Hilda Chazanovitz - The Understanding

 

 

My mother never wanted to go to the home. She'd lived in her apartment for almost 40 years, much of that time on her own. She was fiercely independent. Her third fall left her unconscious on the floor of her apartment. When EMT got there, they estimated she'd been there for eight hours. We took her to the hospital. She was there for four days and then released to the home for rehabilitation. I, of course, was thrilled. I was relieved. I knew she would be taken care of, that she would be safe. My mother was pissed. [audience laughter] She was angry. 

 

That Thursday evening in August when I arrived, she was more than angry. She was really agitated and upset. She lashed out at me, [in foreign language] She said, “Go to hell.” I was not offended. I was not hurt. I knew why she was so upset. Earlier that day, Dr. Chatterjee and nurse Ferguson had told my mother that she would need to change rooms. This must have been a huge blow for her, because instead of moving to a new room meant that she was going to be a more permanent resident in the home. Of course, she told the doctor and the nurse, “No, I'm not moving. I'm staying right here.” They tried to negotiate with her. They brought the rabbi in. None of that worked. I knew and tried to explain to them that when my mother said no, she meant no. Not maybe, nothing. No. 

 

I was feeling pretty desperate, because this room that was being proposed was on the long-term care floor. Those rooms don't come along very often. I'd been waiting about a month. So, I left my mother's room in despair and I started thinking about what had been happening with my mother over the last weeks. She'd refused medication. She'd refused physical therapy. She had begun hitting some of the aides and she bit the doctor the week before. I was assured by everyone that this was fairly routine in the home. This happened all the time. I accepted that. 

 

I, however, started flashing back on what I had experienced with my mother only days before. I was with her one day at lunchtime. Lunchtime meant room service, as she took most of her meals in her room. And Isaiah was clearing away the tray after lunch and he offered to make my mother a cup of tea. It was like her favorite thing after the meal. We're waiting, and my mother leans over and quietly says to me, “They're all Nazis.” And my heart sinks. This is not a casual reference for my mother. I catch a glimpse of the number on her left arm. The marker from Auschwitz that I had seen so many times before, but knew so little about. It was filled with secrets, tales that I never was able to hear. But my mother had lived with those secrets and the nightmare of what that number meant for almost 70 years now. 

 

Talking about Nazis became fairly routine over the days that had followed. So, I knew that I was in a real dilemma now and there was no forcing my mother. So, I decided to go look at the new room. I really had nothing else to do at that point. I didn't know what to say to my mother. I didn't know what to say to the home. They wouldn't force her to move. So, I went upstairs to look at the proposed room. The room was 745. My mother was in room 245. 

 

When I arrived at the room, I thought, it's the same room. How lucky could I be? Lucky why? I take stock of the room. It's a little different. The wallpaper is different. The paint is different. But my mother was legally blind. I'm immediately thinking about how I'm going to transform the room, so this room on seven could be my mother's room. I raced back down to the social work department and I call a meeting, which I'm known to do. [audience laughter] We hatched the plan to move my mother the very next morning without her knowing. Where I had the guts to even think about this? I have no idea, but I was desperate. 

 

So, that evening, as I often did when I was feeling desperate, I called Rosie. Rosie was my mother's aide. She had taken care of her for some time. Although she was my mother's caregiver, she was as much my caregiver and my confidant. Rosie and I worked out the details of the plan on the phone. The next morning, I arrive at the home very early. I meet with the staff on the second floor and on the seventh floor, I meet with maintenance, the social workers. And everything gets laid out. So, everyone is in on this mission to move my mother from one room to the other without her knowing. So, it's a secret to her. 

 

Rosie arrives several hours later and they have their usual routine of getting ready for the day lunch. Rosie was going to take my mother to the Garden. The Garden was this incredible oasis on the campus at 106th Street. I knew that I'd have a good three hours while Rosie and my mother spent time in the garden and I could make everything happen. 

