First and foremost, never accept the word no! If you are in the position of primary caregiver, you must understand and define the goal you wish to achieve.
As I began my journey with my Mom, Fran, I had no idea how to manage someone else’s life, honestly I can barely manage my own!
I thought the move to Michigan was a test of my sanity, managing the health system became my nemesis.
I was fortunate enough to have had the opportunity to visit with my Moms attorney and update her will and trust when my younger brother passed away, it allowed me the opportunity to update her wishes and provided me with a clear power of attorney.
The Power of Attorney has been my savior, I cannot imagine how I would have been a resource at all for Fran without it. If it’s not the holy grail, it’s the next best.
I am not dispensing advice, just recounting my personal experience as I learned by each experience and encounter. I knew I had POA but in order to activate, I needed two doctors to concur that Fran needed help.
Our first experience at the ER when she was hallucinating and behaving erratically was a joke . To be perfectly honest, it was a travesty as the ER doctor was overwhelmed and uninterested in what I had to say.
As I described in my blog, I knew it was a matter of time before we would be back. As I begged for help I was sent home with a referral to another doctor who would not prescribe any meds, or help because she did not have an established relationship with Fran.
As we endured several more months of hallucinations, accusations and general anxiety on both sides, the only help I had was from her primary doctor,
Fran’s primary recognized the severity and helped me try to push forward with some options. While most attempts failed, I felt at least I had someone who knew what I was dealing with.
When she had another episode in late summer, I knew I had to get aggressive so we could finally get help for my Mom. As I noted in The Book Of Fran blog, our second experience wasn’t much better.
As I raced to the ER I was laser focused on what I felt needed to transpire. After Fran took several swings at the security police she was safe in a room, ready for a doctor to assess the situation.
The nurse tries to calm Fran and I finally expressed to everyone that I wanted a petition. It was if the world stopped spinning and I was led to a room to sign paperwork as her POA!
As the doctor finally arrived I was relieved, then immediately put off by his miserable bedside manner and holier than thou attitude. He began the conversation with asking who allowed this 94 year old woman to live independently?
I politely (gritting my teeth and swallowing the words I wanted to say) admitted I allowed it. I explained it was an agreement Fran and I made to get her to move to Michigan,
I seriously doubt he had heard a word I said, he started snapping his fingers and yelling her name to get her attention. He was several feet from her good ear (all which I explained before) and was frustrated she did not respond.
I had enough, I told him I had a petition and that I needed time to find her a safe place to move to. He promptly informed me that it took two doctors and essentially my POA was worthless outside the hospital.
I advised the all powerful doctor that he was misinformed and he needed to focus his attention on Fran’s condition and getting her the medications she needed.
I explained in no uncertain terms we were not leaving, this was not our first rodeo. I insisted they keep her overnight for observation as she was a threat to herself and I was definitely afraid of her.
It took five days to stabilize Fran, time I needed to find a facility, plus move her. As I was searching for the location, I was unaware the hospital had other ideas.
They assumed she would need a medicaid facility while I was searching for a private pay. I still cannot understand the disconnect with the number of people involved, including a facilitator who was specifically assigned to her case for placement.
It’s part of the frustration I have experienced along this journey.
Communication is the one word I rely on to focus on each task. I ask, I question, I suggest and I write it down.
After our encounter with the geriatric shrink, I had somewhat of the upper hand. Fran realized that I now knew what she had been trying to hide.
I was face to face daily with her erratic behavior and desperately trying to control her anger. It was an endless battle, and I was not handling it well.
Fran would demand I take her shopping and continue to create a hostile environment whenever I stepped foot in her apartment. I was harassing her, and nothing I ever said would change her attitude.
I was her enemy, but she needed me to take her wherever she wanted to go, and it almost always ended in a verbal confrontation. She consistently raged about people stealing her jewelry. I would find it hidden, and she would accuse me of “planting it.”
She was convinced that I was intentionally trying to make her “crazy” by taking her things and then suddenly finding them.
It was a never-ending confrontation, and I rarely could control my anger. How dare she accuse me of unspeakable actions, and my outbursts became as toxic as her accusations.
I knew I was losing the battle, and no one could rescue me from the wrath of Fran. I was exhausted, frustrated, and angry.
