A Dead Fly on the Landing between the First and Second Floors at Elmcroft

by Tom Shafer

December 29, 2017

Most people think of retirement as a time to unwind, travel, and have fun.  Sure, it’s not all cake and ice cream (pick your own metaphor), but generally, retirement is thought to be the start of those “golden” years.  I retired after thirty years of teaching to take care of my mother who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few months earlier.  My father had just died after a five year battle with cancer, and the night before his passing, I assured him that he didn’t have to worry about Mom, that I would take the very best care of her.  So I bought a house near my ancestral home (to keep her in an area she already knew), built an in-law suite for her, and spent one full year caring for her.  Unfortunately, my mom was always trying to go home: at the beginning, to Fudge Drive in Beavercreek, Ohio, my ancestral home; then, Ripley, Ohio, her high school home in the early 1950s; then, Georgetown, Ohio, the home of her youth.  When she wasn’t asking about “going home,” she was trying somehow to get there.  My wife and I simply couldn’t guarantee her safety any longer, so we moved her into an assisted-living facility located very close to us.  What follows is a little journal entry I wrote early in 2016 — for myself really — perhaps to capture the reality of the first two years of my “golden” retirement.

In mid-October of 2015, I hesitantly moved my seventy-seven year old mother into an assisted-living facility near my new residence.  This is a woman who had lived in the same home for nearly sixty years, a home where she reared three challenging – for various reasons – children – and several dogs, gerbils and hermit crabs; a home she almost singly kept humming along smoothly while her husband performed his very important intelligence work for the Air Force and our country; a home in which she took care of (to her death) her own cancer-embattled mother; a home in which she watched my father retire, who promptly spent his every waking minute tagging along behind her, something she didn’t necessarily welcome and certainly wasn’t used to; a home that she helped with clean-up after two brushes with tornadoes, several big snowstorms, and assorted other natural (and some man/children-made) disasters; a home where she lovingly assisted and aided (to death) her husband’s five-year struggle and challenge with cancer; a home where she witnessed the collapse (and ultimate death) of her drug-challenged son; and, a home where she was diagnosed with the Alzheimer’s that brought me to this difficult decision.

Now, you are probably looking back at the title of this article, wondering, “Okay, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it.”  In my defense, I did have to provide some perspective and back-story for you to fully understand the importance of this dead fly.  I also needed to express just how difficult this move was.

I didn’t notice the fly right away.  My wife and I moved my mother into her new apartment on a dreary October Saturday.  Sometimes using the stairs, other times using the elevator, we slowly emptied the small UHaul of her clothing, furniture, and assorted nick-knacks.  On one of many trips up the stairs, I noticed a dead fly on the landing between floors one and two.  It was tucked closely to the stair, so there was little chance of stepping on it.  On each subsequent trip up the stairs, I looked for the dead fly and consciously avoided stepping on it – though actually, I would have had to go out of my way to step on it.  Ultimately, we finished the move, tried to get Mom acclimated as best as we could, walked her to her first dinner there, and made our way home – now wondering if we had done the right thing.

Things didn’t go well from the beginning.  Mom, with her little Chihuahua-mix dog (originally my brother’s) in tow, began exit-seeking.  She would hover near doorways and try to sneak out as unknowing visitors entered.  She would sit next to doors and try to learn the four-numbered code that protected the residents from potential escape.  And escape she did.  One afternoon during her first week there, she somehow gained freedom – with her little dog Cole and a few items bundled into some plastic Walmart bags.  The facility’s executive secretary saw her and with the assistance of other personnel, they were able to retrieve her and bring her back to the safety of her apartment.  One hasty phone call later, I quickly made my way there to calm my mother down.

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As I ascended the stairs, I noted the dead fly once again, leapt over it, and got to Mom’s room.  After some tears, explanations, and reassurances, I slowly made my way down the stairs, paused at the step where the fly resided, and questioned aloud rhetorically, “Did we do the right thing?”  As I was passing by the front desk, the secretary who had retrieved my mother stopped me and pulled me aside.  She theorized that my mother had learned the exit code and hatched a plan to escape to her hometown of Ripley, Ohio – a place she hadn’t lived in over sixty years.  Such is the cruel, nonsensical nature of Alzheimer’s.  Oh, and to top things off, the facility was now forced to change the exit code, one they had been successfully using for over two years.

Over the course of the next several weeks, Mom experienced many ups and downs, and through them all, my new fly friend unwaveringly greeted me.  It was there when Mom escaped again, and it was there on the two nights that Mom called 911, telling some unaware receptionist that she was being held against her will and that her husband was in the parking lot waiting for her.  It was there during good times too, like when Mom was surprised by her sister’s visit for Thanksgiving at Elmcroft (held one week before the actual Thanksgiving) and when she was busy with the many activities available to the residents there.  Fortunately, the stairs there are utilized very little – a few staff members, some visitors – so the dead fly’s location remained unchanged.  Occasionally, I actually asked it how it was doing, but most of the time I tacitly nodded at it or silently said hello.  The little dead fly had become a constant in my ever-changing universe.

