Not long after my brother’s death, I knew I had to convince Fran to come to Michigan. Initially, she seemed to warm to the idea but was adamant that she would not move into assisted living, period.
As I flew back and forth, we continued to come up with a plan.
She did not want to leave her lifelong friends or Florida.
I began to notice an increase in her behavior that was a little more consistent. Fran would constantly complain of maintenance people or someone had been in her apartment.
She would shush me as we spoke because they were listening through the intercom system. She would show me her Princess Diana glasses she purchased and comment that they were not hers.
Fran would put them back in the cupboard, angrily mumbling how they took her good stuff and replaced it with “crap”.
It was never-ending. I was acutely aware that she was being unreasonable; however, I also knew my uncle, her younger brother, had recently passed and exhibited the same behavior. Paranoid dementia, oh goody.
I began to research and try to discover what might be happening. I would notice how up and down it was and began to attribute most of her behavior to simply being angry.
She appeared sharp most of the time but would lapse into delusional thoughts that defied logic. Once her outbursts were over, she would sit quietly and not utter a word.
What may seem bizarre to others was what I remember as a child. Fran simply had a quick temper on top of some crazy thoughts.
Fran would throw salt over her shoulder. If you put shoes on a table to shine them, you would be scolded as it was bad luck.
Numerous other wives’ tales swirled around our daily lives as kids.
Perhaps it was my wishful thinking that all was well. I already knew what life for me would dramatically change. I was the last one standing, certainly not her first or second choice.
We agreed to disagree after many contentious moments that she could remain in her community provided she could continue taking care of herself.
Eventually a walker was ordered, and I was elated. She got it free with Medicare, and I was comforted knowing it could help prevent a fall.
The truth is she only got it after her friends Marge and June got theirs! She would only use it indoors as she went to meals or cards, never when we went out to eat or shop.
Fran would leave her walker in the gift shop beside the reception desk and growl that she could walk without it. My cue was to get the car and not argue with her.
As my visits were quick, I typically saw Fran at her best. She would be excited to go to dinner with her grandson or visit a friend outside her community. However, I don’t recall a visit where she did not accuse someone of entering her apartment the minute she left
I continued to ignore or simply respond with a nod, which seemed to irritate her more. I had no idea how to manage my frustration. Fran would accuse me of calling her a liar and remind me that once again it was expected since I was just her Michigan family.
One day I noticed she had covered the peephole on her door.
When I inquired why, she unleashed an angry response about “people” looking into her apartment.
It was a waste of minutes in my life that I don’t get back to explain a peephole to her. I still was unable to control my emotions around her, a skill I needed to learn.
Each trip brought more screaming matches, accusations, and drama. As she approached her 90th birthday, I was hopeful I could lift her spirits with a surprise gathering bringing together what was left of our small family.
The arrangements were made, and we all flew in and stayed on Clearwater Beach. I had rented two places to accommodate everyone. Fran preferred to go home each evening.
As everyone arrived in town, they would stop first at her apartment to surprise her. With the exception of
one grandchild, all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were in attendance.
The only one who missed the celebration was the grandson who lived locally. He was detained in a local facility; hours to visit were limited, yet we all ultimately were able to see him via a TV monitor.
Despite the actual birthday party celebration, I think the highlight of that week was her visits to her grandson. I know she enjoyed seeing all the family together; visiting the local jail seemed to be the proverbial cherry on top.
I am not saying that he was her favorite grandchild, but he was her favorite. He had lived on and off with Fran for most of his life, so it was logical in many ways, in others hurtful. After all, he was the son of our family Prince Douglas.
As time passed, I was making trips to Florida around doctor appointments and shopping trips. The community had a service, but it was limited to certain activities and typically involved a wait time as they shuttled others.
As with most amenities after COVID, they never returned to pre-COVID levels, and Fran was furious. The food was worse, the activities were different, and she began to isolate more.
Since cards always prevailed, I thought it was a safe subject for me to broach. She went into an angry rant that
“couples” were moving in and dominating the games.
In an outburst I was lucky not to witness, yet heard about, she ceremoniously dumped all of her card games and decks of cards onto a table in the loft area and declared she would no longer facilitate games for the community.
Things were changing fast; Marge needed more assistance, and her other good friend, June, had slowed as well. They tried to play games by themselves, but even that effort tried Fran’s patience.
I once again talked of moving Fran to Michigan. She was resistant and would get silent-sad if I pursued the conversation.
Each visit was the same. Things were missing, moved, and they were watching her as she moved in and out of the apartment.
I had purchased a small safe for her to put valuables in, which I thought would decrease her anxiety. Wrong again…she put old papers in it, turned it backwards on the closet floor, and put a note that read “nothing in here you want”.
Rinse and repeat. I dreaded each visit as I knew exactly what would occur. I would try not to engage in any topics that would set her off. I watched TV in silence with her until I could escape to the hotel.
One day it all changed with a frantic call from Fran. June, who lived down the hall and routinely dined with Fran, had suddenly passed away.
June had become closer with Fran as Marge descended into dementia and was moved to the step-up community behind Fran’s building. Fran visited her; however, Marge had fallen and moved to another building for rehab on the same campus, a bigger walk for Fran.
Now instead of dining with June and Marge, it was Fran and June alone at a two-top.
Fran always had the same schedule: wait outside the elevator for June to meet her so they could go to the dining room together.
Fran was anxious that June had not come out of her apartment yet. Patience was not in Fran’s wheelhouse.
She walked down and noticed the door was cracked, not totally unusual as June knew how impatient Fran was.
Fran entered and immediately knew something was amiss. She went into the bedroom and saw June lying on the bed, dressed for breakfast but not moving.
In short order, chaos ensued as the staff ran to get Fran, and the paramedics rushed in. June was deceased, and Fran was devastated.
Next up: The Bench and a move north