It all came to a head when I awoke to my phone ringing at 5 a.m. in the morning. As I said hello, I heard Fran screeching at the top of her lungs. I could not fully understand her, but I knew all hell was about to break loose.
I listened as I tried to pull on some sweats and get in my car. She was letting me know she had to leave her apartment because the “ghosts” had kept her up all night.
They were sleeping in her living room, lying in her bed, and the children were in the kitchen. She calmly explained that she gave the kids cookies, but they would not leave. The ghosts had taken over her apartment, and she had to leave.
Fortunately, I was able to drive there in minutes and catch her as she was leaving the front entrance. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, yet her eyes were wild-looking, darting back and forth.
I convinced her to go back inside and up to her apartment so I could meet the ghosts and convince them to leave. As we entered her apartment, she immediately announced they were still there.
I made the mistake of saying I could not see them, which agitated Fran further. She flew into a rage and began rummaging through her walker compartment below the seat, which was filled with papers and a picture of her mother.
She honed in on the picture and asked me who I thought it was. Without hesitation, I said it was her Mom, and she laughed like she was auditioning for a horror movie.
I was scared because she had clearly detached from reality, and I needed to get her to the hospital. We spoke for a period of time, mostly her yelling that between me and the ghosts, we had driven her to the edge to take her money.
It was always about money; every argument concluded with her money and my desire to drive her crazy to get it all. How I managed to stay calm is a mystery, but I instinctively knew this episode was going to change things for good.
I finally talked her into going to the hospital to get some rest and tell the doctor about the ghosts.
The drive was awful; she was screaming the entire way that water was coming in, asking why my car was flying. She screamed for the entire trip that I was headed into the ocean, and we would drown.
She would tell the “kid” who was singing in the back seat to be quiet. She would ask me to tell him to stop, and while I tried to convince her no one was there, she only got more agitated.
I was so frightened during the drive that I think I broke every law getting to the hospital. I sped through red lights and, no question, exceeded the speed limit….a lot. I rationalized that I would take my chances with the cops.
By the time we entered the ER, Fran was asking where she was and speaking total nonsense. As we were asked to go through security, Fran was having no part of giving up her purse and began getting irritated as they attempted to put her in a wheelchair.
Before I knew what was happening, 4 security guards were surrounding her and forcibly trying to put her in the wheelchair.
I begged her to stop fighting, but as the words came out, she took a swing at the guard. As another approached again, she took another swing, almost landing the punch.
It immediately got ugly with Fran screaming they were hurting her, and me sobbing like a toddler taken from its mother. The entire ER area was full and eerily quiet as they shuffled Fran to a private room.
Once in the room, Fran was still hallucinating and screaming that water was coming in the walls and the “kid” in the corner would not stop singing and humming.
It took several attempts to get anyone in the ER to see her and ask what was going on. Only when Fran got so loud and disruptive in the private room did a nurse intercede.
I explained what had been going on and reiterated that she was there several times months earlier for the same issues.
It was a rinse and repeat of our last visit. I was to leave the room as her blood pressure was too high, and they feared she would stroke out. I was the problem, not the one seeking a resolution!
I left, but Fran continued to hallucinate, and since the ER was full (6:00 a.m.), it was okay for me to sit with her after they gave her a mild sedative.
Mom was still irritated, but now because she wanted the doctor to come so she could go home. She was calming down but still seeing and hearing ghosts.
Finally, a doctor came in to see her; ironically, it was a doctor I had encountered in the hallway as I was trying to find someone to take Fran to the bathroom.
I asked him to help; his exact response was “it was above my pay grade,” but he would find someone. Very funny and totally unhelpful as he simply walked away.
Imagine having that jerk walk into the room and announce he was the doctor, in fact, the head of the psych unit. He started the conversation with a question of why anyone would allow this woman to live independently.
I was angry at his indifference and his judge-a-book-by-its-cover look he gave me. Give me a break, I launched into action at 5:00 a.m. and did not comb my hair or brush my teeth. Excuse me!
I explained it was a deal I made with her as a condition of her moving to Michigan. I also explained she was hard of hearing, so he needed to speak up. He continued in his monotone, bored voice and was frustrated she did not respond.
