So…when last we left my grandmother, she was 89 and living in her home in Hartford, Connecticut. She had lived there for 53 years and if you think that's a long time, consider this. Her daughter (i.e., my mother) lived in the home where I was raised for 59 years. Must be hereditary.
Grandma had lived alone in that house since her third husband passed away in 1984 but five years later, she was no longer able to take care of herself. Her doctor recommended a lovely assisted living facility in Manchester, about six miles away. She toured it, liked it and asked if we could arrange for her to move in there for, presumably, the rest of her life. Easier asked than answered: When I tried to sign her up, they said there were no openings and they had a waitlist that would probably be several years. My grandmother couldn't wait for several years.
I phoned the superior of the person who told me this and he said the same thing: No Vacancies, sorry. Then I phoned the superior of the superior and he told me the same thing: No Vacancies, sorry. Since there was no one superior to the superior of the superior, I put the following to him…
"Okay, I understand you have no openings for my grandmother. Now, how do I get her in there?"
The gentleman on the phone was very nice but he said, "I'm sorry but I can't help you."
I said, "All right. Who can? I'm betting somewhere in the great state of Connecticut, there's someone who knows how to get my grandmother into your facility. I can spend money if I have to." I wasn't sure what I was asking for but some lead is better than no lead.
The superior's superior thought for a moment, then said, "There's an attorney a few blocks from here…he handles the business affairs of a lot of people who live here. He's a very nice man, very concerned with the needs of the aged. If anyone would know, he would." And he gave me that man's number.
I called him up, explained the situation and hired him. How he managed it is a long, complicated story that involved loopholes and obscure laws of the great state of Connecticut, and me acquiring some of my grandmother's assets so as to put her income level into a special classification.
If I fully understood it, I'd explain it but all you need to know is that a few days later, he called me and said, "Your grandmother is now at the top of the waitlist…and by the way, the other people on it are not being inconvenienced much if at all by this. Almost all of them are on waitlists for other assisted living facilities. I spoke to the representatives of the next three on the list and they all expect to go into other facilities shortly…and the next few after the first three aren't expecting to move into any assisted living facility for a year or two."
"Great," I said. "Now, the question is how long will it take before there's a vacancy at the one where my grandmother wants to go?"
He said, "Well, it may not be long. They have four patients there who are over 100 years old."
The very next day, he called me back and said, "Well, they now have three patients there who are over 100 years old." So a vacancy had opened up for my grandmother…and I don't think he made it happen. I was only paying the lawyer $200 an hour. That's not enough for him to go have a 102-year-old human being whacked. In California, you need at least a $500-per-hour attorney…or a government death panel.
It was a nice bit of timing. So was the fact that I had a trip to New York already scheduled for two weeks later. I phoned Brenda the Travel Agent — this was back when some of us booked flights through travel agents instead of doing it ourselves on the Internet — and we did some rearrangement. The day I left New York, I had already planned to fly to Hartford for one day to see Grandma. Instead, we made it two days and we arranged to fly my mother to Hartford to meet me there. Together, we helped get Grandmother moved-in and situated in her new home.
It was really a beautiful place with caring, efficient help. She had a nice room — small but quite sufficient. There were activity rooms with games and television. There was a gymnasium where a 75-year-old version of Richard Simmons led elderly folks in limited exercises.
And then there was the porch. Ah, that porch.
One whole side of the building was a long, long porch that faced a grassy, undeveloped area…and then on the other side of that grassy area was a small forest. There was room on the porch for several dozen people to sit and look out at the greenery and watch as squirrels made their way from the trees to just close enough to the home to be fed. It was a very beautiful, tranquil place to sit.
The food at the facility was good, too. I'd rented a car to get us around and I was going to take my mother and grandmother to dinner somewhere nice. Then the admissions officer told us, "You're welcome to have supper with us here if you like," and my mother suggested we do that and sample what Grandma would be eating. I had a baked chicken breast, whipped potatoes, steamed carrots and for dessert, a cupcake. I have had worse meals in restaurants to which I willingly returned.
Grandma was very happy with her new home and with the fact that I — with the help of that lawyer — would be handling all her finances and taxes and such, including the sale of her home as well as the belongings she'd decided to abandon. Still, when it came time for us to leave, she began crying. "I'm afraid I'll never see you again," she said to both of us. We assured her that was not so; that we'd come and see her.
