Fran remarried when I was in my early twenties to a man I admired and respected. John was a good heart and a hard-working man. He adored Fran, and it showed.
Bill, my oldest brother, had moved to Hawaii, and Doug was headed to jail or the military according to a judge in Lexington. It appears my youngest brother decided to study horticulture by growing marijuana in a field by the old strawberry farm at the end of Wall Street in Lexington, Michigan.
It was right next to our grandmother Nellie’s cottage.
He was busted once; a Polaroid of him and his accomplice was circulated in the small town of them trying to climb the plants while high. Game over.
Fran signed him up and called me so I could see the prodigal son before he left for boot camp. Looking back, it was a waste of my time; he never made it through basic training; they deemed him immature and gave him an exit ramp within weeks.
Years past, Doug had moved downstate, married, and had a child. Fran was remarried and living in Indiana; Bill was in California, married with a child as well.
I was the Lone Ranger in Michigan, but since we were always a house divided, it seemed normal. I was also married with a family, and life went on.
Around 1978, Fran announced that her husband was ill and they were retiring to the vacation home they owned in Clearwater area.
It happened quickly; I was called to the Mayo Clinic to help Fran drive her husband back home after the deadly diagnoses.
They moved south, and my brother Doug followed shortly after. Mom set up a home for Doug’s family and tended to her ailing husband and my grandmother Nellie, who lived in the in-law quarters of their home.
Grandma Nellie passed first, followed by her husband John.
Fran soldiered on despite what seemed to be constant chaos and tragedy.
It was sprinkled with wonderful summers with her grandchildren, visits to Michigan, and time with her friends.
Fran had wonderful friends who experienced many of the same trauma she experienced in life. That bond held for almost 50 years as the card-playing widows moved from subdivision to condo, condo to retirement community.
Along the way, they lost children and close friends, but somehow they all moved past the pain, occupying their free time with trips with each other, lunches, and cards.
The Top of the World condo purchase became the most peaceful time in Fran’s life. I had pushed Fran to downsize after another tragedy had landed on her doorstep.
My oldest brother had passed away at age 50 of a massive heart attack. Fran was inconsolable, and I was left with the task of locating his remains and obtaining details on what happened.
No funeral, just cremains being sent to me from California. Bill was home with me and placed next to Bob in the bottom of my china cabinet. Little did I know I would become a collector of cremains for many years.
Once again, the family moved on. Doug was spiraling again, facing a third divorce from his latest wife, Poodlehead. I rarely saw Doug as he was living a life I did not understand or want any part of.
Fran settled in with her “gang” and embraced her new life. She had finally retired and now filled her day with lunches, nights with cards, and she was happy.
Brewing around her was more drama, tragedy, and pain, but for a number of years, she was given a reprieve.
Doug would constantly challenge her, but the apron string she wrapped around him never broke; it just stretched out. It became so contentious between my brother and me that I would beg Fran not to let him know I was in town.
Over the years as she aged, I started to notice some oddities with Fran that I took as idiosyncrasies, OCD, and perhaps a normal part of aging and living alone.
She would talk to herself constantly when she thought I could not hear her. She was already deaf in one ear, so she spoke loudly all the time. I dismissed it as she had lived alone for so many years. I assumed that was filling a void when she was alone.
I was also immune to the calls that my brother had stolen something from her. It was just another trip to the pawn shop for Fran to buy back her stolen items. It happened so frequently that I was never alarmed; sadly, it became normal.
Fran had developed a new habit of hiding things, and I would ultimately find them in strange places. I began to wonder if Doug was really a thief of all things, as she portrayed.
It was non-stop for periods of time, as I had to intercede often.
Fran would be livid; my brother was ambivalent and continued to shake her down every chance he got.
I tried to stay out of the way; I learned that party trick as a child. I had to find a way to insulate Fran from the constant badgering from my brother. It was another push and pull event between Fran and me.
Marge, one of my mom’s oldest friends, decided she wanted to live in a retirement community. Their campus was like a land-based cruise ship, and Fran soon followed. It was a cradle to grave campus; you simply stepped up to a new level as needed.
I had become concerned that she was too accessible in her condo, and for safety reasons, she should move. It worked but only due to her friendship with Marge.
Once she moved into the retirement community, she seemed at peace again. She was exceptionally gleeful when she discovered that each new person she recruited to move in yielded her a rent credit of several hundred dollars. Sold!
The gang was all there except one of two who stayed in their condo but would join the gang for cards at their new digs.