She was busy telling the ghosts to leave and begging me to get out of the water I was apparently standing in. He immediately decided she must have an infection, despite me assuring him she did not.
It escalated into me insisting that he listen to what I had to say before I finally said the magic words….I want a petition. He stopped and instantly knew I had the upper hand.
As her Power of Attorney, I had the ability to demand the hospital file a petition on her behalf. While I don’t understand all the legalities, I knew they had to react and could not simply send her home again.
He made it clear that I did not want to do that, better to send her home and move down the road. I refused and demanded they keep her as she was clearly a danger to herself and others.
I had learned a few things since my last experience in the ER, and in that moment, I knew I had finally found the help Fran needed and I begged for.
I was somewhat pleased that I had somehow outsmarted the all-powerful doctor who refused to listen. It’s an art to sit and listen, a skillset he clearly lacked.
Fran spent 5 days in a private room in the psychiatric ward. I visited every day and noticed a calmness that I don’t think I ever saw in my mother. She was pleasant and present. She wanted to go home.
We discussed every day what our options were as I explained she needed more care and I would have to move her….again.
She was compliant and interested in what her new home would look like.
I finally chose a facility that seemed to fit our needs, and I moved her in after I had her released. It was a tough few weeks but one of the best decisions I ever made.
Next up: While the Book of Fran is closing, stay tuned for anecdotal things I have learned and experienced in this journey. I hope to help others not make mistakes I made, yet forgive yourself for ones you do make…..it’s a long journey and it gets bumpy.
I had finally secured an appointment with a geriatric psychiatrist who was willing to see Fran. It was a difficult process since Fran had only been in Michigan for less than two months and needed all new doctors.
I was alarmed as the episodes continued to escalate; we were constantly battling over everything, every day.
By then, I knew that she was taking Tramadol pretty much whenever she had to go somewhere, in particular, doctor appointments.
She was cagey and knew that it could mask her symptoms. I decided to tell her the appointment was mid-morning, about a 45-minute ride away.
I picked her up; she was somewhat anxious, but as we drove towards Brighton, she seemed to completely relax, and we had a nice conversation.
As we got closer, I told her I had made a mistake; her appointment was actually early afternoon. I suggested we stop in town and have a bite to eat before we went to the appointment and kill time.
Surprisingly, she did not resist; it was a nice early summer day, and we grabbed a table outside. I tried to keep her engaged, and we talked about the last time we were downtown Brighton years ago with her sister attending the art fair.
She was starting to get a bit anxious after I continued to stall and wanted to know where this appointment was. Slowly, she started to exhibit behavior that indicated to me the drug was wearing off.
When I finally got the check, I explained the doctor’s office was another 15 minutes away; Fran was agitated; it was showtime.
As we arrived at the office, she was paranoid that it did not look like a doctor’s office and she wanted to speak to the receptionist without me translating.
Good plan as that never goes sideways!
As we presented the insurance card, confirmed a few details, we were directed to take a seat; they would call her soon.
Almost as soon as we sat down, Fran became fixated on her walker. She ran her fingers over the handles, recoiling then trying again.
I waited and watched her repeat the routine over and over.
I finally asked her what was going on, to which she replied, “The ghosts are back.”
She launched into the explanation that she thought they stayed in her apartment. She claimed she had no idea they hitched a ride.
I was very concerned as she spoke in low tones and started to talk to the ghosts, telling them to leave. She asked me why I didn’t get “rid” of them and continued to try to shoo them away.
I wanted to record it on my cell, which I did routinely so I could document the episodes. Before I had the chance, she became very aggravated and pushed her cart away, asking me if I saw the “ghosts.”
I had not, and that infuriated Fran. By now, there were several people in the waiting room, and the last thing I needed was a meltdown.
The receptionist must have been used to reading the room. We were escorted to another area where we waited, alone. Within minutes, the doctor was ready, and we moved towards another room.
I escorted Fran but bailed on going into the room. I advised the doctor that I thought it would be best if Fran met one-on-one with her, and then she could speak freely.
Moments later, I could hear Fran tell the doctor I was making her life a living hell and that I was poisoning her. She claimed I had switched her meds, because the shape of some of her pills was different.
