when a friend lets you down

+ why we seek the "good girl badge" + key lime pie

AI free zone

Bonjour-Bonjour,

If you’ve followed at all the history of my intractable mother falling apart and coming together differently, then you know about the before. You know about her dangerous home situation… the perils of tripping over curled area rugs and clothes strewn across the floor. The shock of a raccoon and skylight crashing into her kitchen through her rotting roof. The unclean sheets, fetid food in her refrigerator which sometimes made her ill. The stench of dog pee, heaps of dishes, and trash overflow in a house always heated to 78 degrees. The missed medications, absent bathing. And, the gas stove, on and leaking, her sudden transient leg paralysis. Her confusion, anger, and denial. Her illness.

You also may know that a handful of her friends regularly texted me to express worry and wonder—why had I done nothing? Other friends rarely visited because it was all too cracked. I engaged Adult Protective Services, her doctor, a social worker, and my mother roadblocked and raged at every suggestion of change. The Right to Folly, my diary of everything that happened, was born of her resistance.

Happily, one year later, my 86-year-old mother with dementia is safe and well cared for in assisted living. Even though she still insists that she does not need the assist and regularly threatens to buy a car, things are calm(er).

…

I recently had lunch with a family friend. This friend, whom I will call Sally, has known me for fifty years. Sally did not have the same worries for my mother as most of her friends. In fact, as I struggled to get my mother to a safe living situation, Sally let me know by her silence, that she did not approve.

At lunch, on a sunny patio surrounded by young families, clusters of old friends, surfers and burgers, we exchanged polite and avoidant conversation. Finally I said, “I think we should clear the air. I think you judged me when I was trying to help my mother.”

“I did,” she said. And then I began to tremble.

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Sally went on to say that she felt I was a bully, robbing my mother of her agency.

When a person is found on the floor of their home, in their own poop, with gas spewing from the stove, unable to stand, insisting everything is fine… agency flies out the window, no?

“I’ve accidentally left the gas on,” Sally told me.

Sally’s judgement was, I felt, unfair, I let her know. She, who visited my mother perhaps once a quarter for wine on the deck, a deck upon which you must carefully step or your foot might crash through rotting boards, had no idea what was under the hood of my mother’s life. Sally, whom I believed was also my friend, hadn’t bothered to speak with me about her concerns or ask after my distress and decisions. Two people were traumatized by the events surrounding my mother’s fall. My mother. And me.

At lunch, with Steve Wonder la, la, la, la-ing in the background, and an adorable puppy repeatedly spilling his water bowl at the table next to us, Sally let me know that I was “too efficient” in the crisis. What does that mean? My mother had 72 hours after post-acute care to find a place to live. I excavated stacks of unopened bills. Discovered the dark truth of her financial situation.

She. Had. Very. Little. Money.

I did not sleep. I tried to get a grip on cleaning out her home, preparing it to sell. Too efficient? Does that mean swiftly hiring a realtor, electrician, handy man, painter, gardener, carpet layer, and trash hauler, all in the service of selling her home so she could afford to live in safety and pay her bills?

“I even thought of moving her in with me,” Sally told me. She said this moments after telling me that she has two friends with dementia and she simply couldn’t handle both. She chose the other friend, who also doesn’t live with her, but with whom Sally regularly visits. I get it. My mother is difficult.

“My mother is still available,” I countered. “In fact, she mentioned yesterday that she might ask you if it’s okay.” She did. I wasn’t joking.

At this point, my body language shifted. I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms protectively over my chest and lowered the bill of my cap. Why did her opinion matter to me? That’s the question that troubles me now. Why am I always trying to get the good girl badge, seeking everyone’s approval when I know in my bones that the difficult decisions I made were absolutely the right ones. For my mother and for me.

Here’s the thing about dementia. Things are okay until they aren’t. Dealing with this disease is like being Indiana Jones, chased by the enormous boulder in Raiders of the Lost Ark. When the EMTs, by the sheer luck of a random visitor, were called to my mother’s home and found her on the floor with gas leaking—that was being run over by the boulder. When I was told on Friday afternoon she had to be out of Post Acute Care by Monday morning because insurance would no longer pay—that was being run over by a boulder. Selling her house, moving her to assisted living, canceling her credit cards, safeguarding her meagre savings, paying her taxes—that was just barely staying ahead of the boulder. I needed to do everything to stay ahead of the boulder.

I know all this. I am solid. Yet Sally’s judgement still stings.

Sally was my role model. When I was a teenager, I looked up to Sally. The type of woman who could walk into a thrift shop and find the linen pants, the Italian shoes, and rustic turquoise necklace, all for little cash and all with fabulous appeal. The type of woman who read literature I admired and liked to talk about it. Who cooked terrific and inspiring meals with fava beans and a can of tuna. Sally is funny and charming. She has energy to drive south to stroll near a reservoir, then drive north to go to an art gallery, then come home, drink wine, change her clothes, attend regional theater and rave about it all. Sally has a vibrant and gutsy laugh.

When I was a young woman and had my first short story published in a literary journal, I ran into Sally and her husband at our local bookstore. I held out the magazine with my name in the table of contents. My face gleamed; their faces gleamed right back at me. Sally asked me, “What does your mother think?” I told her the truth. My mother refuses to read it. I still can see Sally’s face, soften and grow tender with love and disappointment, “Oh, Ellen…” she said. I felt seen in that moment. As an only child with a single mother, I had no one with whom to conduct reality checks. Sally was my reality check. Her “Oh Ellen…” was a gift.

