Mortal Steps on the Staircase

Service people aren’t allowed in my parent’s house. My father's afraid someone will report the hoard to an “authority.” In which case, I wish I could ask, “If you’re afraid someone will ‘report’ you, doesn’t that mean there’s something wrong? And, "If there’s something wrong, don’t you think it’s time to fix it?” But, “wrong” and “something” and “fix” are all subjective words, and I don’t have the energy for arguments that define those words. Instead I say nothing. I am a “child”, therefore, I am nothing. They are the “parents”, therefore, they are everything. The rigid dichotomy is suffocating and scary.

About 6 years ago my parent’s central air unit failed. It wouldn’t bother me to know that my elderly parents do without air, except my mother won’t allow my father to open any windows and she’s afraid of floor fans, believing wholeheartedly they will burn down her house. When their air conditioner failed and temperatures soared in the 90s outside, they sat huddled in their 80+ degree house with closed windows, hoping something would change but doing nothing to actively effect change. It wasn’t until the overflow pipe clogged and water backed up, leaking into the walls of the house, that my father decided to call for help. My mother’s hoard of clothing in the hallway soaked up much of the moisture, but my father recognized the very real potential for that moisture to become black mold. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called anyone and I likely wouldn’t have been wiser.

This year, as the country steeled against 90-100+ degree temps and high humidity for weeks on end, I feared for my parents and their fickle air conditioner. I called to ask how they were and delicately requested that they call me. I heard nothing. Not a peep for 6 weeks. Then, out of the blue, after phoning “one more time”, my mother responded, acting like she couldn’t understand why I called and pretending not to know 6 weeks passed. It wasn’t in conversation with my mother, but rather with my father, that I learned their air conditioner again backed up and that, while water streamed down their walls, they sat in a hot house during the highest temperatures on record and didn't call anyone for help. They seem oblivious to the dangers of their behavior and completely clueless when it comes to self-care. They would call it independent, claiming that because they called no one they are self-sufficient.

Equally disturbing were the years when--rather than have a clog in the kitchen sink repaired--my father carried each day's dishware to a utility sink in the basement. I visited him in 1992 and was told not to use the kitchen sink heavily because it was draining slowly. In 1994, when I visited again, my father was more sensitive to sink use and urged me not to “stress” that drain. By 1999 I was able to spend time regularly with my father; by then the sink was completely clogged. My father nursed the "slow draining" kitchen sink for 7 years with natural cleaners, futile attempts to snake the pipes on his own, and light use. When it clogged completely, rather than calling a repairperson, my father's solution was to buy a basin and carry his wash items to the basement. And, while it seemed strange to me, what was more disconcerting was his unsteady gait. I noticed the beginning of tremors and faulty footfalls. I recognized the early stages of Parkinson's Disease. I dared not say anything or give his tremors a name, else he'd have sloughed off my "diagnosis" as a "story" or--worse--not allowed me to visit with him anymore. For an additional 9 years, until 2009, I watched with dread as my father fumbled on the stairs, carrying a weight of dishes, cookware, and utensils in a basin. I feared the worst.

After my father started to show up with bruises on his arms and weak explanations of bumping things when he felt unsteady, due to tiredness, I took matters into my own hands. I called a doctor and set up an appointment for him to be seen for the first time in 20 years. Then, I called my own plumber and scheduled the kitchen sink for a reaming. Both were met with resistance.

My father didn’t want to go to the doctor because, in his mind, not knowing was better than knowing. And, not knowing meant… he would never have to admit that anything was wrong. Still he went. I was shocked. He was unhappy. I was ecstatic. The diagnosis? Parkinson’s Disease. In development from 1999 until 2009.

My mother didn’t want the plumber in the house because, in her mind, everything was fine the way it was. And, not having anyone in the house meant… never having to feel ashamed of the hoard. Still she relented. I was relieved. She was anxious. I was determined. The diagnosis? A full-on clog that only truck-mounted machinery and a heavy-duty auger could expel. In development from 1992 to 2009.

I can’t get back a sense of peace in knowing my parents are safe, and I can’t get back a sense of security in knowing they’ll tend to their own needs. I can’t get back something that never existed. While my mother was and is always too quick to tell me that I am the “child” and she is the “mummy”, that he is the “daddy,” and that they are "everything." But, my "mummy" should have called to schedule the doctor's appointment for my father... at least a decade ago. And, my "daddy" should have called to schedule the pipe reaming for the kitchen sink... nearly two decades ago. Instead, I am the "mummy" and the "daddy", 35 years their junior, with no real "power" to wield... as I am the "child" and I am "nothing." The rigid dichotomy will one day be the death of them… or the final demolition of me.