As Fran settled in, Doug ramped up his relentless pursuit of wearing Fran down for money. It was a well-choreographed dance between them, asking, arguing, denying, cajoling, and Doug leaving with cash or a check.
Fran was now in her late eighties; I was happy she was ensconced in a safe community. It was senior living, with no assistance, which was a step Fran feared most.
As I visited more often, I would leave exhausted. She would argue about anything with me, and her outbursts were loud and demeaning. She would refer to me as her Michigan family and seem to confirm what I had always felt.
We fought over her driving; she was deaf in one ear and had macular degeneration. I finally convinced her that she could help Doug get back on his feet if she gave him her car. I threatened I would call the Secretary of State in Florida if she tried to renew her license.
I had learned that if I could wedge Doug into a conversation that might improve his life, I had a good shot at achieving my goal.
Doug could take her to get her hair done, shopping, and other errands, and maybe he would get a real job.
Within a year of when she moved in, Fran was increasingly irritated at her new home, and ultimately, her loss of freedom. She was consistently exhibiting paranoia and spewing hateful rhetoric that I dismissed. It was all my fault.
The episodes ramped up quickly. The moment I stepped into the apartment, she would launch into the latest offense: someone had entered her apartment and stolen items.
I would ask for details at first, but the accusations became so far-fetched that I did not know if I should laugh or cry. My favorite was someone who had removed her pizza from the freezer.
I always bought Fran two pizzas from her favorite place so she could freeze them for later. None of her gang would ever consider paying a delivery fee; it was only two blocks away.
She would serve one immediately at an impromptu card game in her apartment. The other was saved, carefully separated, and placed in aluminum foil, piece by piece. They raved about having a decent pizza as opposed to what was available during their dining options at their senior community.
On this visit, she emphatically explained, with a straight face, that someone had taken her pizza and replaced it with theirs!
I tried to walk Fran through the absurdity of the statement, and the fight was on. The results were the same with missing jewelry, a statue, and other items she claimed “they” took.
It always ended with words that cannot be unheard. Despite my efforts to walk her through the effort it would take to continuously steal her items AND replace them with a similar one, she was clear what happened.
It’s embarrassing to admit that with all the flags on the field, I continued to ignore the obvious. I would even discuss at length the issues her younger brother was having; he had been diagnosed with paranoid dementia, never really making the connection.
Since they had different fathers, Fran would dismiss it as a “Jones” trait, nothing to do with her. Besides, in her words, Richard was always “nuttier than a fruitcake”.
I questioned myself but justified her behavior as odd but not alarming. She was still sharp as a tack and, for the most part, was coherent. My glimpses into her world consisted of the same routine.
I would land, get my rental, and arrive at her complex. It was before we knew of COVID. I would drive Miss Daisy, in the same order each trip, to conduct all of her errands.
First stop was the bank, followed by the Publix in the same mall area, then to the Dollar Tree. We would leave that shopping area to go to the Publix store just past her complex; apparently,
they had items that were better than the other Publix. They didn’t, but who was going to tell Fran?
Occasionally, she would shake things up and throw in Bed, Bath, and Beyond, or a Skechers store. She knew every turn, and by this time, I knew the area very well, yet she still directed me.
Doug never came over once after he had her car. I miscalculated and honestly thought at 63 years old that my brother had matured. She defended him because he was busy looking for a real job. The prodigal son kept his crown.
I received a frantic call from Fran; Douglas was sick, and I needed to get to Florida to help her help him. He had wrecked the car and was in the hospital.
He had not been seriously hurt in the accident, even though the car was totaled. However, as a precaution, numerous tests were ordered as he complained of severe stomach pain.
At first glance, it appeared he may have internal bleeding, but ultimately, it was much worse…stage 4 liver cancer, inoperable.
As I flew down, I mentally ticked off what we needed to do so I could ease Fran’s distress. She was laser-focused and laid out what she wanted done, and I was to handle it.
After I met with the doctors without Fran, I had a very clear vision of what was going to transpire. The doctors all agreed; he could have 6 days, 6 months, or the moon shot of 6 years.
I broke the news to Fran, giving her some hope for the 6 years as I felt she needed to have that grace. We spent days sorting out what needed to be done, and Fran committed to financial support.
I flew back down every few weeks to navigate doctors, Social Security, and meet my brother’s increasing demands. He was empowered now that he knew Fran would pay for whatever he needed.