My grandmother lived a little less than eight more years there. In truth, she did not see her daughter in person again, though they spoke many times on the phone. I was going back to New York often on business and I managed three side trips to Manchester while she was alive. I therefore watched as my grandmother slowly but certainly lost her ability to recall or remember anything.
She was never in pain, they told me. Her doctor described her as "happily confused." When her friends there died, she either forgot about them quickly or never realized they'd passed. When her condition deteriorated, she never knew it.
On my first visit, she knew who I was and was so happy to see me. We sat out on that porch and watched the squirrels and it all seemed so restful and serene. Then I took her to dinner at a wonderful seafood restaurant I'd heard about. When I had to go, she hugged me and cried and said, "I'm afraid I'll never see you again." I assured her she would.
Two years later, she sort of knew who I was. Again, we sat on the porch for an hour or two but I didn't take her out this time. Instead, I talked with her nurses about things she needed there. A family friend had been visiting her once a week and making sure she had new clothes when needed, batteries for her radio, etc. I made a shopping list while I was there, drove over to a shopping center and got her new outfits and a new pillow and a lot of grandmother toys.
She was very happy with the gifts but at one point, she suddenly asked me to remind her who I was. That's when I knew things were getting bad in that department. Also, when I left, she did not hug me and cry and worry that she would never see me again.
The last time I visited her, she was 96. We sat on that great, wonderful porch and she could understand who I was and hold onto that information for about twenty seconds at a time. I'd say, slowly and distinctly, "I'm your grandson, Mark. I'm Dorothy's son. You are my grandmother. I'm your grandson, Mark."
It would register but not for long. She'd say "Mark" and I'd see her eyes fill and I'd hug her…
…and by the time I stopped hugging her, she'd say, "You're a nice young man. I wish I knew who you were." That one was a very short visit. And somehow, sitting out on that porch and watching the squirrels wasn't quite as tranquil.
A few months later at the age of 97, she passed in her sleep. No pain. No awareness she was dying. Not a bad way to go.
I called Brenda the Travel Agent and said, "My mother and I need to go to Hartford for her mother's funeral on Wednesday." I expected it to be beastly expensive since we were flying on such short notice but Brenda told me about Bereavement Fares.
Some airlines offer these and some do not. With those that do, you call up and say you need to go somewhere on short notice for a funeral and they give you something like 50% off on the full-price fare and maybe waive a lot of fees. Given that on the 'net, you can sometimes find a flight for less than 50% off the full fare, that may or may not be what you want. Also, you should know that some airlines, before they'll give you one of these discount fares, make you leap through a few hoops to verify that you really are flying back to attend a funeral of a loved one. I think we had to give them the name of the funeral home and they called it to verify.
Two days later, my mother and I got on a Continental Airlines flight to Cleveland where we would change planes and then head to Hartford. This was back in the days of in-flight meals and neither my mother nor I had eaten anything before we got on the first plane. The food was inedible so we were both hungry when we deplaned in Cleveland. We had a three-hour layover there so I went up to a nice lady at our departure gate and asked, "What's the best restaurant in the airport?"
She said, "Across from Gate D-10, there's a Burger King."
I said, "No, we've got a couple hours here. What's the best restaurant in the airport?"
She said, "Across from Gate D-10, there's a Burger King."
I said, "That's the best restaurant in the airport?"
She said, "That's the best restaurant in the city."
Every time I tell this story, I hear from folks who live in Cleveland telling me of superb places to dine. Hey, I'm just telling you what the lady at the Continental Airlines gate said. I hiked down to Gate D-10 and got myself a terrible burger. My mother decided to wait until we reached Hartford…then once we were on the second plane, regretted that decision. "When we get there," she said, "I'll need something to eat in a hurry."
When we got there, all the restaurants in the airport were closed. We got our luggage and I picked up the rental car, then I picked up my mother and our luggage, then we went to the hotel Brenda had picked out. It was a Holiday Inn near the airport and as we checked in at 10:05 PM, I said to the lady at the desk, "Please don't tell me that Room Service closed at ten."
She said, "It didn't. But only because we don't have Room Service."