Sally did not ask to be my role model, nor my reality check, nor the mother I wished I’d had. Sally did not ask that I grant her opinions such weight. She did nothing wrong. In the very fraught days of trying to care for my rapidly diminishing mother, I missed Sally’s support, and to be fair, I didn’t ask for it. I read her silence and stayed away. In our conversation over lunch one year later, I still missed her support. Sally did apologize, yet she did not endorse my decisions. She told me that throughout the chaos she’d related to the person most like her—an older person whose life was shrinking. Sally did not consider the younger person, me. I understand. Sure I do. Of course I do. And I’m making a note to try my hardest not be a person who looks only through one lens. Life passages are terrifying for everyone involved.

I still wanted the good girl badge, yet I had to accept that Sally’s opinion of me is not my business. We hugged goodbye. Driving away I turned up the volume on my favorite scream-along-song, rolled down my windows and screamed along:

It felt good. I was able to set something down. Maybe Sally set something down as well. In this complicated and conflicted world one less thing to carry is a good thing.

…

My mother is happy enough in her assisted living. She asks me, “Did you pick this place out for me?” I tell her yes. “It’s great,” she says, without enthusiasm. She spends time rifling through papers on her desk, looking for non-existent bills. She fights offers of assistance in the shower. She sleeps and wakes and sleeps throughout the day.She falls and doesn’t put her hands out to catch herself. She ends up in the Emergency Department with staples in her head. “Thank you, so much, Natalie. Thank you for taking care of everything.” She points from wall to wall, at the family photos in her room, “Did you bring these? Did you find this place for me?” Yes, I tell her from the floor where I’m crawling around, picking up toothpicks and socks, moving an extension cord, avoiding watching her clack her teeth. I’m no angel. Her repeated questions, “I’ve been here one month right? When am I leaving?” make me batty. “Did you find this place? When am I leaving?”

Yes, I tell her, I did.

“It’s great.”

…

A few days later, I had lunch with another longtime family friend. This friend (I will call her Alice), has taken my mother to the doctor, to the emergency department, to see a movie and ordered the headsets so my mother can hear, taken her to lunch, to buy pants and books. Alice has also taken my calls. She fields my mother’s questions “What? Where are we going? What day is it? What?” with patience—to be sure, more patience than I have. Over avocado toast and mochas, Alice and I laughed and shook our heads. “Thank god she’s out of that house!”

After we said goodbye, Alice texted me, “Always in your corner.”

That’s how I want to show up for people I love. Certainly I am in my mother’s corner, often reluctantly, and even though it nearly breaks me. And, when she thanks me, when my mother reaches out to stroke my hair, I am her good girl and I’m surprised by how much that means to me.

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Because chaos and complicated friendships call for something tart and sweet:

Photo by Derick McKinney on Unsplash

Key Lime Pie

CRUST

• 1½ c graham cracker crumbs (from 12 full graham crackers)

• ¼ c packed light brown sugar

• 1 t kosher salt

• 6 T unsalted butter, melted and cooled

1. Heat oven to 325 degrees.

2. In a med bowl, mix all the ingredients until well combined. Spoon the mixture into a 9-inch pie plate and press with the bottom of a small measuring cup firmly against the bottom and sides. Strive for even thickness and to reach the lip of the pie plate

3. Bake for 15 minutes, until the color begins to deepen slightly. Cool completely.

FILLING

• 1 (14oz) can sweetened condensed milk

• 3 lg. egg yolks

• 1 T fresh finely grated lime zest

• ½ c lime juice (to best mimic the flavor of key lime, which is hard to find, use 1/3 c regular lime juice and add enough lemon juice to reach ½ c)

• ½ teaspoon kosher salt

**Please prepare this just 5 minutes before you plan on baking the pie. If you prepare too early and let it sit, the lime juice will curdle the mixture.

1. In a med bowl, whisk together the sweetened condensed milk, yolks, lime zest and salt. Add the lime juice and whisk until evenly combined and noticeably thicker, about 1 minute.

2. Pour the filling into the cooled crust and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until the curd is set at the edges and slightly jiggly in the middle. Transfer to a rack to cool completely at room temperature, about 1 hour, then cover and refrigerate for at least 3 hours and up to overnight.

CHANTILLY

• ¾ c heavy whipping cream

• 1 T confectioners’ sugar, and/or more to taste

• ¼ t kosher salt

• 1 or 2 limes, to zest for garnish

1. Prepare the chantilly just before serving. In a stand mixer, or in a large bowl using an electric mixer, beat the cream, sugar and salt on medium-high speed for about 2 minutes, or until you have stiff peaks.

2. Top the chilled pie with scoops of the chantilly. Scatter finely grated lime zest on top to garnish. Slice and serve.

3. Leftovers… never mind! If there is pie leftover, give it to the neighbors!

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So much bluster!

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If you missed the last few jewels… no fear! Here are a few everyone seemed to love: re: boobs. doors. funny sayings. a restorative concert. what surprised you?

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Tell your people you love them, and take care of your skin,

merci,