Before leaving Montreal for a desert drive to Toronto, we stopped by a Jean Coutu to fill Pam’s rehab hospital prescription (refer backstory: https://carolinmparadis.com/2024/03/17/desert-luck/). The diversion to a pharmacy was the dawning of my worst fear. Surly and cowering in the van’s back seat, Pam refused to go with Dorothée into the pharmacy. Without a power of attorney, we had no authority to get her medication. I was certain the prescribed pills were for anxiety. If I wasn’t driving, about now I could have used a double dose.
Desert Distress
For the umpteenth time throughout our desert drive, Dorothée turned in the passenger seat, attempting to console Pam huddled in the back.
“She is the real Carolin, Aunty Pam. Not an imposter. We are taking you to see Betty in Toronto. You remember your friend, Betty? She is Carolin’s mum. And we are not trying to steal your money.”
Dorothée thought Pam’s world would right itself once in the company of her old and dear friend, Betty. They belonged to that ancient sorority of British nurses, a group of five that had emigrated together in the mid-1950’s from England to Canada. The friendships had survived moves and marriages; held fast over the decades into old age. Of the group, only Betty and Pam remained.
At first, when Pam declared I was an imposter, I stifled a laugh. With the sixth repetition, I was now smiling through gritted teeth. After spending the last six weeks in a convalescence hospital preceded by a hospital emergency department visit in January after a fall, at the very least, Pam didn’t have any money in her purse. And we still had hours to drive before reaching Toronto.
Desert Reunion
As suspected, Pam’s world did not autocorrect when reunited with her oldest friend. After a long desert drive, the warm welcome from my mother did little to melt her mistrust.
“Pam, it’s me, Betty,” my mother gently encouraged as we entered Mum’s house. If unencumbered with her cane, I sensed she would have liked to reach out and embrace her old friend. But maybe it was Pam’s expression that arrested her intention.
Pam remained suspicious and tense, glowering as she sat later at the kitchen table eating dinner. For such a petite and fragile woman, we marveled at her robust appetite. At least, she could not accuse us of not feeding her properly.
My brother arrived that evening. The plan was for him and Dorothée to travel home with Pam the next day, an hour’s drive north of the city. She would stay with them for the week leading up to Pam’s move to the retirement home the following Monday.
That night, I gratefully returned to my family and soft bed. A tense two weeks sleeping on an air mattress in Pam’s living room hadn’t promoted quality sleep.
“God, you are so good. The best. I love you and thank you,” was the last coherent thought muttered before melting into memory foam and snuggling next to my husband. At last, safely home.
Next day’s goal was to secure an immediate appointment with a lawyer to get Pam’s power of attorney sorted. My cousin Sue was coordinating with the retirement home. They had informed her of the requirement for powers of attorney for health and property. We had a week to organize before Pam’s move to the residence. It was Friday. I left voice messages with several lawyers pleading for an urgent Monday appointment.
But we never made it to Monday before everything fell apart.
Desert Imposters
I returned to Mum’s house on Friday afternoon. Sue had already arrived, ready to discuss plans for Pam’s move into Humber Heights.
Dorothée was tired from tending to Pam. They had spent a restless night. Dorothée with one ear tuned to Pam’s movements in the next bedroom. Pam restlessly packing and unpacking her suitcase. Her agitation had not eased at bedtime. Later, we discovered an assortment of keys hidden in various places. But the biggest concern was Pam wandering at night in a house strange to her. Falling was a risk. Daylight did not improve Pam’s paranoia. She was just as surly and suspicious the next day while Dorothée persevered in convincing Pam of our family’s legitimacy.
“Oh, yes. You look like them, but you’re not. You are all imposters,” was Pam’s retort to Dorothée’s insistence that Betty was Betty, Carolin was Carolin, Susan was Susan, and we were all who we said we were.
My insides gnawed again, worry sucking at my newfound energy from a good night’s sleep. Pam’s condition was not improving. Would a lawyer even receive Pam in her current paranoid state? If she trusted no one, who would she appoint as her power of attorney? If she couldn’t help herself, what were we to do?
And it got worse.
Desert Drama
Mum and I had been chatting in the living room. Returning to the kitchen for more tea, I landed in the middle of a heated exchange between Sue and Dorothée. It was like waking into a vortex, unexpectedly caught and spun, momentarily stunned by the impact.
“Well, I’m done and I’m leaving. This is on you now,” was the gist of Dorothée’s retort to Susan.
Susan had said something to Dorothée about how she could help Pam to get settled in her new place, but she couldn’t take Pam into her small apartment. That didn’t sound right to me. I couldn’t figure out what was happening. The agreed-to plan was for Pam to stay with Dorothée and my brother in the week leading up to her move into the retirement home. I was to arrange a lawyer’s meeting and help Sue with the intake paperwork at the residence.
I understood Dorothée was tired and discouraged with ministering to Pam’s needs. Maybe she had hoped with enough love and care, Pam’s condition would have improved. Two stressful weeks had taken a toll. But I was shocked Dorothée would leave without taking Pam as planned. The kitchen vortex spun again, leaving me dizzy and dis-oriented. There I was, in my mother’s house, with a psychologically agitated nonagenarian suddenly fully in my inexpert care.
Desert Disappearance
Dorothée and my brother left a half hour later.
From the start of our mission to help Pam, Sue had been honest about how she could help. Housing Pam in her small apartment was not what she had volunteered. Nor had I. Neither of us had a medical background or even bedroom space in our homes. We had been relying on Dorothée’s retired status as a physician’s assistant, her commitment, and a large house with spare bedrooms. I didn’t understand why she had suddenly abandoned the plan without further discussion. Clearly, her stress was greater than I had discerned. Perhaps the prospect of being sandwiched between her troubled husband and paranoid Pam was more than she could bear.
I wasn’t retired. With my family to care for, helping my aged mother, and running a small business, I had a lot to return to after a two-week absence. In earlier days, I’d always said to Pam that I would help if I could. If I couldn’t, I would tell her. But Pam was in no state to discuss her situation or to help herself.
Even temporarily, neither Sue nor I had the means, space, or expertise to fill the role of personal care support within our homes. Our desert drive had veered off course and I had lost direction. I didn’t know what to do.
To be continued…