Chapter 5

One Suicide, One Death, and a Crapload of Chicken Soup.

With nearly 80 years of practice under her belt and excellent role models like my grandmother and my aunt, Jean is well-practiced in managing stress through denial by the time 2008 rolls around. She has honed her craft to an art form. When she is stressed, she cooks.

Although she is now officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Jean tells people who will listen she’s as healthy as a horse, and takes only a half aspirin daily. This is true only because she has tossed out any scripts given to her by Dr. Davis that appeared to be related to dementia or Alzheimer’s. She is handling it, she says to me, because she doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. There is a lot of homemade chicken soup in the freezer.

Total denial is a young person’s game, however, and she is no longer in her 30’s. The passage of time has limited her ability to use sheer will -- physically or emotionally – to change her life situation. She cannot simply move away from pending death. She cannot change her name and cheat Alzheimer’s. She can no longer hide her inabilities to physically handle her third husband’s condition by quietly calling the fire department and asking them to come over and assist her.

There are just too many balls to juggle for her to deny something has to be done. While she is not ready – and never will be – to give in on herself, John’s care she seems ready to concede. A constant indoor temperature of 85 degrees, and the jarring loneliness of being in services to someone who can no longer speak, or move, or show his appreciation, is taking its toll.

By the end of 2007, her diagnosis is confirmed, be several doctors, but she has not mentioned anything to her friends. She even insists I have misheard the doctors, all of them. She does not have Alzheimer’s. She is simply a little stressed out. More soup.

“You would forget where your keys were too, if you had to care for a man who you had to feed through a tube!” she snaps, whenever we gently suggest her forgetful moments may be signs that she needs he own medication. “By the way, do you want some chicken soup or maybe some split pea? I made a whole batchful.”

For the record, my mom made really really great soup. Her bean soups would always start with a base of onions and garlic. Onions and garlic do not cook at the same rate, so she taught me either to sauté the garlic in oil and remove the pieces before adding the onions, or to add the garlic about halfway through the onion-saute. She omitted the garlic from chicken soup, because, she said, chicken soup should be comforting and easy. The sweetness of the chicken would be overshadowed by the garlic and overwhelming to the palate. Onions yes. Garlic no.

“It’s the details that distinguish good food from great food,” she’d say. “If you don’t have time for the details, then you may as well just make brownies.” She hated brownies. To her, they were the epitome of laziness.

“Any asshole can serve a gooey bunch of chocolate and make it taste good.” She was a creature of detail and brownies required no nuance at all. It was chocolate, egg, butter, and flour in some combination, and no matter the ratio, no one could tell the difference.

Soup, on the other hand, could be made sublime with just the proper attention to detail. In her later years, however, nuance had given way to convenience, and her soups tasted no better than the garbage that comes in the can. She used store-bought chicken base, and she never took the time to skim the chicken scum from the top when she did use a real carcass. The broth was cloudy and unappetizing. But there was a time when its clarity in appearance was surpassed only by its clarity of flavor.

Soup did tell me one thing: the more she made, the more stressed she was. In late 2007, her freezer was full.

“Mom, I think maybe you’re stressed because it’s all too much for your right now.”

“You seem to forget,” she replied, “I’ve weathered a lot of death. Your dad, your brother, your grandmother. I’m fine. It’s just stress, god dammit! Just like when your brother died. I’ll be fine once this is all over, just like I was when Scott died.” She is referring to her memory lapses.

My brother Scott died in 1990. I never called him my step-brother. I was young enough and in our own way we were close enough, that he was blood to me. Scott was found dead in his apartment, a dirty and dark black hole of a place in Tam Valley. When they found him the place strewn with the trappings of a drug addict. An autopsy proved he had lethal levels of heroin and alcohol in his system.

Depending upon whom you ask, he either died of an accidental overdose, or he committed suicide. My mom opined that either way, he wanted to die.

“What difference does it make?” said my mother, in response to my question about why he killed himself. “Is knowing going to change the way you live your life? If not, it’s irrelevant.” It didn’t much matter why; he chose not to get help, so there was no real value in exploring whether there were reasons behind it. He was dead and that was that.

Scott was the only one in our family to ever face our twisted reality with truth, but since he was no longer around to tell me what really happened, that truth died with him, though the pain did not. Each of us kids was left with a basement full of shit through which to plow.

My mom threw together a memorial service my sister didn’t attend. By 1990, if no one was going to give her money (and her brother’s funeral was surely not the place to ask), then she didn’t have much use for the family. We held the service in a beautiful Redwood Grove. After that, Jean didn’t talk about Scott. There were a couple of weeks where she lost her BART ticket a lot and mislocated her keys, the only indication she was anything but in control that year. She spent $200 replacing her keys over a 3 month period. And $175.00 on a new chest freezer.