It got louder and more intense. I could hear almost every word Fran said. She was presenting!
The door opened, and I was invited in to participate in the last few minutes with the doctor. It was a push-and-pull event, and I knew the doctor was going to lose.
Minutes in, Fran announced she had had enough. The doctor was clearly as nutty as a fruitcake, and she was leaving. I immediately informed Fran that it would be a nice walk back home; she should get a head start.
The doctor, to me, appeared to be at a loss on how to end the session. Fran turned back and sat down as I explained to the doctor that we had a deal.
Fran would see a specialist. We would get an assessment and move on from there. The doctor pointed out that there indeed were some serious concerns, and she gently guided Fran to an action plan that she felt would make her feel better.
Fran now knew she had been defeated, accepting the suggestions of medications that could help her.
The doctor explained to me that while Fran needed care and meds, she would not prescribe any meds as she did not know enough of Fran’s history. I was perplexed, wondering why we were even there.
As I arrived at the hospital, they had already admitted Fran into a private room in the ER. I made my presence known and was told to wait in the lobby for an ER doc to speak with me.
I was not allowed to go back and see her; her blood pressure was so high that they were trying to keep her calm, with no visitors.
After many hours waiting, an ER nurse came out to give me an update. Essentially, they were going to release her; I was to wait until they finalized the paperwork and then take her home.
I was stunned, and I immediately began to explain that I had many videos of her strange behavior, that I feared for her and me.
I emphasized that she lived in a senior community and could come and go as she pleased; it was unsafe and unacceptable. I begged him to take my phone and show the doctor the videos.
He looked sympathetic but did not yield. I could not comprehend what I was hearing and continued to press my case. I was not going to accept no.
Lesson one when dealing with hospitals and doctors.
The ER nurse agreed to see a few videos (I had many), and he was convinced I might be onto something. More time passed until he finally came back out and said they agreed; she needed to spend the night for observation.
I was relieved, tired, and scared. I had some part of the evening to sort out what I could do. My search for a psychiatrist was futile. Every geriatric shrink was either out of business or could not see her for months.
As I slowly calmed down so I could get a few hours of rest, my phone rang. In the seconds it took to answer, my mind raced. I was certain Fran had coded, and the hospital was calling to let me know.
I was close; it was the hospital…they wanted to know if I wanted to pick Fran up or should they send her home in a cab?
It was 11 p.m. and I had been at the hospital all day, just getting home after 6:30 p.m. I could not believe what I heard and asked why.
I was informed that Fran was not presenting; she was calm, tired, and completely coherent. They needed the bed space, and she was being cleared.
I immediately reminded them that I knew she had downed several Tramadol’s before she was taken by ambulance. She had a stash of pills she had brought with her from Florida and always had them with her for pain.
I had only recently started to figure out that she may have been using the Tramadol to calm herself down before she went to the doctor so she would not “present”. How could I have missed that flag on the field?
I also began to sort out that she had been hiding her obvious signs of depression and dementia; she knew something was wrong.
It explained why she would constantly accuse me of driving her to the “looney bin”. It also explained her accusations of theft which were daily and not just directed at me.
I recalled that the first visit to the bench and to see her friend in Royal Oak weeks earlier, she had become agitated. It was early spring and the orange cones were popping up; I decided to take back roads.
She questioned why I was on Dixie Highway headed toward Pontiac. I tried to explain I was avoiding some construction zones; I would drop down to Telegraph and go south.
She began shouting that she knew I was taking her to the mental hospital in Pontiac and she was not going to go. She knew the roads well, even after being gone almost 45 years; and until I got to Royal Oak, she continued to call me a liar.
I went back over in my head all the weird things that had transpired just since she had arrived. I missed so many red flags; I’m embarrassed to admit it.
Fran’s moodiness and swings were the result of her self-medicating with Tramadol. She had likely 50-60 in the big bottle she carried everywhere when she left her apartment.
As I drove back to the hospital, I tried to sort out what I would do with Fran. I decided I would bring her to my home even though I was afraid of her at that point. I would attack the Tramadol issue the next day.
Fran had other plans. As I arrived at the ER entrance, I was escorted back to a room where she was in a wheelchair looking like she had not slept in days.
