Salt of the Earth

It was a whirlwind of a week with my mother sitting confused but tolerant in the middle of it all. On Monday, with the help of Hospice staff and Special K Transportation, we moved Mom into her new, final home at a nursing care facility in near-north Cedar Rapids. Near-north because the last place was so far north that the weather got colder on the way there. Mom stuck her tongue out at the memory care staff who seemed genuinely sad to see her go. The nursing home staff were welcoming and professional. Everyone seems to have worked there for twenty years or more. Watch out for places with lots of turnover on the nursing staff. You're likely to find grandpa on the floor.

My intrepid friend Jeff, who has helped me with every Mom related move since this saga began, helped me clear out Mom's room in a day. I asked Kim, the admissions director, who seemed to be in a hurry to go home, how long we had to move out. She said "It depends on how many days you want to pay for." And don't let the screen door hit you in the wheelchair on the way out.

We got all the stuff out in one day. It's once again sitting in my side of the garage, where all good things rest on the way to where they eventually go. Not sure of what to do with something? Come and put it in my side of the garage! It was good to get it all done, but it meant that I didn't get clothes put away or pictures up in Mom's new room. I guess it's all about real estate. I wanted to ask Kim if I was going to get dinged for the full price of the room, since there would be no actual care involved. I wanted to ask her to jump up my ass, if you want to know the truth. I composed a magnificent poison pen letter on my way home. In the end, I did none of those things, figuring I need all the good karma I can get. Kim will no doubt contract herpes soon.

I really like the nursing home. That says something about me right there. I can now really like a nursing home. Although it's filled with people in various stages of decay, many of whom droop and snooze, the staff are courteous and caring and have been very helpful and understanding. There's a sense of purpose there.

I also talked to our attorney, Jean, about setting up a trust for Mom. She has a steady and tidy income which will continue until she dies and won't run out. This would seem ideal, except that it doesn't cover the cost of her care. Normally a person would "spend down" and then Medicaid would take over.

Let's take a moment and think about what a neat expression "spend down" is. It sounds like we are losing unnecessary weight, or cleaning up something excessive. What it means is that you have depleted every cent of your personal assets and are now indigent for all practical purposes. What a society we have! My mother taught the most disturbed kids in Wichita for twelve years. Then she began to work as a grant writer and program developer for Cerebral Palsy Research in Wichita, where, in her first year (1978) she landed two million dollars in funding. She founded the Independent Living Center for brain injured people. She was an advocate for the disabled. She started the Women's Equality Coalition and Women Art/Women Fair to promote female artists in the community. Now she will spend down.

The trust will reimburse Medicaid for all payable expenses and allow her to use her income for her own support. It's called a Miller Trust and thank God we found it, or I'd be paying for college and nursing care at the same time. Points for the staff of the nursing home, who turned me on to it, and for Jean, who is all over it.

Finally, on Thursday, to complete the "mortality tour," I sat down with Ken, a funeral pre-planner, to work out Mom's final arrangements. I chose a mortuary that used to hire our band on a regular basis. They had us set up in the parking lot behind the building, under the shade of some big trees, and play for the neighbors and whoever came by. They called it a "Celebration of Life." We called it "Opening for the Dead." Michael, the owner, is a very nice man active in local causes, and since he's given me some money and support it seemed fair to have him handle Mom's final business.

Our friend Diana went to this place to handle her parents' arrangements and came away enraged at the expense. I always suspected she was more universally enraged at the time, but I girded my loins nonetheless. Ken was a very nice man, actually, a fan of the band. I let him know what our thinking was: cremation, no viewing, graveside service, burial at the Old Welsh Cemetery near Aunt Joan, memorial service in Wichita at a later date.

Ken was very helpful. We found a very cool biodegradable urn (made of salt). Ken said it was so new it didn't have a name. Michael goes out and finds cool burial accouterments and brings them back. Everything gets a name. The cardboard casket made solely for cremation even has one (the Phoenix). Ken made up a name for the new urn, which was an orangish pink. "How about 'Salt of the Earth'?" I smiled. There's probably not a lot of room for creativity in the pre-planning business.

There was even a cool wicker casket that Mom would have loved, but since she's being cremated without a viewing it didn't make much sense. I could have gotten a cool biodegradable cardboard urn, but I liked Salt of the Earth and I didn't want the whole arrangement to be cardboard. I gave Ken the number for my contact at the Old Welsh Cemetery and left.

I took the rest of Thursday off. As I drove north, I felt the old familiar gloom descending, my old friend, faithful and true, accompanying us through this long journey. I busied myself buying a ridiculously expensive carpet steamer. Robyn came home and pointed out that it was way too expensive and not what she had in mind. I yelled at her to do whatever she wanted with it, that I was through making arrangements. I did not yell all the other angry things I thought, nor did I blame her, although I really wanted to. I went to my room and went to bed. Sometimes having done what we must, there is nothing left to say, nothing good anyway. In truth, I am not angry about carpet steamers or even about Robyn. I'm angry about the decay and demise of my parents, the robbery, at genetic gunpoint, of their old age, their absence in my life, my children's lives. I'm angry about all these things about which there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to do. I'm angry that I've had to grieve now for more than fifteen years, each and every day. I'm angry at myself for not somehow being a better son, whatever that would mean.

A long night's sleep helped. Friday, yesterday, was a good day through which I puttered with little ambition. Today I will hang some pictures in my Mom's room, make sure her clothes are marked with her name. I'll make sure the handful of belongings she retains in her room are properly arranged, deck chairs on the Titanic, to the tune of a fiddle while Rome slowly burns.

Entropy affects all of us. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, just sorry. I'm left with choices: grief and anger, reasonable carrying-on, attempts at feeling peace with it all. . . . I suppose I feel all those things at once. Mom's not hurting now. For her the worst is over. She's no longer counting her losses. I count them for her and remember who she was, a fierce, loyal, intelligent, independent woman of great worth.

Do not go gently into that good night
But rage, rage against the dying of the light.