Can an individual’s personality change dramatically? And, if so, how?

 

You grow up knowing your mother. Then why would you say . . .

 

 

She’s Not My Mother

 

     I’d just sat down at the kitchen table to eat dinner, when the phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello.”

     “Adam, this is your loving sister, Eve. I’ve got some disturbing news for you.”

     “Okay, Eve, I’m listening.”

     “Dad started a big fight at Mom’s and his social club meeting. It was so bad that he declared, ‘I’m moving from this ridiculous retirement community. I can’t stand it anymore.’”

     “Don’t get so upset, Eve. It’ll all blow over.”

     “I don’t think so.”

     “Why do you say that? Things like this have happened before. Mom and Dad are always complaining about their community, the association, and their friends.” 

     “But not like this.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “They put their house up for sale.”

     “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

     “No big brother, I’m not.”

     Three months later Mom and Dad moved to a senior apartment complex just two miles from Eve’s home in the San Fernando Valley.

     I was sitting at my computer in my home office in the Bay Area, two weeks after they moved in, when the phone rang, pushing me out of my mental fog. I grabbed it and said, “Hello.”

     “Adam, it’s Eve. We’ve got a problem.”

     “Another problem? What kind of problem, Eve?” I said, in a frustrated manner.

     “Two of Mom’s and Dad’s friends have called me twice.”

     “So?”

     “They both said they believed there was more to the story that Mom and Dad shared with me. The fight really wasn’t that big. And the people involved have already put it behind them.”

     “Then why did they move?”

     “I don’t have any idea. And that’s what scares me.”

     “Should I fly down to you now?”

     “Maybe, or maybe not.”

     “Well, which is it?”

      “As you know, your niece’s mother-in-law’s seventieth birthday is three weeks from today, the Saturday before New Year’s Eve.”

     “Yeah. Betsy and I are coming. It’s a big deal.”

     “Yes, a catered dinner, dancing, and . . .”

     “Okay, maybe it’s best to wait until then to see what’s going on.”

     “I think so.”

     “Call me if there’s more I should know before I come.”

     “Will do. See you at the party.”

     Three weeks passed quickly. The night of the party arrived. Betsy and I walked through the ballroom doors to soft music and about sixty people standing around mingling. My eyes perused the room and I saw Dad sitting next to Mom at a large round table. He was white as a sheet.

     We approached the table. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad? How are you doing?”

     “Just fine,” Mom chanted.

     “And you, Dad?” He didn’t respond immediately. And then . . .

     “I’m okay. Just a bit tired.”

     Well, the night was pleasant. We had a good time. And Francis, my niece’s mother-in-law, was “queen of the ball.”

     Dad made it through the evening and I believed he was just wiped out from his big move. All was good. We said good night, wished everybody a “Happy New Year,” and the next day we flew home.

     We had a quiet New Year’s Eve. Then just after noon on New Year’s Day the phone rang. I lifted it off the living room coffee table and muttered, “Hello.”

     “Adam, sit down.”

     “Eve, you sound weird.”

     “Dad’s in the hospital.”

     “What? Why?”

     “He has terminal cancer. He only has three weeks to live.”

     “Oh, my God! I’m on my way.”

     “Adam, wait! There’s more.”

     “More? How much more can there be? He’s dying.”

     “Not Dad, Mom.”

     “Mom? What about Mom?”

     “She’s in the hospital, too.”

     “Well that’s normal. She should be with Dad.”

     “But she’s not with him.”

     “How could she do that?”

     “Because she’s also a patient in the hospital.”

     “What? What happened?”

     “She stopped taking all her medicines when she found out Dad was dying, about two months before they moved here. Seems they had an agreement. Either she would die first, or they would both die together. She had a massive stroke. They didn’t want us to worry, so they didn’t tell us or anybody else about Dad’s cancer. That’s why they used the fight as an excuse to leave their retirement community.”

     “I’m on my way.”

     Dad passed away three days after I arrived. Eve and I settled his affairs and then focused our attention on Mom. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t honor the agreement she had with Dad. She survived.

     Eve and I knew she couldn’t live alone. And Eve’s home didn’t have a ground floor bedroom, so she couldn’t live with her. She needed a walker and someone to replace Dad, as her support—both physical and mental. She seemed to be aware of what was going on around her, but it became obvious that she wasn’t all there.

     Therefore, we checked out the assisted living facilities in the area around Eve’s home. We found one, Garden of Eden Assisted Living, where Eve knew the manager. She had spent time with Eve’s mother-in-law, as her caregiver. This seemed like the right place for Mom.

     We got Mom settled in and I went home. I stayed in contact with her by phone, twice a week. Our conversations were interesting.

     “Hi, Mom, it’s Adam. How are you doing?”

     “I’m doing fine. Who is this?”

     “Adam, Mom.”

     “Oh, Adam! I’m so glad you called. I have so much to tell you.”

     “Okay, tell me.’

     “Tell you what?”

     “Well, let me tell you something. I just bought a new car.”

     “That’s so nice.”

     “Do you want to know how much it cost? It was expensive.”

     “That’s fine.”

     Her reply was odd. Mom was not always the most pleasant person to be with. She usually had adverse opinions about everything. There was only one way to do things—her way. But now she seemed to have just one negative response, when I answered her question, “What are you doing this weekend?”

     “It’s that time of the month, Mom,” I said. “Saturday’s our monthly dominoes game.”

     “And she responded loudly, “Oh, boriiiinnng. . . .”

     Mom seemed to have a full life in her assisted living home. She played bingo twice a week, ate her meals with friends at a table in the dining room, and saw shows in the small theater. And Eve told me she smiled a lot.

     Eve visited Mom a couple of times each week. At one of her visits, an employee approached her and said, with a lilt in her voice, “Eve, your mother is such a wonderful person. She loves everybody and everybody loves her.”

     “But she’s not my mother,” Eve replied.

     “Oh, I’m sorry. Your stepmother is so nice.”

     “She’s not my stepmother, either.”

     “I apologize. I’m glad to have your friend living with us.”

     Eve didn’t reply. Had Mom remained Mom, after she stopped taking her meds, she would either be the new manager of the assisted living facility or living on the street.

 

 

Copyright © 2024 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.