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.
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.
Life changed quickly and I barely remember details. There was much I chose to forget. We suddenly moved to Detroit and Fran married the big man we called Red.
Not sure when or where the wedding took place but I recall the house we moved to. It was a mansion in my eyes. I quickly memorized the address numbers, 14711 that were above the garage. It seemed we had arrived.
I guess we all settled in our new home except me. I was afraid of Red as he seemed to focus on me. Quickly it became apparent that my new living arrangements were overrated and I seemed to bring the monster out in Red.
My family embraced him as I rebelled. Slowly I began to confide in my grandmother Nellie what really went on in what I called the house of horrors. The narrative was no longer a teenager sabotaging Fran’s new life.
Nellie was not to be dismissed as a small elderly woman. She was fiery and took no prisoners. Red was on her radar and I was on my way out!
Much happened in between the great escape, Nellie had to intercede as my disdain for Red turned into physical fights between us. I was on the losing end more times than I want to remember, yet I was no longer afraid, I was determined.
Admittedly I did all I could as a young teenager to provoke Red. He was cagey and could portray himself as the innocent stepparent in front of the family. I ramped up my attacks, I wanted him to show them his true colors.
It culminated in a nasty episode at our cottage in Lexington one weekend when Fran went out grocery shopping. I was being held up against the wall by his large hand on my throat.
I knew in that instant he would kill me. As a small kid I only had one move, I had to kick him as hard as I could. My foot aligned perfectly with his family jewels and I landed the blow. It was over but not forgotten.
I knew I had to get away but at 14-15 years old, options are limited. I shared my Dads phone number with grandma Nellie because our home phone had a dial lock on it. We could not use the phone to make outgoing calls!
Nellie disliked my Dad, but she knew how dangerous Red was. She contacted Dad, they made arrangements to hand me off in secrecy.
I was gone, hidden away in a house in Birmingham until a custody agreement could be reached between Fran and Bob.
Red was livid from what I heard which made me happy. I am certain he feared what I might say to others who chose to listen and believe me.
The custody battle was settled quickly, Bob would pay child support for my youngest brother and I could live with my Dad.
Bob, ever consistent never paid child support for my brother and warrants were constantly issued for his arrest.
The divide with my Mother was instant. We did not speak or see each other for many years. Living with Bob turned Into a fiasco as he was ill equipped to handle a teenager.
He was jailed frequently between child support warrants that were enforced after he would be picked up for being drunk, getting a speeding ticket, or just being Bob. At the time I had no idea my Dad was a well known bookie.
We had moved into Muriel’s house around the corner from my Dads sister. Thankfully she kept an eye on the house and me.
Several months in my Dad disappeared with his girlfriend or possibly wife, June. I learned a new term, benders and they were frequent.
My Aunt noticed that my Dads car had been gone, the house was lit by candlelight and decided to check in on me on her way home from work. She knew her brother and was suspicious.
I opened the door and she quickly surveyed the house and knew the electricity and heat had been turned off. She grilled me like what I would expect from police during an investigation.
I pleaded ignorance, told her the heat had just gone out and I had no idea what was wrong with the lights.
When asked why I did not seek help, she quickly answered her own question. There was no way I was going back to 14711. We moved what little I had and I moved 6 houses around the corner.
I was welcomed into their 800 square foot bungalow and moved into the attic space with my cousin Lori. I was part of a family again and I was elated.
Just as I was adjusting Bob showed up on the tiny stoop. He finally found his way home and at some point noticed I was not there. My Uncle Jim answered the door as I hid. He politely explained to Bob that I now lived with them, no discussion, just a fact.
Bob weaved back and forth as he was drunk, his sister confirmed the decision and he left. I did not see my Dad again until 1976 when I was 23 years old.
6 houses away in a small subdivision in Southfield and we never crossed paths until he showed up at my home almost 10 years later. I was so stunned I slammed the door in his face, he left and we did not meet again until I identified his body at the morgue two years later.
That is truly the one choice I made that I deeply regret. He had been sober and I never gave him the chance to say he was sorry. I denied him a step in the program he needed to complete his sober journey.
Worse, I denied him the chance to meet his only grandchild.
Life had moved on for all of us. My brother Bill had moved to Hawaii, Doug lived in Lexington with Fran who had finally left Red.
