Will to Way, Wilt Away

Chapter 23

My mom anxiously welcomed me through the grand double doors into a place that was only faintly familiar. Two sets of identical travertine staircases hugged both sides of the entryway, though a closed wrought iron pet gate blocked off the top and bottom of both flights of stairs. Usually, the marble foyer table in the center of the entrance contained a bowl holding my parents' wallets and keys. Now it contained a packet of medication from Walgreens. I peered through the wide arched doorway straight ahead, which led into the kitchen and living room. The elegant balance of mahogany floors and ceiling beams, linen white walls, and vibrant pops of navy and amber furniture was interrupted by the strange addition of a wheelchair in the place of my dad's leather recliner.

"I made some adjustments recently," my mom commented to address my evident perplexity..

I didn't know which part of the house to question first, but I started with what I first noticed.

"What's with all of these?" I asked while pointing at one of the gates blocking off the stairways.

"Oh, right," my mom tensely walked over and clutched the gate. "Your father's been wandering around a lot recently. I want to make sure I know where he is at all times, so I put these gates up to contain him in certain parts of the house."

"I think Dad's capable of escaping a doggy gate."

"These ones lock actually, so he can't open them without my key."

I gave her a slow nod, silently and less offensively communicating to my mom that she was crazy. She longingly gazed at the gate as if it was the most sane decision she had ever made. My eyes moved to the medicine on the round foyer table, my mom's frantic steps following my glance.

"The doctor put him on some drugs to help control his symptoms. It's some kind of cholesterol inhibitor," she explained.

"Cholesterol?" I picked up the small white packet and skimmed through the label. "Did you mean cholinesterase inhibitor," I said while reading.

My mom grabbed her forehead in embarrassment, "Oh, shoot! Yes, that's what it is. Dopamine, I think, is what the doctor called it," she added, trying to redeem herself.

Reading the label, I corrected, "Donepezil." Though, my dad would clearly need a double dose of dopamine if my mom was going to be his caretaker.

"Yes, that's it! Doon-epe-zile," my mom struggled to sound out, even though I just said the name.

My mom wasn't the brightest of the bunch. After meeting my dad at a nightclub, she dropped out of college in San Diego to move into his condo in Sacramento. My dad was an economics major from Wharton, and as much as I loathed his constant boasting, he actually created a successful career for himself as a top real estate executive. My mom considered his success as her own, so she never saw the need to return to college or get a job of any kind, especially after my dad moved her into this opulent citadel right before they got married.

She was always destined to become a lady of the house. Although, dressed in her gray sweatpants and oversized Mickey Mouse tee, she didn't carry her usual Real Housewives aura at the moment. Instead, her disheveled appearance made her look like a new mom, juggling her sleep schedule with the care of a completely dependent human being, while also adjusting to the new reality of motherhood.

I took a few steps toward the living room, waiting for my mom to address the morbid wheelchair awkwardly stationed next to the fancy blue sectional.

She remained standing by the foyer table while explaining, "He doesn't need that quite yet. It's just so he can get used to it."

"Don't you think that's a bit depressing for him to see all the time?" I asked with unintentional concern in my voice. I never thought I would address my dad's well-being with dismay.