Growing Up With Goldie

1992 - 2006

I am probably an accident, the youngest of four children, six years junior to the third. I was gestating anxiously during my mum’s first forty years and mostly unconscious of her for the next forty four. But then when she was eighty-four I became her primary life manager.  And then I grew up.

Goldie was born in Dabrowa a village in Poland in 1907. Pope John Paul II was also born in a village named Dabrowa. A different one I think. She was the youngest of seven children.

She came to Toronto as a teen aged economic migrant around 1925 preceded by an older brother and sister.  A fourth sibling survived the holocaust. That was my uncle Yitzhak who walked a well traveled road during World War Two, walking from Poland thru Russia to Shanghai and then by tramp freighter, I imagine, to Brooklyn after the war where I met him many times as a child.

My mother and father married in 1930 and had children in 1931, 1940 and 1942 before me in 1947. He was an economic migrant from the Ukraine in the 20s. His  career culminated with him buying a business in 1955 two years before he died. There are happy pictures in the albums from Florida, Arizona and cottage country from the 30s thru the 50s.

I think they both suffered years of punishing survivor guilt as many relatives left behind in the 20s died in the holocaust in the 40s. Goldie seemed sad a lot but I wasn't really paying attention or maybe I was, unconsciously.

In the 60s, after my siblings moved away, Goldie and I were like roommates first in Toronto and then in LA. We followed my sister, Sima, and brother, Avron, to California in 1963. They had migrated in 1961. In the 70s  and 80s my mom stayed in LA while I returned to Toronto to finish school, start my career, get married and have children.

As 1992 dawned my mother then 84 was living in a senior’s apartment at the north end of the Venice Beach boardwalk. While she didn't roller skate there were plenty of good activities for her within walking distance. All four children visited regularly so she was never outta touch for too long.

Goldie at 84 was a dead ringer for Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. Short. Slightly bent. Always with a shawl. And lucky for me I remember a beautiful smile.

She had a mild stroke in May. In short order the four of us with my mother's agreement determined she would soon move back to Toronto for the next lap.

Sima  who lived in San Jose was tagged with the responsibility to bring her back to Toronto. Avron who lived in Tucson disposed of the things Goldie couldn't bring.

She arrived June 2 which coincidentally was the day after my last day on my last job and the first day I started my self-employed life.

I think that's why I evolved into being Goldie’s primary care manager. I had more time. There was lots to do. My sister who lived in Toronto was still working and couldn't step in fully. It all sort of fell into place because I could schedule it.

At first there was lots to do which I relished. While bereft of initiative I do like to face a list of mild challenges. The obvious ones were getting a health card, finding a doctor and sourcing possible places to live.  Lots of phone calls. Some networking. A little intuition.

In spite of her stroke my mum was still relatively with it. Where ever she ended up she was going to be one of the brightest lights, substantially able to take care of herself.

Once she was settled into her first retirement residence, what I call a halfway house, I became the key contact; the person in touch with her actual care givers.

Over the next fourteen years I spent many hours supporting her gradually deteriorating life; many hours in hospital emergency wards when she called 911 with a scary pain; hours in meetings with nurses or doctors determining the best course of action; searching for her jewels when should couldn’t remember where she hid them; moving her to a nursing home when the time came, more hours devoted to making her moments better than they would have been had she been alone.

I didn't have to do all this. She was satisfactorily warehoused and could have lived with less time from a relative as many of her roommates did. Parenting your parents, sooner or later, is tough work. Luckily I had the right temperament.

I tried to act as if I was parenting a precious and needy toddler who made lots of mistakes and was forgetful sometimes.

Others, I think, feel like they're parenting a rebellious teenager. That's not  pleasant and is much harder.

For the first time in my life I, on my  own, made a difference. The vacuum was there for me to occupy. I stepped in and no one jostled me for leadership. That was something I had never experienced before. Not at school. Not in sports. Not at work. Not in my marriage.

And people noticed my success and commented.  That felt good.

So what happened I think was that my backbone was exposed and my backbone stood up to carry the day.

And that is why I credit those years taking care of Goldie as the time that I grew up.