Many years later when I found out Red had died, I needed details. It wasn’t enough that he no longer walked the earth, I needed to know he suffered.
He took my childhood and I cannot forgive him, but I could now forget him.
Next up:
Fran moves on, another marriage and three funerals and ultimately dementia. In a way it may be a blessing in disguise
as she does not need to remember much of it and can live out her life in blissful ignorance.
Great Grandma Sadie, Grandma Muriel, my Dads sister Joan, and Lori
Our family lived a lot of places when we were little kids, settling in a bedroom community of Royal Oak, Michigan when I was around a year old.
My earliest recollections were from our duplex Fran rented on 11 mile road, nestled between two commercial buildings, adjacent to Sullivan Funeral Home.
Fran had three children, my older brother Bill, myself and my younger brother Doug.
To my Mothers credit, I didn’t realize we were poor, I was in my teens before I was struck how poor we had been.
I give kudos to Fran, somehow she never complained about her lot in life, nor did she ever explain.
I also don’t remember my father being in the picture but I do recall him at the house one Christmas Eve.
I never thought about his absence either.
Apparently I learned to compartmentalization at a young age.
It was special Christmas Eve because he had announced we could each open one present, that never happened before.
Of course that present was the one he brought.
Fran was not amused and it showed. I wasn’t sure if she was mad he was there, or that we would open his present, or both.
I’m certain I didn’t care.
Christmas eve had always been reserved for my grandmother, at Nellie’s house in Detroit.
All the family would gather and I vividly remember being thrilled to see the silver metal tinsel tree with the spinning colored lights and a train circling the presents under the tree.
This Christmas Eve was different. Bob had shown up and it was weird. No chaos of opening presents, just us waiting for a cue on what to do next.
I hesitated since I knew we did not have many presents to open on Christmas Day and weighed my options.
I grabbed the package, shook it and dreamed it was a super special gift from my Dad. My Dad! Imagine that.
I ripped the paper off, opened the box and pulled out a slip! I was maybe 6 years old wondering who the hell thought that was a good gift? I cried.
My Dad, who was drunk immediately reached for me and hugged me, laughing hysterically.
Outside of a picture of me with my Dad as a baby I don’t recall any displays of affection from him, or Fran.
In the rare picture of us together, I was a toddler on the hood of a car as my Dad balanced a beer, me and my baby bottle. Such talent.
Looking back at that Christmas Eve, I believe Bob was drunk while Christmas shopping. I don’t think he had a clue what to get a little girl.
Likely he shopped at the five and dime store, saw a shiny “dress” which may or may not have actually been a ladies camisole.
Was it possible Bob was too inebriated to discern the difference? Fran knew…….I never saw it again, not like I cared.
It was our last Christmas with our Dad. We did not know it then but it was. Our lives were about to change dramatically.
Fran had a way of making our lives look perfectly normal even though the reality was we were one check away from disaster.
We were always one step away from one of my brothers bringing chaos into our world. I was always on alert for something as a kid, but somehow it seemed normal.
Nellie, my maternal grandmother was an integral part of our lives and I loved spending time with her. She chained smoked and always had a house full of pop,snacks, and virtually no rules.
I did not connect the dots that I did not have a father, or money and Nellie had been our life support. Our special time was spent walking to Franks nursery and buying another rose for her rose garden.
I don’t recall seeing my Dad again until his mother, Muriel passed and I was allowed to attend her funeral.
My paternal grandmother, Muriel was stern, but elegant. She was always dressed to the nines, gloves, hat and a beautiful suit, and of course the shoes!
Muriel was a young widow and lost her eldest son when he was 18 years old. The role she played until her dying day was an enabler to my Dad, and that affected all of us.
She was a nurse (as was my other grandma) and she would pick me up once a year on my birthday and take me shopping at Northwood shopping center by Beaumont Hospital.
I would hardly sleep the night before, Fran would grumble that Muriel only paid attention to me because I was the first female grandchild.
I was special to my grandmother Muriel and I knew it. I was her little princess.
Oddly she never mentioned my Father, and I never saw him on my visits. I don’t recall asking about him.
I held the coveted title until my cousin Lori was born 10 years later and I was dethroned.
Lori was born with a heart condition, a fragile little girl, who lived 6 houses away from Muriel. 6 houses……..
I did not stand a chance, she was a little squeaking cherub who already had heart surgery, I was a tiny pre-teen with a raspy voice and Fran considered Muriel her enemy.
