My mom’s first night in her new home seemed to go well overall.
I went over as she was headed to the community dining room so I could help her acclimate.
One of my selling features of the beautiful facility was that everyone there was new, encouraging Fran that all of the tenants were in the same boat.
We met several people; the facility was not full, so making friends was easier from a smaller pod. Fran seemed to adapt and did meet people she enjoyed for meals; she actually attended several events as well.
Since cards were a big part of her life, I made sure she met others who shared her interest to coordinate games. Several doors down from her apartment was a large game room, beautifully curated with games, tables, and a bathroom facility.
Fran was busy organizing her apartment because, of course, all of my decisions were clearly unacceptable. She would call and let me know what my schedule would be daily.
She made excuses every day why she could not join activities or play cards. Grocery shopping, mall shopping to gather things she needed, and finding out where her shipping boxes were. She would eat meals with other residents but grumbled that she had a lot to do to make the apartment home.
After the first weeks, I began to notice that Fran was easily agitated, would insist on buying something, and demand we take it back the next day. I was never allowed to return anything; she had to be present.
I dismissed the behavior as just the dust trying to settle from a major life moment. I took her to see the bench, also to her family plot several miles south in Detroit, hoping the trips would improve her moodiness.
I even had her reconnect with her oldest friend, Barbara, in Royal Oak. They had seen each other when she visited Michigan, but now that Fran lived here, they could see each other more often.
I was dead wrong. Fran was focused on me and my devious attempts to clean out her bank accounts.
Before she had left Florida, I had suggested that Fran change her address to mine since I handled her finances. She agreed, and we made the change before we left Clearwater.
Unbeknownst to me, Fran was beginning to brood over the fact that I was controlling her life, and she was not having it! She demanded that we change her address to her new senior housing, and she would determine what I saw going forward.
The arguments were in full swing, less than a month in. She demanded to know why her TV console was not delivered yet. As I explained every time she asked, I did not control back-order deliveries.
That infuriated Fran, and she would accuse me of taking her money and not purchasing the console. That would lead to her suspicions that I was stealing money from her brokerage account and not giving her the statements.
I was not surprised about the outbursts; it seemed to have no boundaries. The large boxes we shipped were delivered sporadically, which fueled her suspicion that I never sent them.
Once they arrived, she would calm down and go onto other offenses I had perpetuated. Each time a box was delivered, I would cringe. Fran would empty the box and complain that items were missing.
I would have to remind her that we had found those items when we packed and we had chosen to bring them on the plane.
Many of those items, if not all, were ironically the very things she claimed were stolen from her apartment in Clearwater.
In particular, she seemed focused on her wedding bands that she claimed were stolen. I found them hidden in her sofa bed under the mattress along with several other items before
we left Florida.
Fran simply would not acknowledge that I found them, let alone how they managed to get there. I recall putting those items in her carry-on travel bag before we left.
Once in Michigan she accused me of stealing the rings and giving them to my daughter, who she just knew always wanted them. I was not equipped to handle the vile tone and innuendo hurled at me, and I was angry.
Fran’s voice was loud as she has significant hearing loss, and I begged her to lower her voice. She sat down and became silent and refused to look at me. As I got up to find her carry-on bag, she began to rage that I needed to get out of her apartment and leave her alone.
I ignored her and brought the bag out of her closet and began to rummage through the pockets. Within seconds, I found the rings and handed them to her.
At least Fran was predictable on that front. She took the rings and put them in her purse, sat back down without a word. She simply could not admit that she was wrong.
I left exhausted and confused about what was happening almost daily. I decided to go back the next morning after breakfast and help her unpack more boxes that had been delivered.
Fran acted like nothing had transpired the day before. For a moment, I was relieved. It did not last as she launched into a tirade about getting her address changed again.
I decided to take her right then and there to our local post office so I could end the dispute. Since we had just changed her address to mine, it posed numerous questions and created several roadblocks.
Fran listened as they explained the process and suddenly went off loudly declaring that I had orchestrated this and I was trying to erase her. She said that I had not only stolen her identity and erased her, but I had also stolen all her money.
Embarrassed, I escorted Fran out of the tiny local post office, knowing we would not soon be forgotten. We drove back the two blocks. Fran never spoke a word as I questioned her about the outburst.
I was certain a poster of my face would be posted soon in the back room of our post office.
She slammed the car door as I struggled to get her walker out of my trunk. Suddenly, she began screaming at me that she knew what I was up to. Everyone in the post office knew me and were my friends.
I was stunned and shaken. What the hell was going on? We had been told that Fran needed to get her Michigan ID card for the Secretary of State’s office. I simply needed to make that appointment.
After I arrived home, I looked up the requirements for a change of address, and while I felt the post office was not 100% correct, I understood I could easily rectify it by obtaining her ID card first.
It was a new skill set I had acquired in short order, pivot and move on.
The appointment was made for the SOS, and I was armed with The Book of Fran. I had prepared a binder with all things Fran so I could easily navigate the roadblocks that might arise.
I picked Fran up on the appointed day. She seemed in a good mood, so I was happy. I chose to go to an SOS location that is rarely crowded and easy to navigate to.
As I drove, Fran was getting agitated reading signs saying we had one county and entered another. I was puzzled why she would care?
She began screaming that she knew I was taking her to a “looney bin” and I would never get away with it. She would just move back to Florida and away from me, a common thief.
I had to admit I was elated for a fleeting moment that it could be a possibility, knowing it wasn’t to be. The cartoon bubble burst and I was back to hearing her ranting at me.
As we pulled into the parking lot, Fran mumbled a few more insults, grabbed her walker, and went inside. She lamented the fact that she wished she had slapped me more as a child, I responded I thought she had.
I knew then and there I needed to find a way to tolerate the venomous encounters without Fran erupting again.’
Next up: SOS