meeting nice young men? This doesn’t seem to bother Carrie, though. She still has hope. I don’t.

Carrie continued to update us on first time home buyer woes, her Bengal kitty antics, and latest love scandal. The routine updates peppered Mother with delight… as long as Carrie didn’t get too detailed about making out and sex.

I sat nervously on the edge of my seat, before soup and oysters on the half shell arrived. All details were still updating from today’s venting and Carrie hadn’t mentioned her boob job or night sweats yet. We might be okay. The new meat wagon was cause celeb for today’s luncheon fodder.

We noshed on ketchup and crackers, while waiting for the first course to appear.

“You know. Carrie shouldn’t prance around here in those short shorts. Her rear end is hanging out,” Mother said, as she poured the bottle of ketchup over her saltine cracker.

The comment was designed to open that can of worms we constantly argued about on today’s morality.

I’m not going there before the food comes.

I stayed silent.

The appetizers arrived before any further conversation could ensue. Like purveyors of treasure in the deep sea we dive into the milky clam chowder and raw oysters on the half shell, slurping and sucking the juices, until all that was left were droplets of milk clinging to the sides of the bowl and empty shucked shells littering the bed of melting ice left on the tray sitting between us.

The lobster dinners and martini refills surfaced minutes later.

Mother had coleslaw with French fries. I had coleslaw, garlic bread, and dry broccoli. Toward the end of lunch I gave up on my diet and reached over to start chipping away at Mother’s mound of fries.

“Now what are we going to do?” she asks excitedly.

Here goes the day again, another five hours wasted, I fume silently and stop myself mid-thought. What if this is her last day alive? What if this is our last day we spend out together doing something nice, while she’s still able to walk? Why wouldn’t she be able to walk? Because Mother will be dead. Why do I think these thoughts every single time we leave the condo?

Frustration and anger fight to surface, but fear and shame win out again.

“Do you want to go to the Amish store?” I asked patiently, trying to sound cheery while holding down raw emotions threatening to surface.

“Oh yes, that’s what I want to do,” Mother laughed with delight. “I want some Lebanon Bologna and those crunchy brown potato chips, and some cookies…and any other goodies we might find. Do you need anything? I’ll buy you something, too.”

“You aren’t supposed to eat that junk,” I countered, resignedly.

“Let’s blow this place,” mother replied, as she grabbed the bill and stood up. She shuffled to the front door, and left me behind as I picked up my purse and scrambled to catch up with her..

We hugged and kissed Carrie goodbye, and promised to come back next week, same time, same table, same station.

I take a hold of Mother’s hand as we walk to the car and it feels ice cold. I think about missing how her fragile, bony hand will feel after she is gone from my life forever. I think about it every time I hold her hand. I memorize the moment so that I can’t forget her touch of her soft crepe skin. Why can’t I make it through a day without being so morbid?

Her hands are always cold after a big meal. Her clogged arteries are struggling to help her aging body stay alive as they digest the big lunch we just scoffed down.

If her heart is stopping, it might happen now, I think, panic starting to rise. They whoever “they” are, say most heart attacks happen after consuming a big meal, in the early dawn, or at night while watching television. They say Monday mornings are the most dangerous. Today is Tuesday.

She held on to my hand firmly and I tightened my grip on her as we stepped out the door and into the blazing noon day sun and headed toward the car.

I listen for any labored breathing above the car engine noise. I turn down the radio so I can listen closely without raising any suspicions. We are nearing the two hour mark that she typically tires, and I want to get home before she starts to weaken.

“Why did you turn the music down?” she asked, turning her smile to me as I fiddled with the volume on the radio dial.

“Oh, I don’t know, habit I guess. Sometimes I like to think while I’m driving.”

“Well, you can think when I’m not in the car. Hey, turn it up, this is a good song, it’s Frankie, baby!”

“The summer wind comes blowing in, from across the sea, it lingers there to touch your hair…” Sinatra crooned in his silky baritone voice. Mother and I sang and hummed the melody in loud, raucous unison, completely drowning out Frankie baby as he sang his soothing lyrics being played for the early afternoon siesta seniors over the WDUV easy listening radio waves.

As the melody drew to a close on Frankie’s last breath, Mother clapped with delight and yelled, “If he could only keep it zipped up,” referring to his highly publicized sex scandal in the 50s with Ava Gardner that came up regularly in our conversations about Sinatra.

That was 40 years ago, the poor guy‘s dead and she STILL hasn’t forgotten the Sinatra-Gardner affair. I wonder if she and dad ever had sex, I muse, shuttering at the thought..

We parked the car in front of the Amish country store and walked into the air conditioned building. The scent of homemade lavender soap intermingled with turkey breast roasting on skewers in the rear deli drove our senses into overdrive.

“Grab a basket, and let’s hit it, Harvey,” Mother says gleefully, her shoes scraping along the wooden plank floors. as she shuffled her feet down every aisle to inspect bags of potato chips, smoked meats, and sugary snacks.