Fran did not speak a word as I talked with the nurses and signed the paperwork. I insisted on a referral to a professional who could help me sort out what was happening and get her help.
She refused eye contact with me, and even the attendant could feel the tension. As we got her in my car, I tried to make small talk; she turned her head and refused to speak.
As we drove back towards my home, I explained she would spend the night at my home; we would stop by her apartment to get her pajamas.
Suddenly, Fran lurches forward and turns to me and says loudly, “No”. I continued to plead to no avail. As we walked up to her apartment, I continued to beg, and she stood firm; she was going to bed.
I was afraid to leave her alone, but to be honest, I was more afraid to spend the night at her apartment. Luckily, right down the hall were two on-call nurses (private pay for some residents) who were sympathetic to my situation.
We discussed just monitoring the hallway to make sure she did not leave her apartment. She was so tired; I did not think it would be an issue; thankfully, it was not.
At that time, I was not aware of things that were going on within her community, but after her being taken out by paramedics, suddenly everyone had stories.
One of the staff nurses in the community said they often heard her yelling late in the evenings and assumed she was arguing with me. Others said she made strange comments during meals, or simply ignored everyone while she ate.
I decided we needed to get a small camera installed over her door so we could monitor if she left. It had to be hidden as she was already convinced we were all watching her.
We found one that could be placed facing the door, disguised as something that she would not question. It worked for a short period; she moved things in her apartment constantly, hiding objects in other areas. Eventually, it was gone.
The next morning, I was surprised to see Fran dressed and acting as though nothing had happened the day before. She appeared to have completely forgotten all that transpired.
I sat down and began questioning her, hoping to draw out memories so we could discuss the situation. I explained that I had a referral for a doctor that I think she needed to see.
As usual, she upended the conversation with accusations, innuendos, and hateful rhetoric. I finally managed to calm her down and get a compromise.
I convinced her that I would never bring up her mental acuity again if she agreed to see the doctor. She reluctantly agreed and then told me to leave. In her words, I only came over to aggravate her again. I took the small win and left.
Fran was on a mission, and I followed with the Book of Fran to facilitate the process of obtaining her Michigan ID. Besides, her hearing was so poor even with her hearing aids, I needed to translate.
As our number was called, we dutifully went to the counter, and Fran was asked what she needed. She had the deer-in-the-headlight look, so I attempted to intervene when Fran finally loudly exclaimed she wanted her state ID because she needed to change her address.
I opened The Book of Fran and began laying out everything I had to expedite the process and move on. I had carefully procured her birth certificate (the only one she had), a marriage license to my Dad, their divorce papers, her marriage license to Red, their divorce papers, and finally her marriage license (the only one she had) to John and his death certificate.
I also knew she had her Florida ID with her, her old driver’s license, and insurance cards. It should be a simple process, or so I thought.
As the clerk reviewed the documents, she hesitated at Fran’s “birth certificate,” which was merely a celebratory one given at the hospital. I knew that it might not fly, but in light of Fran’s hurry to get her address change, I thought I might have a shot.
The clerk carefully sidelines the “birth certificate” and continues to pursue the remaining documents. All along, she is nodding, confirming her first marriage, divorce, second marriage, and divorce decree until she gets to the third marriage to John, her deceased husband.
She notes that the last marriage certificate might not be acceptable either and calmly passes the documents back to me clipped together, in order. Fran wants to know what is going on as I try to explain to her that her birth certificate was not acceptable and we needed to come back.
In a nanosecond, she begins to berate me and the clerk for cancelling her life and heads for the door. Did I mention her voice is always loud because she is hard of hearing? I could have heard a pin drop as I exited behind her.
As we get in the car, Fran proceeds to tell me what a nice job I did. Confused, for a moment, I thought she was actually complimenting me.
Fran went full sprint to the fantasy that I had created a fake SOS , had all my friends “act” like real clerks, and I had almost fooled her.
In her fantasy, I had set it all up to make certain she could not get a state ID and change her address. It was my grand plan to take over her life and steal her money.
I wanted to crack up laughing; it was so crazy it was hilarious until I realized she believed it. Imagine her giving me credit for setting up such an elaborate scam!
I tried to reason with her and explain I just needed to order her real birth certificate, and we would go back to SOS and get her ID.