Then, my father-in-law entered Elmcroft – in an upstairs room next door to my mother.  Early in 2015, we rescued him from a bad situation in Arkansas, and at first he was living in a facility thirty minutes southwest of where we reside.  It wasn’t necessarily convenient for us, but considering where he had been, we weren’t complaining.  However, because of some inconsistent treatment and other issues, it became apparent that another move was needed, and because we were pleased with how things were going with my mom, this decision was much easier to make.  Now, in late November, we were once again moving a parent, and once again the dead fly was witness to it.

Some time has passed and though not perfect, things have calmed down some.  My father-in-law loves the privacy of his new digs and is trying to get up to speed with social media – well, e-mailing anyway – which is still pretty cool considering he is just shy of ninety years old.  Mom is rapidly sliding away from us as her Alzheimer’s takes an increasingly firmer grip.  My little fly friend saw me carry my mom’s microwave home after she set the timer for some Boy Scout popcorn, then walked downstairs to join an activity in the dining room – oblivious to those excited kernels as they popped for more than an hour.  After the excitement of an unplanned alarm – and the fire department’s exit – I had to admit that the burnt popcorn smell was considerably better than the dog urine smell that had been permeating Mom’s suite for weeks.  This ultimately led to one of the saddest days we’ve experienced so far, taking Mom’s little dog away.  Though I get over to see Mom and my father-in-law five or six days a week, it was not enough to take care of Cole’s potty needs.  In spite of multiple steam cleanings to take the edge off the odor, her suite was becoming increasingly more difficult to enter – and somehow Mom was immune to it.  Mom was also frequently forgetting that Cole was with her, often telling visitors and fellow residents that her son – me – had taken him away.  So, as her neglect of the little fellow progressed, we decided it was time to place him with a family who could care for him in a much happier, healthier way.  Once again, the dead fly watched as Mom’s little friend was removed (while she was at her church’s bible study) – and while I systematically dragged all remnants and reminders of Cole down the stairs to my Jeep.

The dead fly has been unflappable, unchangeable.  It was there through a memorable Superbowl and after an unbelievable NCAA championship basketball game.  It was there through arguably the most interesting presidential election in our country’s short history, through growing foreign threats, through terror bombings in allied countries.  And it is still there today as I word-process this – though I did have a minor scare on my Mom’s birthday.  After taking her and my father-in-law out for a birthday lunch, I walked down the stairs and was stunned to see what I didn’t see – my little dead fly on the landing between the first and second floor!  It was obvious that someone had swept the stairs, something that hadn’t happened since my mom’s arrival there.  And don’t think badly of the Elmcroft staff.  This stairwell is used by so few people – most don’t even know it’s there.  But, as I looked more closely for my little friend, in a small crack between the rubber matting and the stair itself I spied a speck of something – it was the dead fly, now completely protected for time immemorial – or until someone runs an actual vacuum cleaner over it.  I was so happy to see that my fly friend had found a much safer home than its somewhat precarious existence before – which coincidentally is so true about my mom’s – and father-in-law’s – situation.

I suppose it seems odd that I would look forward to seeing this dead fly during my visits.  There might even be an interesting psychology or philosophy behind it – maybe this “constant in an ever-changing universe” theory.  But I don’t want to think of it that way.  For now, he (or she?) is just another family member I’m visiting at Elmcroft.  After sharing some of this story with a good friend recently, he asked if I had named the little guy, “You know, like Tom Hanks named that volleyball Wilson in that desert island movie.”  I curtly replied, “No. That would be weird!”  Secretly, though, a name might well be coming.  Any suggestions?

Postscript:  My mom passed away peacefully at Elmcroft on Sunday, February 18, 2018.  I was traveling in Florida the previous Tuesday when Hospice called to tell me that Elmcroft staff had found her unresponsive that morning.  Hospice kept me updated through the day and reported later that all symptoms had stabilized, so it was suggested that we wait to see what Wednesday brought.  Hospice had been involved in my mom’s care for over a year, and I trusted their judgement implicitly.  Wednesday’s news was much worse, so I cut my trip short and with the assistance of a fantastic Uber driver and sympathetic travel agents at American Airlines, I was able to make it to my mom’s bedside by 10 p.m. that evening.  I didn’t know it then, but I was just starting a long but wonderful vigil. 

During the days, friends and family (including my special needs sister Tracie) would stop by to spend time with mom and me — and occasionally they would stay into late evening.  At night, I kept watch with the angels from Hospice, listening to country and gospel music (mom’s favorites) and laughing and crying as we told stories about our remarkably similar worlds.  Mom nearly left us on Thursday, then Saturday, but her strong heart and desire to hear more music and stories kept her here. 

Finally, on Sunday, my aunt and I were looking through an album of black and white snapshots from mom’s youth, something she had put together decades ago.  With old time country music playing in the background, my aunt was recalling the names connected to the pictures and telling stories about them — and their relationships with my mom.  At some point as we were giggling at a picture of my very young dad and my even younger aunt, we both realized that mom was no longer breathing.  Though my mom had been unresponsive for several days, my aunt and I are convinced that the names of high school classmates, recollections of the early years of her marriage, and the soulful crooning of Charlie Pride convinced her that it was finally time to go.  In recent months, mom often talked about those times and finished many of our visits by asking me to take her home.  When I would ask her where home was, she would always reply, “Why, Free Soil Road — outside Georgetown.”  Georgetown, Ohio — a place she hadn’t lived since the 1950s.  Thankfully, after years of being ravaged by Alzheimer’s, she is home.

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