“Hey, I want to go to the new library and find a book on how to sell stuff, want to check it out?” I asked, stepping out of the store behind her, loaded down with bags of groceries; and fuming about my fledgling real estate career that was on hold while I spent days with Mother alternating between feelings of guilt, and loving her more than anyone else in the world.

“I haven’t been in there, okay, let’s go.”

“You feel alright? Does your heart hurt, or anything?”

“Nope, I feel great. Can I buy a book?”

“No, it’s a library, not a bookstore,” thinking about (finally) getting something done for myself today.

“Okay,” she said, happily.

I parked the car and ran around to help her out of the car. No labored breathing and I began to relax a bit. Maybe we can get through the rest of the day feeling good.

“Can I buy a book?” she asked again, as we held hands walking through the library doors, both marveling at the natural sky lit entrance surrounded by tropical foliage leading into the bowels of the cavernous building.

“No, you can’t buy a book, here,” I said patiently.

“Wow! This isn’t anything like the old dark library. This is really something,” she said in awe. “It smells new.” We stopped for a moment and quietly admired the serene setting.

“Hey, I want to find that book, I’m looking for. Let’s go upstairs and let me see if we can reference it,” I said.

We stepped inside the elevator and as soon as the door closed shut I heard Mother gasping for air, her head bowed down almost to her chest as she started tightly clutching my wrist.

I broke into a sweat and started to panic. This could be it, I think, my eyes tearing up.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, my back hurts a little, that’s all.”

“It’s not your back, it’s your heart, it feels like your back, you can’t tell the difference, yet?” I anxiously asked.

She doesn’t answer as we stepped out onto the second floor. I spied a computer terminal with an empty chair and quickly guided her into the seat.

“You sit here, while I get the librarian. Do you need a pill?”

“No, my back hurts, that’s all. I need to rest it for a minute and I’ll be fine,” she said smiling tightly.

I grabbed her purse and rummaged around inside until I found the bottle of nitro.

She’s confusing her back with her heart I think panic beginning to rise, again.

“Here, pop this in your mouth.”

“But I don’t need one of those right now,” she said breathing heavily, “I just need to sit down and rest my back for a minute.”

“Take one anyway, for me, okay?”

She opened her mouth wide and I dropped the pill under her tongue.

I squatted down next to her and held her hand, while we waited quietly for the little white pill to work its magic.

“Can I talk, yet?” she mumbled.

“No. You sit right here and I’ll be right back. Don’t move, okay?”

She nodded her head tiredly in agreement.

I quickly found the reference librarian and she directed me to the right shelf. I grabbed the book and got back to find Mother sitting straight up in her chair, gazing around contentedly.

“This is a beautiful building isn’t it? Can I buy a book? I want one with big print.”

“This is a library, there aren’t any books for sale,” I said again, for the third time, “Do you want to check out a book?”

“No, I want to buy a book. I don’t like library books because they smell funny. I don’t like used books. I like new books.”

“There’s a bookstore for profit at the entrance, do you want to see if there’s anything you might like down there?”

“Oh yes, I can buy something nice to read.”

She took my outstretched hand and slowly got up on to her feet.

“You feeling better, how’s your back?” I asked anxiously.

“I feel great, let’s go.”

We began walking and I noticed Mother shuffling her feet, slowing down almost to a standstill.

“Hey, let’s pick up the pace, shall we?” I said, pulling on her hand as we made our way out to the front entrance.

We found a large print Hillary Clinton biography on sale. She was excited. I didn’t tell her the book was used.

We stepped up to the cashier and she noticed a basket filled with miscellaneous book markers lying next to the cash register.

“I want some of these, okay?” she said, pointing to the basket.

“Of course, get whatever you want,” I said impatiently, wondering how many frivolous purchases we could make in one day.

We paid for the book and three plastic book markers and headed for the doorway.

“Where are my book markers?”

“In the bag, with the book, maybe they’re inside the book.”

She rummaged through the bag and they weren’t in there or peeking out from inside the book.

We walked back to the counter and I felt my frustration rising. She had the damn book markers and the book when we left the register. I saw the clerk put them inside the bag.

We hadn’t walked ten feet.

“I can’t find my book markers and I paid for them, remember? Two putty cats and one penguin,” Mother said, anxiously to the clerk. We searched around the counter, opened and reopened the bag. No book markers.

“Hey, are these the ones you bought?” the cashier asked, pointing to the three markers, wrapped in tissue paper, lying on top of the basket, next to the register, back in the same place, where Mother found them.

“Yes, there they are!”

We all laughed together and Mother and I slowly made our way back out into the bright sunlight.

“This is a glorious day, isn’t it?” she said, smiling with simple joy.

“Yes, mom it is,” I said as my body started to relax, again.

“Hey, I want a chocolate malt. Not a shake, a malt. Is there somewhere we can get one?” she asks buoyantly, as we reached the car.

“Let’s stop and get one. The Hershey place is right here,”I said, pointing across the street.