The silent ride back to her apartment was typical of her behavior now. I broached the subject that perhaps we should see someone to help manage her anger, and so my search began for a geriatric shrink.
I ultimately obtained the real birth certificate, and once again, we drove silently to the SOS with Fran and The Book of Fran.
Fran was determined that she would speak with the clerk, and I was to sit down and be quiet. I dropped the paperwork in front of the clerk and took a seat.
Suddenly, Fran is off the rails and upset. I scurry to the window, and the clerk explains that while all is in order, she has to speak with her supervisor about the celebratory marriage license from her last husband, who is deceased. Crap.
I walk her through the logic that Fran could not have changed
her name without proof she was married 45 years ago. Couldn’t they show grace to a 93-year-old? She had a valid ID from Florida with that name; surely that could count.
It worked! She was camera-ready, and we would be on our way. I took my seat as Fran completed the rest of the information for her ID. Or so I thought.
We left with her temporary ID stapled to her Florida ID, and we headed straight for the post office….again. With The Book of Fran , her temporary ID, we were ready to change her address.
Mission accomplished, she received a validation that indeed her address change would be processed. Fran may have smiled, but I think I missed it.
I thought the worst was behind us, but that’s what I get for thinking.
Fran began complaining that she was not getting her mail. She instinctively knew I had something to do with it. As it turned out, she had given the SOS the wrong apartment number, and her mail was being put in a mailbox for an apartment that was not occupied.
She was hysterical and blamed me. It got worse when I reminded her that I was seated when she handled the information for her state ID, like her address. Since it was never her fault, the clerk must have made the mistake.
Once again, I had to schedule another appointment to get her address changed on her state ID. In the meantime, she was so angry about everything that I dreaded the drive to her apartment.
I had scheduled some time to go shopping for whatever she needed, but when I arrived at her apartment, she was clearly agitated.
As I opened the door, she started screeching that she hated her apartment and she wanted to go back to Florida. She had not slept all night because there was a mariachi band playing in the parking lot below her bedroom window all night long.
On top of that, my daughter was in a car shining a light into her bedroom, keeping her awake as well. I did not know how to respond other than to tell her we needed to go to the hospital.
She was not making any sense, and I continued to beg her to let me take her to the hospital. She needed urgent help, and I had nowhere to turn.
She engaged in crazy thoughts and told me she knew I had orchestrated all the things she imagined so I could drive her crazy. The whole Michigan family was in on it.
She casually mentioned that she was going to report me to the police, and I told her I would welcome it! Moments later, as I was sitting at the table in her kitchenette trying to sort out what was happening, there was a rap at the door.
I rolled the chair over to answer the door only to be greeted by 4 police officers who wanted to know where Mrs. Fran M. was.
Fran had called the police before I even arrived that morning. She was talking nonsense so they came to conduct a wellness check.
Fran immediately chirped in and told the officers I was harassing her, stealing her money, and she wanted me to leave.
I was so stunned, I barely uttered my name and why I was there. I was so overwhelmed I was asked to step into the hallway while they spoke with Fran. I was pretty sure I was going to be arrested!
While I was being questioned outside, Fran was screaming at the officers inside that no one should listen to me, I was a liar, and I was trying to kill her. She referred to me in bold, unflattering terms that I think shocked the cops, coming from such an elderly woman.
She claimed I had mixed up her meds and she would not take them because they were the wrong color; she was certain I was poisoning her.
The paramedic came in and convinced Fran that perhaps she should go to the hospital as a precaution. As they tested her vitals, they were concerned her blood pressure was too high, and she agreed to go.
Before they took her out, she had the presence of mind to go to her bathroom; later, I discovered it was to get to her stash of Tramadol before she left, not to use the restroom.
The ambulance left, and I followed in my car trying to sort out what had happened.
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.’
After Junes passing, Marge’s continued to decline as well. Fran was increasingly frustrated that her community was now infiltrated with couples, and she felt isolated.
Fran ultimately decided it was time to move. She berated me for not having a solid plan, accusing me of not wanting her to come back to Michigan. Truth be told I probably did drag my feet a bit, but I was also doing her bidding on securing a location for my brother Doug’s ashes to be interred.