 

As soon as Rosie wheeled my mother out of her room on two to go to the Garden, I sprang into action. And with the help of numerous staff members, aides, maintenance, everybody, we proceeded to make the switch. Furniture had to be switched out, all of my mother's personal belongings. She had accumulated quite a bit, I might add, in the last two months. Clothes, her personal effects, everything had to be brought up to seven. I remember going up and down the elevator, maybe seven or eight times. I forgot her spare teeth in the medicine cabinet. They were in a little pink container that was pretty memorable. I had to get a new toilet seat installed in the room. Everything really had to be just so, because my mother was blind. And in order for her to negotiate her way, it was very important that everything be familiar for her. 

 

With only about 45 minutes to spare, I realized I needed some help having the bed made up on seven, the new room. The bed had to be made just so. The way the sheets were folded, the pillows, etc. I enlisted Julia, who knew how to do that. Not everybody could do that and I certainly couldn't do it. So, together, we're making the bed. I'm taking a good look at the bed. I've got 30 minutes left to complete the mission. I realize it's the wrong bed. And I'm sweating. This is crucial. The handrails were wrong. The levers too lower and elevate the bed were wrong. 

 

I dial up maintenance. It's 03:30 Friday afternoon, and I asked them if they would consider moving the bed from two up to seven. My voice is cracking. And they didn't say no. I begged and they agreed to do it. About 10 or 15 minutes later, I'm now standing in the new room on seven. They've pulled out the bed in that room. It's in the hallway. But I'm now standing in 745, no bed. I've got about 15 minutes left before Rosie and my mom return. I'm barely breathing by this point, but sure enough, in a few minutes, I hear the freight elevator let out and the bed from the second-floor room is being brought up. It's already made, it's perfect. They wheel it in. We adjust the call button. We do everything so it's just, so I can breathe again. 

 

As I'm making the last-minute check, I can hear Rosie's voice. She and my mom are returning. They've come off the elevator and I hear them approaching the room. I decide to duck out, even though my mother probably wouldn't have seen me, she might have sensed my presence. She doesn't even know I'm in the building. I hide in the corridor and I wait. I'm hiding in the corridor where the laundry cart is. There's a dirty laundry cart. There's a clean laundry cart. There's the medicine tray that they've just set up to do the medication. 

 

I'm waiting there and waiting and listening. I hear Rosie and my mom talking. They enter the room and I hear no explosion. I hear just the normal chatter about what's for dinner or what my mother is going to wear that evening. I start breathing more normally now. I wait. Rosie comes out in about 20 minutes, and I take her arm and we walk to the elevator, silent. We're in the elevator and we're smiling at each other. We get down to the lobby and we're jumping up and down [audience laughter] for joy in disbelief. We're barely talking, but we didn't need to talk. 

 

Rosie goes home and I'm getting a stomachache, because I have to return the next day. It's Saturday and I am going up to see my mom. I bring the usual treats, mandatory, especially on the weekend. As I approach her room that Saturday, I'm wondering what I'm about to face, thinking that the slew of insults I had heard only earlier that week would be nothing compared to what I was about to face. I enter the room and my mother starts complaining about breakfast. It was cold again. And then, she's upset with me because I'm late, which I wasn't. And then, I proceed to present her with what I've brought. 

 

Even the babka from her favorite bakery is not to her liking. I'm sitting there thinking, wow, everything is normal here. [audience laughter] There's no mention of the room, there's no mention of anything. This is just like it would be if we had never talked about changing her room. Now I'm not cocky, so I'm just taking all of this in waiting. My mother was an incredibly clever woman, and I'm just wondering what's on going to happen. 

 

When I left that day, I really didn't know what to make of it all. But I did know this. In the weeks to come, I knew in my heart of hearts that my mother really knew that she had been moved. She never said anything. I never said anything. But for me, the beauty of it all was that for the first time that I can ever remember, my mother and I had a secret of our very own, one that we could share and one that we never spoke of. Thank you.