I asked her where we could get something to eat and she mentioned a few Denny's-type places a mile or so away. By now, it was snowing and my mother was exhausted and not thrilled with the idea of getting back in the car and driving somewhere else. I asked the desk clerk lady if she knew of any place that delivered, even if it was just pizza. There was a sports bar just off the hotel lobby and she motioned to it and said, "I think they make pizzas in there."
I asked my mother, "Could you be happy with pizza from in there?"
She said, "By now, I'd be happy with a Burger King down by Gate D-10. Just, please, get me to my room and get me something to eat." So I got her to her room, tossed my suitcase in mine and headed for the sports bar in search of pizza.
Since I don't drink and don't avidly follow sports, a sports bar is an alien world for me. This one was festooned with photos, pennants, bobbleheads and autographed balls from every local team involved in any sport more competitive than a potato race. A number of older men were sitting around watching wall-mounted television sets tuned to different events, all sans audio. The working premise seemed to be to feign interest in The Game and hit on the young ladies who worked there.
Working the bar and waiting tables were three women who looked barely old enough to drink. Each was wearing a striped referee shirt complete with whistle, hot pants, high knee socks, athletic shoes and a baseball cap. Each greeted me cheerily and said, "Welcome back!" and then the one behind the bar asked me, "What'll you have?"
I replied, "The usual!"
Trying to place this face of mine that had never been there before, she said, "Uh, remind me. What's your pleasure?"
I was going to say Laurel and Hardy movies but instead, I told her "I'd like a pizza."
She said, "Pizza? We don't have pizzas here."
I said, "The lady at the hotel desk said you made pizzas here."
She said, "I don't think we make pizzas here." Then she turned to another girl and said, "Heidi, we don't make pizzas here, do we?" Heidi didn't think so. Then they asked Ellen and Ellen said, "There's a thing that says Pizza Hut on it in the back room."
A quick discussion ensued and it was decided that, yes, this sports bar did serve pizzas but only on the day shift. Why? Because no one had asked about them for months in the evening and the three ladies on duty just then had all been here less than ten weeks. "I guess we do make pizzas here," the first lady said. "But none of us knows how to do that."
Then Heidi said, "I'll bet Alice would know how to make one. She worked on the day shift for a long time." Alice was on her break and a few minutes later when she returned, she said, "Sure, I can make you a pizza. What would you like on it?"
She dug up a menu and as I studied it and tried to decide, she made a quick inventory of the back room, came back and said, "We're out of everything except pepperoni. But the good news is we have dough and cheese and sauce." I said, "I'll take one that's half dough and cheese and sauce, and half dough and cheese and sauce and pepperoni." She said it would take about twenty minutes and went back to perform the delicate operation. The first girl drew a long, tall beer from their tap, placed it in front of me and said, "Here…while you wait, this is on the house."
I said, "Thanks but I don't drink beer." If you want to see the look she gave me, just walk around and tell people you don't breathe oxygen.
I settled for a 7-Up and she said, "Well, have a seat. The game's on. Chargers versus Broncos." (I may be misremembering the names of the teams.)
I said, "Thanks but I don't follow football." Same reaction.
Having convinced this woman I was gay, I went over to a pay phone in the corner and called my answering machine back home. There was a call from my agent. There was a call from my business manager. There was a call from an editor. There was a call from the lady who was housesitting my home. And then there was this call from my friend Harvey…
"Hi, Evanier. I was in your neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance and see if you were home. But of course, you're not. You're probably out with some beautiful woman and a bunch of your show biz friends, going to a screening or a party or something. You lead such a thrilling, glamorous life."
I thought, in reply: "Yeah, Harvey. A glamorous life. Why, do you know the thrilling, glamorous thing I'm doing right now? I'm sitting in a damned sports bar in a Holiday Inn by the airport in Hartford, Connecticut watching it snow outside while a Barbie doll dressed as a basketball referee makes me a Pizza Hut pizza, and then tomorrow, I'm going to an old folks' home to clean out my grandmother's belongings. Life doesn't get much more exciting than that!"
Just then, Alice knocked on the booth to get my attention. She said, "I'm sorry. We don't have enough pepperoni to cover the half of the pizza you wanted pepperoni on. I was thinking, maybe I could chop up some of the olives we put in martinis and put them on the pizza. Would you like that?"
I turned back to the phone and, even though I wasn't actually talking to him, I said, "Hold on, Harvey. I was wrong. Life just got even more exciting!"
To be, as they say, continued…