Scott’s death – now 18 years in the rear view – does not appear to alter her self-perspective; the forgetfulness, the temper flares, the lost items, it’s all just a little stress. A batch of her famous brownies should do the trick.

2008 is going to be better. I stop by the first of the new year, after two weeks in Mexico with my in-laws. Prior to heading out of town, I had noticed a rapid decline in John’s condition coupled with an increased level of vitriol toward me from my mother. She was – she would tell me – sick and tired of me trying to get her help from stupid people who didn’t deserve to be paid for the fuck-all they did.

For the last year, the strain on our relationship has been pronounced. Although we had gotten along well in the years that followed high school, I knew this was largely because I could orchestrate the settings in which we interacted. We were happiest together discussing menus, holiday feasts, party planning, and travel. I had learned to appreciate her fierce desire to see me succeed and the sacrifices she made to make sure that happened. She was proud of me, my family, my son. Digging into feelings and weaknesses and the reality of death was not for Jean, and my consistent if not constant nudging toward these uncomfortable subjects was stressful for both of us. I decided to leave for the holidays, for the benefit of both of us. Perhaps 2008 I would try a different tack: support. The deceitful, underhanded, and secret kind that always seemed to work for my family.

New tan and my resolve intact, I ring and knock on her door. There is no answer. I cannot imagine Jean leaving John alone, so I ring again. At the very least, there would have to be a caregiver there for Jean to leave to run an errand. I peek through the mail slot and confirm the car is still there. I tap on the window glass at the front door. I ring again. Then I realize I have a key. Just as I put my key in the lock, I see shadows of my mom’s silhouette through the hallway glass coming to the door. It takes a good 3 minutes for her to answer the door.

“Mom? Are you alright?”

Jean, normally well groomed and smartly dressed, answers the door in an oversized, dirty t-shirt without a bra. Her hair is unkempt, she has only underpants on. Her face is gaunt and grey, her gaze is lifeless, but she manages a weak smile. I give her a hug and a kiss. She has not showered in some time.

“Hi honey,” she says. “I hope you had a great time in Mexico. Happy New Year.”

“Hi Mom. Happy New Year to you. You really don’t look so hot. Are you ill? Is everything OK? Where’s John?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says, though it is clear she is not. “Come on in. John’s in the bedroom.” The stifling heat of the house has contributed to the staleness in the air and the place smells of rotting food and body odor. This is highly unusual for a woman who used to add bleach to the soapy water we used.

Notwithstanding my concern for her welfare, I cannot abide sitting with her when she smells this bad. I don’t want to tell her she stinks; this will only result in an angry response and a return to the strained relationship we had before I left for Mexico.

“It looks like you could use a break, Mom. Can I sit with John while you take a shower? You look like you haven’t had one today.”

“Yes, oh yes!” she says, hugging me again. It is the closest I have ever seen to her falling apart. She seems unable even to find a towel.

I lead her to the shower and go back to say hello to John, who is sitting up in his recliner, watching CNN. He cannot smile any more, but I know he recognizes me. He makes a barely audible sound, one that I have come to recognize as a “hello” of sorts. I squeeze his hand and kiss him on the cheek. Jean has not shaved him. Although she had one of the bathrooms retrofitted with a walk-in sit-down shower, she can no longer maneuver him to it. For the first time since I’ve known him, he has a beard.

“Happy New Year, John,” I say. He squeezes my hand. “How are you?” I ask. He makes another low noise. I can’t offer to get him a cup of tea, or something to eat. He doesn’t eat by mouth any longer. So I sit with him and watch CNN while Jean is taking a shower, and take note of her surroundings.

There is a handwritten list of medicines and the times they should be taken for John on the dresser, in Jean’s meticulous handwriting. There are hand-markings on it which seem to indicate either that she has forgotten to give him medicine and so has time-shifted the entire list; or that she has changed his schedule altogether (I suspect it is a little bit of both). Underneath are prior iterations of the schedule, including notes of phone calls to medical professionals and their recommendations.

Amid her jewelry boxes and ring holders are pill cutters, and pill grinders and cups with bits of liquid in them that have yet to be taken to the kitchen for washing. The rest of the house is spotless, but the bedroom is wanting for dusting and cleaning. I surmise the housekeeper has been coming to clean the house, but has been directed to leave John and the bedroom alone.

While Jean is in the shower and out of earshot, I lob a call in to the caregiver next door to see how things are going. After having chased away Sina, we have a deal to pay the caregiver next door to make a twice daily visit.

“Oh, he needs to be in a full-time care facility,” says the caregiver. “I do what I can when I’m there, but he needs to be cared for with greater attention. ‘Course, you know your mother. Thinks she can do it all, and kicks us out when we try to do more.”

“I know,” I say. “So, you think it’s time?”