Fran was laser focused on obtaining a cemetery plot and having my brothers ashes buried along with hers when her time came. She had already prepaid for a cremation for herself in Florida which was looking like a non starter once she moved back to Michigan
My cousin had passed a few years before and my cousin Lori and I had a discussion about the family plot in Berkley, Michigan. Muriel, our grandmother had purchased a large plot when her husband passed away, followed shortly by her eldest son (my Uncle) at 18. We surmised that she had purchased enough room for her immediate family including my Aunt Jo and my Dad, Bob.
When Muriel passed the family plot was passed to my Aunt Jo who sadly filled in several spaces before her death when her husband passed and her oldest son. She was laid to rest years later and while I miss her I am thankful she did not live to see her remaining 2 children pass away.
Lori, in search of a place where her other brother could be buried discovered there was more room at the inn and ultimately he was buried with his family. Since I knew the burial plot was meant for Bob as well Lori and I searched for a way to add Bobs side of our family.
By now I had kept Bobs cremains as well as my older brothers in my home, Bob was fast approaching 40 years in my china cabinet. Billy, my oldest brother joined him for the last 20+ years.
it was suggested we could add a bench that would be placed in front of the markers, am idea that I thought would make Fran happy. All the Hoopers in the family plot!
Fran liked the idea of purchasing a granite bench and having her ashes interred with her sons on either side of her. It was cheaper than buying plots,or niches. I moved forward making the arrangements which were surprisingly complex.
Turns out you simply cannot place ashes in a granite bench….it requires lots of paperwork, an open and close expense, engraving and placement on the plot. Who knew that coupled with a pandemic it would take much of my time
Fran wanted the best, we secured a beautiful bench costing over $13,000, I was shocked she was willing to pay for it as Fran was always very frugal.
I provided her with sketches, won the approval and set the plan in motion. Once I mentioned that Bob, my Dad would also be in the bench, all hell broke loose. Fran was adamant that Bob not be placed in her bench.
I explained to Fran that she was the interloper in the arrangement. It was Bobs family plot and he was going in,
I was paying for his costs. The fight was on as usual but once she discovered it shaved almost $2000 off her cost she was in, with one stipulation. Bob was to be placed on one end, she would be on the other end, furthest away. The boys were to be placed in the middle as a buffer.
I was the only one present at the open and close so I felt that I could choose the order, Bob, Fran, Billy and Doug. Done. Now I’m definitely going to hell ,securing my spot as the disappointing daughter.
The move to Michigan was finalized. After searching numerous locations for Senior living, I settled on a lovely new complex within 3 miles of my home. It was perfect for Fran, close to me, brand new and many plans for the property adjacent to her facility.
I could not have imagined what was to come as I stayed busy arranging the move, packing, ordering furniture and getting her new apartment ready.
Since the facility was new, the build out was delayed due to typical Michigan weather. Fortunately the weather helped in the transition as Fran did not want to leave Florida until the weather was nicer here.
I flew back and forth helping her discard, donate and pack for the move north. The visits to Marge as we were winding down became painful to watch. Marge was one of her oldest,dearest friends and she struggled to accept she would never see Fran again.
As the final day arrived, we said our last goodbyes to Marge as they hugged and cried. The late afternoon was dinner with my nephew and my brothers ex-wife to say goodbye as well.
It was exhausting, tearful and I kept questioning the decision, even though I knew it was the right decision.
We landed in Michigan and Fran seemed to be handling all the craziness in stride. I had made certain her new apartment was ready with final touches directed by her and dependent on the delivery of items we had to ship.
On the way home I informed Mom we would stop at her apartment and then go to my home for the evening and have dinner with the grandkids.
She declined the offer and said she was tired and just wanted to see her new place and spend the night there. I was resistant to the idea as she did not have a phone activated yet, but she persisted.
We went to the apartment, her mood was flat which I mistook as a sign she was tired. We toured the building, explaining all the amenities without much enthusiasm on Fran’s part.
I vowed to come by the next morning early to figure out our next steps. As I drove the short distance home I knew I was ill equipped to deal with Fran every day, I needed to recalibrate.
I had no clue what was on the horizon in a few short weeks.
Next up: You can’t make this up, Fran implodes within 3 weeks
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
