Not As Brief As Promised

What?  You want to know about my day?  That's so kind.  

Wait. . . wait. . . don't go!  I thought you were my friend?

Well. . . maybe one of you stayed anyway.  Here's the tale told in brief.  

In the morning, I went to the bank with my Power of Attorney form.  They were nice enough. . . not really. . . and none too pleased.  So they made a copy to send to an attorney, I assumed.  That was in one part of the metropolis.  Then I drove to another to see my mother.  

She was not doing well.  She had called me late the night before confusedly asking me to bring her back pain medicine.  Now, in the morning, she'd had therapy and breakfast.  Shortly after I arrived, a social worker came in to ask her questions to assess her mental state.  My mother couldn't answer some of the questions.  She was given three words to remember but could only state back two.  I told the social worker that my mother had been on morphine for the past seven days and was in a lot of pain now.  She smiled and said yes, this was just a preliminary interview so they had a baseline in order to gage improvement.  She had me sign a form.  Another admin came in and talked to me about my mother's health care asking if she had a Living Will and if she had a DNR.  I said yes.  I had the Power of Attorney doc with me, so she made a copy of that.  

When she had gone, I got a phone call from the bank.  They were denying my Power of Attorney, they said.  

"O.K.  Send me a letter explaining why."

"We don't have to do that," said the bank guy.  He said he'd email me why.  "The document was never registered at the courthouse," he said.  "And it is stale."  

"Stale" meant old.  My mother set this up a long time ago.  The state statute says there is no time limit for a Power of Attorney, but statutes are interpreted in the courts and there have been incidents where banks have had decisions in their favor on this.  Or so I think from going through many websites from Elder Law websites. 

There is no law.  There is only Case Law.  

Or so it seems.  Legislation is passed and then the courts rule.  One ruling can become precedent.  

I think.  Don't listen to me.  I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about.  I'm going to have to see an attorney to figure this all out.  

I had an appointment to get a Handicapped Parking decal for my mother, so I kissed her goodbye and headed out.  There was a Clerk of the County Court office on the way, so I decided to go in and see if I could register my Power of Attorney document.  I had no appointment.  At the kiosk, I put in my information and was given a number.  The waiting room was full.  There seemed little hope I would get called quickly, but I sat and waited for forty-five minutes.  At that point, I had to leave to make my appointment at the DMV.  

Fortunately, with an appointment, I was in and out fairly quickly.  I decided to stop at the Clerk of the Court's office again and see if my number had been called.  

When I walked inside, a woman who had been sitting next to me earlier was still there.  I talked to her for a minute.  She had not been called.  I decided to go through the automatic doors into the room that people whose numbers were called not so very often went to see if I still in the cue.  There were fifteen windows.  Two of them were operating.  I stood in the giant room waiting for one of the two parties to finish up a their windows.  It took awhile.  One couple, obviously there to get married, he in an ill fitting suit, she in a white dress and a white hair vail, finished up and meekly, I approached the window to ask if I could find out if my number had been called.  The woman working the counter was nice and looked it up.  Nope.  It had not yet been called. 

"We're running about two hours behind schedule," she said.  She guessed that I had about another hour's wait.  I thanked her and went back to the lobby.  

And waited over an hour without being called.  Nor was the woman I'd been sitting next to.  The waiting room was still full.  I'd gotten my number over two hours before.  

My phone rang.  It was my mother.  

"What are you doing?  I'm dying here," she said.  "Come sit with me."

"I'm at the courthouse right now, mom."

"Oh. . . O.K.  I'm sorry.  Go ahead."

"I'll be by in a bit."

"O.K."

And that's the way that has been going since she moved to the rehab facility.  They are not giving her morphine, so. . . .

I couldn't wait any longer, so frustrated, I left.  It was just later than mid-afternoon.  I would go to the gym and walk the treadmill and then go back to see my mother.  I'd be out and showered, perhaps, in time for dinner.  

When I got to the locker room, Craig was there.  I sat my bag down and began to get dressed as Craig and I chatted.  And chatted.  I will tell you some crazy stories upcoming.  As we talked, he said, "I remember you now.  You didn't look like this then.  I always thought of you as the literate one.  You could actually read," he chuckled.  

I took a chance and mentioned something he might not want to talk about.  

"You had a weird relationship with your father, right?"

He always claimed his father, an M.D., was trying to poison him.  

"Yea," he said, "I had him disbarred.  He'd been giving my wife drugs to put in my food for years.  That's why I had the car wreck.  I was drugged."

He'd been in a wreck that damn near killed him.  He had a brain injury that took years to get over.  

If he did.

"It was a year before I could tell time again," he said.  "It took a few years more for me to fully recover."

"I remember that."

"I found out my father was fucking my wife.  She was a coke addict and I didn't know it.  I knew her friends were, but I didn't know about her.  That's how my father controlled her.  He knew all the drug dealers in town.  She couldn't get her coke without him."

"I never knew that.  You never said that back then."