“Oh, it’s well past time, if you ask me,” she says. “if it doesn’t happen soon, they’re going to take him away, anyway.” She is referring to Adult Protective Services. This troubles me. I know Jean wants the best for John, which is the reason she believes only doctoral candidates can truly care for him. It is her love for him creating the willful blindness that may be hurting him. She would never forgive herself if APS removed him from her home.

After Jean’s shower, we sit down together over tea, and I tell her I have spoken with the caregiver next door.

“Mom, John now requires full time care. I love you, but you just cannot handle his needs any longer.” I try to manage a smile, but my face is trembling. I cannot believe the emotion this is stirring in me. I am certainly not my mother’s daughter in this way – she would have done this with nary a tear, but I’m in it now, so I keep going. I tell her that if he doesn’t go to a “sniff” (skilled nursing facility), then perhaps a small home where a family can care for him.

“Let’s call John’s kids and tell them to come down. I’ll line up some places for us to visit.” I tell her this, knowing she will argue, yell, scream. I brace myself. One does not approach Jean with bad news without steeling oneself for the backlash.

“OK,” she says, sighing just a little. There is no protest. Things must be worse than they look. I wonder how hard it must have been on her for her to give in to this idea so easily. Up to this point, I have allowed Jean to convince me she and they are fine. There are days, even, when I think perhaps her doctors got it wrong. But there is no hunt in this dog today. Things must be very very bad. We call John’s sons. One agrees to come out and help look for places.

The next couple of weeks is spent calling places that might be appropriate for John, securing pricing information and brochures, and organizing visits so John’s son and Jean can tour the facilities. Although money is certainly a consideration because John has given up his pension to his ex-wife, Jean has saved enough for the both of them, so every form of facility is on the table. When John’s son and daughter-in-law arrive, we spend the day visiting facilities.

It is an awful process, going from one place to another. To make matters worse, there is a January heat wave. We learn quickly which places have air conditioning.

We meet a gentle and kind Filipino family that has opened their home in Pinole to care for the elderly. They charge almost nothing, but are willing to care for John. The place is Filipino-clean, which is to say spotless. The residents (there are 4) all speak highly of the family and their care. No one has bed sores. Everyone is happy and well fed.

These people are not the PhDs Jean has in her mind should be caring for John, but they are gracious and loving. Frankly, her expectations in this regard are unrealistic. The caregivers acknowledge their home could use a coat of paint and happily accept our offer to re-carpet the whole place should we choose to come there (which, for the money they charge, is still a bargain). The floors need retiling, too, and we offer to do that. There are few books on the shelves and those that are there do not impress Jean. The residents spend a great deal of their time watching television. Although the couple offer to read to John every day, their accent is heavy and Jean worries that John will not be able to understand the words. Jean says “no.” We move on.

The sniffs we visit are expensive and impersonal. With the heat wave in full swing, one can easily make out a distinct urine smell in some of them, despite efforts to cloak it with heavily perfumed disinfectants. Other facilities are spotless, but far too clinical. Some have residents lining the hallways, chin-to-chest, with no attention being given to them. They are holding tanks, purgatories for people doing nothing more than just waiting to die; my own worst nightmare I say “no.”

We land on a place that seems to be doing its best to create community and a healthy living (and dying) space for its residents. The seniors are well cared for and there is an acknowledgement by the staff that it’s OK to die, it’s comfort and not longevity that matters. There is no rehab equipment. The clarity of this message is jarring to John’s son.

We watch as residents spend time in the quiet and sheltered gardens with caregivers who seem attentive. There are nice places to sit and do nothing, and nice places to hear guest readers. They tell us John will have 24-hour nurse care. Jean can visit any time, they say. She can even stay overnight. I hear music playing. The dining room has cloth napkins and fresh flowers. The director tells us we can put up as much art as we want. In fact, the only thing we cannot do is put down carpeting. John’s room will be ours to create as we see fit.

“I can’t do it,” says his son in tears. “You make the decision.”

We are back in my office, reviewing the notes we’ve taken on each facility. The day has been too much for everyone. John’s son is the first to crack.. I turn to mom. She holds it together and reluctantly selects the highly-rated place in Berkeley; the one that allows her to stay overnight. It is also the most expensive. The unpleasant work of choosing John’s final home completed, John’s son and daughter-in-law go home.

I spend the following week pulling together the appropriate paperwork, sending over medical records, meeting with the staff at the new facility, getting things ready. Two days before he is to be transferred, my mother breaks down completely. It is the first time in my life I’ve seen her cry.

“I can’t do it,” she tells me through her tears. “I just cannot let him go.”

I expected this. I am ready to be firm, to tell her she has no choice. I’ve got the words stored and have even rehearsed them in the mirror, as my mother taught me.