Despite the adversities, Fran plugged along working two jobs and raising three children alone. We walked to school, came home alone before latchkey kids was a thing.
We had a babysitter occasionally. She was my Moms best friends daughter, slightly older than my brother Bill, but not equipped to handle him.
It ended abruptly when my brother pulled a knife from the drawer and threatened to kill Bridgette. I have no idea what set him off but Bridgette was gone in a flash.
We never had a babysitter again, word must have spread fast about Billie, we were on our own at home while Fran worked. We were expected to behave, period.
Mom never spoke of my Dad and at some point around the time we moved a new person came into our world.
My Mom was working days at the factory, nights on the weekends at Teds Drive Inn. I vaguely recall his presence but I did notice Fran seemed happier.
I really didn’t care because I was too busy avoiding my brothers who relentlessly picked on me. The rest of my energy went to doing my chores so I could go play.
For years he came around, not ever present but there. I recall seeing him a few times before we moved to our new house.
We moved to another home by the high school which was not bigger, but it was a single family unit.
I recall seeing my grandmother Nellie more often as well after our move. Fran had quit working on weekends at Ted’s.
At some point her new friend was around more, appeared to be more involved with our lives.
As a kid I could not process the change and it seemed like life was better, at least for Fran.
My oldest brother was spiraling and my youngest was just as wild. I was left at home alone as my brothers barely waited for Fran to leave with Barb for the factory as they headed out for the day.
I was in charge of taking out the food Fran prepared, turning on the oven and making sure dinner was ready when she got home.
My brothers would breeze in moments before Frans arrival, it was uncanny how they would game her, fearlessly while I cowered. My brothers had a gift I simply did not possess.
The new friend was beginning to stop in when Fran was at work, I was frightened of him as I was of men in general.
He was a big man, older than my Mother. He was very nice to myself and my youngest brother in the early years.
He had an open distain for my oldest brother, not the Billy didn’t earn it! One day I was in our backyard playing when I heard a commotion in front.
As I approached the front yard I saw a huge police presence and my oldest brother in the middle of the street. He was directing traffic and the police were coaxing him to the yard.
Billy looked wild eyed and out of touch to me, but honestly he was always a bit off so I was more confused than alarmed.
Apparently Billy had developed a glue sniffing habit that no one seem to notice. As the police made entry they saw brown paper bags everywhere, seemingly used to sniff the glue.
I was being grilled by the police before my Mother arrived. Why were we home alone? Did we have a babysitter they could talk with? Where were my parents?
What parents would that be? Our Dad was a mystery, and don’t get me started on what happens to our babysitters. We only had Fran and she always had to work. After work it was dinner, bath and bed during the week.
My Mom was called at the factory, and I assume got a ride home as we did not have a car (Barb picked her up for work).
The new friend was called and the adults went to the local police station to do whatever with Billy who was higher than a kite. Nellie came with her husband to pick up my youngest brother and me.
I don’t recall being alarmed or even upset, I knew if Billy was out of the house he couldn’t be mean which he frequently was.
I’m not sure what or how everything got decided but suddenly my brother was gone. No explanation……just gone.
Stay tuned for a little more background on my next post!
Another move, followed by a wedding, then a funeral-and eventually, the runaway.
Follow me into the depths of dementia as I recount my Mothers journey with me as her reluctant wingman.
The introduction to Fran is a difficult one because my memories of my Mother were not particularity good.
As a small child I remember being afraid of her, yet depending on her because she was the adult in the room. Fran was never affectionate and quick to mete out punishment.
Today, I am afraid of her, and for her, as we navigate a new way of life with dementia. To say our health care system is in chaos would be an understatement, to be complacent in the role of caregiver would be a mistake.
Being respectful of those who care for us is mandatory, but also earned. I have encountered many compassionate and caring individuals in the health care community, but an equal number who are not.
The Book of Fran was developed to help everyone step into a plan to help your loved one. The caregiver must be assertive and control the narrative so there is a clear pathway for treatment.
Pack your patience, embrace the humor and keep your seatbelt on as unexpected turbulence is anticipated!
Find the humor in your journey, it’s the only way to come out the other side and reclaim your life.
Accept what you can’t change. As we weave through the history that is the backdrop of my life, my wish is to provide insight and hope.
