falling...

a diary of my mother's stubborn resistance to accept help

19 June 2025:

About a month ago Ellen fell. In her room. She was fine but not okay.

I received a call from the owner of her assisted living (whom I’m calling Mr. Rendo) telling me that she had fallen onto her face. She’d been given Ibuprofen and was resting in bed. Here is what I thought…

—Her room is small, she couldn’t have been walking fast, thus minimal impact.
—Why doesn’t she use her cane?
—Thank goodness she doesn’t live alone in her old home.

He put Ellen on the phone. Are you in any pain? I asked. May I send you a walker, I asked. No and NO. She sounded fine, said she wasn’t paying attention, she’d simply pivoted and lost her balance. I asked Mr. Rendo to please provide her with ice and he agreed, yes, of course. Honestly, the fall felt a bit like a nothing burger. She was not upset. He was not upset. This fall was not her first, and now, at least, she can’t hide her stumbles as she did when she lived alone. Now at least there are responsible people around to help her.

When I called a day later, Ellen did not pick up, not an unusual turn of events.

Two days later, I received a text from Ellen’s friend who’d come by to visit and was so horrified by the bruises and swelling on Ellen’s face she took her to the emergency department. Ellen and her friend spent the day in the waiting room, texting me updates.

—she’s fractured her cheekbone
—getting a CT scan
—a lot of blood work
—she needs surgery!
—oh wait, no. the surgeon says ice 4x a day will suffice

How the surgeon vacillated between surgery and ice 4x a day, I don’t understand. Her blood work, all good. The CT scan, fine. Ellen and her friend went back to the assisted living. I had a long call with her. She was tired and relieved and honestly, I think she felt good about the attention.

There is also something called touch starvation. I fear Ellen suffers with this, particularly now since she had to relinquish her beloved dog, Chula, when she moved to assisted living. She and Chula were cuddle partners. When our bodies suffer from skin hunger we become depressed, stressed, our cortisol rises, we feel anxiety. Even though the hospital visit involved poking and prodding, I think Ellen enjoyed the contact. She sounded serene and tired over the phone. Her only complaint was about the ice. It came in a ziplock bag, wasn’t comfy, she wanted gel packs. I suggested wrapping everything in a towel. The assisted living can’t keep track of which gel pack belongs to whom and so she’d have to make do.

All seemed well enough.

…

When I fell from my bike as a child I’d hop up. “I’m okay!” I’d say to myself. If I noticed a trickle of blood on my shin I’d totally lose it. Leaking blood sent me over the edge, running to sit on the toilet where my mother might dab mercurochrome and offer a bandaid. The attention was almost worth the fall.

Falling from a swing or the bars on the playground I remember the shock… a boulder on my chest, eyes wide to the blue-rinsed sky, unable to gasp, terrified. “You got the wind knocked out of you,” my mother would say. “Just breathe.”

As a toddler I fell into a pool. My mother hates this story. She was teaching a swim lesson in the shallow end when someone asked her, “Does your daughter know how to swim?” I was face down in the deep end—and oh, the colors, the wavy silver reflections, the blue bottom of the pool, the echoing quiet, the calm. Someone dove in. Someone resuscitated me.

…

We fall asleep. We fall in love. We have a falling-out with people we love. We fall apart. We fall into despair. We simply fall. Falling is losing control, even for a moment. We fall on a banana peel and everyone nervously laughs. Maybe we laugh because we’re are all terrified of the things that can happen, the echoing quiet, the calm. Broken bones, broken hearts, so much unwanted change…

When does falling become letting go? How do we shift from falling to leaping?

…

Day four or five after Ellen’s fall in her bedroom, I received a call from Mr. Rendo. It seems another friend had come to see Ellen and bring her a gel icepack. This friend was so shocked by the condition of Ellen’s face that she unloaded. She threatened to call the State Ombudsman, Adult Protective Services, she yelled at Mr. Rendo that it is his responsibility to call when a fall strikes above the neck! It is protocol.

On the phone Mr. Rendo calmly told me that Ellen was not fitting in, she was terse with the caregivers, and that after this blow-up from the friend, Ellen would have to move.

Dear Reader, the wind was knocked out of me.

Immediately I begin to placate Mr. Rendo. My husband frantically dialed new assisted living situations, searching farther afield than Ellen’s hometown because she is priced out where she lives. For an hour we gathered quotes, made appointments, cajoled, worried, wrung our hands.

I managed to calm Mr. Rendo. My husband found a few resources. Ellen was happy that she’d been taken to lunch and made a fuss over. The friend felt she’d done her due diligence. We were stressed and exhausted.

Two days later, another call. It seems that Ellen’s face was infected. Again I spoke to her and she said she was fine, in no pain. Mr. Rendo insisted that she needed tending and we certainly weren’t going to call any of her friends. Yes, I am grateful for her community. Yes, she and we are lucky. And, the chaotic fallout of the last few days still stung.

While my husband spoke with the urgent care nearest to her assisted living, setting them up for Ellen to arrive, asking them to pull up her records, explaining her diagnosis of dementia, I called Liftline and arranged an account. Liftline transports elders and those without financial resources to appointments, offering door to door service. The woman on the phone was lovely, expedited her account. I sent tax returns via email, all was well enough. We were set.

And then, Ellen refused to go.

Ultimately, Mrs. Rendo donned gloves to provide wound care and steri-strips. Ellen self-reports that she is fine. “I’m tired. I want to sleep. I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

I have to take that at face value. I pictured her, on her back, in her bed, as if she’d just dropped from the sky. She is not ready to leap, to float, to shed gravity. Everything is up to her.

…