But I cannot say no to her. She is so depleted, so utterly terrified that the love of her life is leaving her.

“OK,” I say. “We’ll figure something out.” I call the facility and lie to them about why we are not moving in. I say John has died. It is the only way for Jean to get her $10,000.00 deposit back. I cannot bring myself to call John’s son, to tell him all that work was for nothing. I go back to the drawing board.

At the end of January, and despite the protests of some of John’s more vocal friends who swear we are acting prematurely, we start hospice care in the house. One friend is particularly abusive to Jean, touting her hospice board membership as credentials. Jean becomes worried she has signed John’s death warrant too early and suggests we look at treatments. This time, I really do put my foot down.

“If Margaret wants to push this, mom, she’s going to have to go through me.” To make sure Jean does not try to override me, I tell the hospice coordinator she has Alzheimer’s and cannot make decisions independent of my input. She is the first person outside the family to know.

Jean hates the caregivers, all of whom she believes are beneath her and her brilliant husband. They live out their shifts doing the most awful kind of work: cleaning up after his incontinence all the while saying soothing things to their charge. They wipe his forehead with pleasure, and adjust his pillows to make him comfortable. They endure Jean’s abusive comments about their intelligence in silence, having been through it timeless times.

“I hate them all,” Jean says, just a little too loudly. “They are a stupid.”

14 days later, on February 8th, John dies. Jean does not tell me. I have left for a law conference in British Columbia, and she does not want to disturb me. True to form, she tells the next door neighbor, “What will it change? She will find out soon enough.”

The neighbor thinks better of this strategy, and calls us in Whistler. We immediately have the body removed, send for Jean to fly up and stay with us at the Fairmont. She does not say no.

“My life is over,” she tells me when she steps off the chartered bus to Whistler. That day, something leaves her. I wish I had a bowl of soup to give her.

Here is Jean’s recipe for chicken soup. If you like chicken soup, you will love this soup. If you don’t like chicken soup, you may wish to try the technique for making it, anyway. Jean’s recipe calls for making a raft. A food raft, as the name suggests, is a device that sits atop liquid and attracts non-liquid elements to it. It is a good technique to learn even if you don’t like chicken soup, as it can be used for any broth, including beef broth, vegetable broth and seafood broth. It takes an extra 10 minutes, but it’s worth the trouble. Here is her soup recipe.

One more word about Jean’s chicken soup. My mother’s theory about soups is the best ones begin with perfect broth, but with chicken soup, the best soup is the broth, with a few vegetables added to it after the broth is made. There should not be a lot of seasoning, or additives to really good chicken broth, nor should any stray flavors be covered by the addition of extra starches, like rice; the broth should stand on its own. Her recipe was all about making broth. Saute a whole onion in some olive oil until the onion is transparent. Your temperature should be low enough that the onion does not get brown on the edges. Add a chicken carcass from dinner the night before. There will likely be some chicken on it, close to the bone. Add enough water than the chicken carcass is 3/4th covered. Then, using a mallet or your hand, crush the carcass so that it is submerged under the water. Toss in a tablespoon of brown sugar and a pinch of salt.

Into a coffee filter, put a large handful of parsley, some coarsely chopped carrot, and some fresh dill. Twist it closed or use a twist-tie to secure it. Drop in the water and bring to a simmer, skimming off the foamy chicken crud as it rises. Simmer the whole batch for about 2 hours covered. Remove the baggie and discard it.

Then cook the shit out of it, like for 4 hours, always on a low simmer. You will end up with a yellow, possibly cloudy liquid mass. If you are not patient or not attentive, and you end up boiling it – rather than simmering it – then your liquid will be really cloudy. Through a fine mesh strainer (like a chinoise), strain the liquid, discard the collected pieces, and pour it back into the pot. Bring it back to a simmer.

Now, here is the really cool thing, the little detail that will make your soup perfect. It’s called rafting, and sometimes “date on a dime,” because if you have rafted correctly, your soup will be so clear you’ll be able to see the date on a dime through a gallon of broth.

Beat 2-3 egg whites to stiff, but not dry peaks. Stir the simmering soup in one direction to make a circular vortex, then slide the eggwhites into the soup. The tiny pieces too fine to be held by the strainer will be attracted to the eggwhite. Once the eggwhite is cooked, remove the egg mass and discard it. You will have a perfect and clear broth.

You can refrigerate the soup and remove the fat the next day from the top for another purpose, or you can let the fat remain. Saute two chicken breasts in olive oil, salt and pepper, and slice on the diagonal. Simmer a couple stalks of celery chopped; and a carrot, peeled, and sliced on the diagonal, for about 10 minutes, and drain. Add the chicken and vegetables to the heated broth and serve

If you are feeding children, add some cooked corkscrew pasta. Garnish with tarragon. Serve when you are stressed.