I had not been to my brother’s apartment except on one occasion. I did not go in the building as I was uncomfortable and called Doug to come down.
It was a space above a group of storage units in an
industrial part of the Largo area. Apparently, he managed the units, but his rent was offset as he was on-site to handle issues.
As I ascended the staircase to his apartment, I was struck by how awful his living conditions were, thinking we should move him. I had all of his groceries he requested as he was now into clean and healthy eating.
As I approached the door, the window was replaced by a cardboard insert that read “Shut the door. I don’t own stock in Edison”. One of Fran’s famous sayings.
I greeted Doug, filled his refrigerator, and asked what else I could do before I could flee the scene. He launched into a conversation about the accident and the money he received, plus the refund of his high-risk insurance coverage.
It was close to $ 5k, a huge amount of cash influx for Doug. He noted he was going to buy a golf cart so he could get around.
I was incensed; I already suspected that the accident was staged; however, the unintended consequence of another one of his poor decisions was a real-life death sentence.
He demanded I write a check for $3k to cover his overdue rent. An argument ensued, and I started down the stairs, my brother quick on my heels.
I opened the door at the bottom of the stairs, looked back, and saw Doug reaching for a steak knife he had tucked into the trim around the door.
Instinct kicked in, and I ran to my rental car and screeched out of the parking lot. I was not far from Fran’s place when my cell rang. It was Fran screaming at me for upsetting Douglas.
It got more heated as I entered her apartment. I had been in town less than 3 hours, and I wanted to get on the first flight out.
Doug later explained that he was not chasing me but rather protecting me in case the homeless guy he stabbed a week earlier was waiting outside his apartment. Apparently, he had been released and was seen in the area again, hence Doug’s weapon in the door trim.
Fran was firm in her directive: I was to give Douglas whatever money he needed, period. I knew when I took the check from her over to the landlord it was another scam. I assume they split 50/50.
It’s the beginning of the pandemic. Planes were empty, but the world was still trying to sort out the danger. I flew frequently to take care of Fran and Doug.
It was noticeable that something was off with Fran, but I had bigger fish to fry and continued to miss the red flags. I took Fran to see Doug and brought him back to her apartment. He was in horrible pain most of the night. I took him back home the next morning before I left for the airport after making sure he took his meds as prescribed.
He had a doctor’s appointment in two weeks, so I decided to fly back down, take Fran shopping, and him to the doctor. Two birds with one stone. Normally, Doug would get a cab with the money I would give him from Fran.
I picked up Fran two weeks later, and we went to pick up Doug at his location. I was convinced most of the storage units he oversaw were more likely cook sites, a thought that proved true when they had a bust in between my visits. Meth labs inside storage units.
It was a brilliant concept as everyone knows cooking meth in a moving car could be dangerous; the storage shed became their lab. Besides, most of the perps did not own a car.
Fran waited in the car because she could not navigate the stairs. I looked back, locked the doors, and prayed no one would bother her.
Doug was in his recliner, puffed up like a blowfish. He had just gotten back from a visit to the hospital two days ago. I knew instantly we were headed back to the hospital.
I’m not sure how I executed the transition from his apartment to my car, but I laid him in the backseat, and we were off to the ER.
Fran was frightened at his appearance, and I was reeling. Once we were in a room, I was livid. How could this hospital let him go two days prior? He was literally a dead man walking. Medicaid patients use only a revolving door until the door finally closes.
After hours of tests and discussions, I drove Fran home and went back to spend the night at the hospital. The next morning, I waited for the doctor making rounds so we could talk; I knew he was dying.
Doug knew he was as well and made me promise not to let him die in the hospital. I arranged for hospice, and he was on his way that afternoon.
Once he was transported, I picked up Fran so I could update her on what had been decided. Working as a CNA most of her life, she knew.
We visited; I once again spent the night in his hospice room after taking Fran back home for the night. I woke up suddenly after finally dozing off; something felt off.
I checked on Doug; he was smiling, but his hands felt a little cold. I had only dozed off a few minutes. I alerted the staff; the fight was over; he had just passed. He was diagnosed in May and was deceased the 3rd of August.
He spent two nights in comfort and peace, and my promise was kept. He did not die in a hospital or alone.
As I drove back early in the afternoon, I tried to recite exactly what I would tell Fran about losing another son. As I opened the door, she knew instinctively. It was a tough few hours, and I was exhausted, but we had work to do.
Next up:
Fran and I make a deal.