I remembered that his father had his office a block off the Boulevard.  He was doctor to a highfalutin crowd.  

As I say, I will tell some crazy stories we recounted from those old gym days later.  But I had stood there in my gym clothes for over an hour shooting the shit with Craig.  It was too late to work out now, so I said goodbye and headed back to the rehab facility.  

When I got there, the couple from across the street were visiting.  My mother lay in the bed miserably while we chatted.  This is the couple who frequently invite us to dinner, especially at the holidays.  I was expecting a call from the cardiologist to talk about my mother's echocardiogram, but I knew my phone wouldn't ring if I hadn't answered a call from the number before, so I called the office.  

"I was supposed to get a call from the doctor at 3:30 about my mother," I said.  

After a lot of questions, the person on the other end of the conversation said the doctor would call me sometime after 4:30.  

I set about trying to figure out how to disable the privacy setting on my phone so that the call would ring through.  I asked Siri how to do that.  It was wrong.  

After awhile, the couple visiting were ready to leave.  "If you need anything. . . ."

I sat with my mother.  She needed to go to the bathroom.  She had forgotten how to call the nurse.  It took awhile.  When the nurse came in, I excused myself from the room to go talk to the physical therapist.  

"My mother would like a heating pad," I said.  

"Oh. . . we don't have anything like that here.  We don't want people to accidentally burn themselves."

"My mother said she had only had physical therapy in the morning.  I thought she was supposed to get three sessions a day."

"This morning she had PT and OT.  We went together to evaluate her."

"So tomorrow she will have separate PT and OT sessions?"

"Yes.  I don't know if she is going to get speech therapy or not."

Was that the third?  Odd.  I did not feel placated. 

When I went back to my mother's room, I asked if she had gone to the bathroom.  

"No.  I can't.  It won't come out." 

She was sitting in the bed, feet dangling.  She sat like that for a long while, then said, "I can't remember why I am sitting here.  Am I waiting on something?" 

"I don't know.  Can you lie back down by yourself?"

"Yes." 

She sat there for a long while more.  

"Why don't you lie down?"

She managed.  She lay holding her belly, moaning.  

"What hurts?" I asked her.  

"The back of my leg."

She was in the same pain as she was those two weeks before she went to the hospital.  Just then, a nurse came in to give her pain meds.  

The phone rang.  It was the cardiologist's office, but not the cardiologist.  The woman on the phone told me my mother's echocardiogram was good.  Her heart was pumping fine.  There was no fluid buildup around the heart.  There was some valve leakage, but that was old.  The call did not last very long.

"That was your cardiologist.  Your echocardiogram turned out well.  Your heart is pumping strong.  There is no congestive heart failure."

She just stared at me.  

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes." 

"That's really good news," I said.  She nodded.  

"O.K. mom, I'm going to go get some dinner.  I'll be back in the morning."

I kissed her forehead.  Going is always hard.  

At home, I changed out of my unused gym clothes and made a Negroni.  I needed one, my pain meds after a long day.  I hadn't been home since early that morning and had not successful in many ways.  It was Friday.  I don't like to cook on Fridays.  I decided I would go to the Italian place that is no longer my favorite for some chicken cacciatore and wine.  

I found a seat at the bar.  There was an empty stool next to a character who is usually there when I go on a Friday night.  He stands out in the crowd.  This is a conservative town where people dress as if for the country club, but this fellow looks all L.A.  Multiple bracelets, sometimes leather pants, thick funky glasses.  He always stands behind his chair and drinks glasses of champagne talking to no one.  

"Mind if I slide in here friend?"

The bartender said hi and took my order.  She brought me a glass of the Classico.  I decided to be friendly and talk to the fellow beside me.  

"You always drink champagne," I said.  

"Or Bellinis."  

That is what he was having now.  

He had a heavy accent, so I was rude enough to ask him where he was from.  He said, "My mother was from Berlin, my father from Barcelona."  His name was Flo.  

He talked about his mother.  She taught him everything about life, he said, and he began to philosophize.  It was Hallmark Card philosophy delivered in a high toned manner.  It was about being happy and enjoying life.  Schmaltz.  But I had opened the door, and he was bringing the whole circus with him.  So I listened and drank my wine.  

The t.v.s about our heads were showing a women's match at the U.S. Open.  Between sets they cut to the broadcasters, John and Patrick McEnroe.  I started laughing.  

"John McEnroe looks like Keith Richards," I kidded.  But it was true.  Spitting image.  

"That's what I am saying," said Flo.  "It doesn't matter what you do or how much money you have.  You are going to get old and die.  You have to enjoy every moment. . . ."

My food came and I began to eat.  Flo paid his tab and said goodbye.  I ate in silence.  

Back home, I was pooped.  I poured a scotch and. . . well. . . you know the drill. 

I guess that was not the briefest of tales, not what I promised.  I'll just end with my lullaby before bed.  A couple of pills and eight hours of sleep.  It is Saturday.  I must go and check on my mother.