OK, here we go.
The original old Victorian was a house of great beauty. It was built atop a hill with stunning views of Narragansett Bay. A wrap-around porch was accessible from any point, so you could easily sieze your mallet and play a round of croquet on the perfect expanse of flat lawn. Below that there was a dip downhill, and a large, flat, natural field full of fragrant hay and wildflowers and baby rabbits. At the bottom of the field - and surrounding the whole property - was the original stone wall, partly hidden by striking tiger lilies and sweet-smelling rose bushes. Wooden steps had been built so we could walk down the hill, hop over the wall, then casually cross the neighbor's yard to reach the ocean - and the neighbors down the hill could climb over the wall, then walk up past our house on their way to Church on Sundays. When my Aunt Georgina was alive, she kept a big glass jar of hard candies on her desk, and on Sundays she would give one piece to every child in the neighborhood who knocked on her door.
The next phase of the house's life is depressing. When my parents decided to move in permanently, they made a number of changes that stunned the neighborhood. They chopped off the cupola; added flat decks on the second floor, with cheap plywood sides painted white; tore the porch off the side of the house and stuck on a modern kitchen; added hideous, cheap sliding glass doors to the front porch; and covered the whole house with vinyl siding so they would no longer have to pay to periodically paint the original seasoned white clapboard. Where formerly we could run from the street clear down to the field, they built a raised covered portico that attached the house to the garage. It was partly enclosed, completely hid the front door from view, and smelled terribly of mold.
Before long my parents decided to do what all their friends were doing. Without thinking ahead, they moved into a fancy retirement place in Connecticut for rich WASPs, an establishment for old people that did not offer advanced care. They paid a small fortune for an entrance fee, secured a condo, and moved in with far too much of their old junk. My mother immediately arranged for boxes of booze to be delivered. She kept bottles of liquor in every room, including the bathroom.
After years of dealing with my mother's eccentricities, I found the other residents remarkably cheerful, polite, and sane. I was shocked at how nicely-dressed and sprightly they were. My mother simply referred to them as "the inmates." There were yoga classes, computer classes, a pool, a library with all the latest reading material, and lots of daily activities scheduled, but my mother considered herself better than everyone else and made few attempts to mingle.
Like Goldilocks, my mother changed condos three times. The first was too close to the highway, the second was too close to a streetlight, but the last (and by far most expensive) was bright, new, and as big as the Taj Mahal. Still, she had nothing nice to say about it, and complained daily that her private deck had no direct sunlight. First world problem.
While my parents were living in posh splendor, the old Victorian went to ruin. Although I had no home, I was not allowed to live there, and it remained empty. The animals multiplied and took over, dancing in conga lines across the kitchen counters.
My parents deteriorated. In order to save money, my mother refused to let my father eat. In the morning before he woke up, she would call the local grocery store and order everything she wanted, but nothing for him. At night, she made my father save half of his small dinner for lunch the next day.
My father lost 90 pounds, became frail, and started falling down. I tore out my hair trying to get medical attention for him, but my mother would not let anyone in the apartment, and she would not let him out. Occasionally they would be invited to cocktail parties, but she would refuse. They stopped going to the dining room and had their meals delivered to their door. Their refrigerator was full of half-rotted leftovers, and my father got food poisoning not once but three times, even landing him in the hospital - and still my mother would not let anyone throw any food away.
I would bring groceries, but my father was too old to prepare food for himself. I had a bright idea and brought frozen waffles and a toaster oven for him, but my mother was so furious with me she cried. She said she was trying to "simplify." Starving my father made life simpler.
I should mention that US laws favor the elderly, and "competence" is based on their ability to think "in the moment." So they can be babbling nonsense 80% of the time, but if they get the name of the president correct "in the moment," they are considered competent. This is why old men can leave their fortunes to 20-year-old gold diggers instead of their kids. Good luck trying to become a guardian for your parents for their own good - especially when they have devoted their lives to keeping everything secret from you.
My parents ran a dictatorship, not a democracy. They were secretive to the point of extreme paranoia. Every tiny bit of information was guarded by lawyers and bankers who were forbidden to speak my brother or myself. We were 100% closed out of every decision, because everyone knows children are thieving idiots who are only after your money. The idea that children might care about the well-being of their parents is just a sentimental notion for credulous morons. The less your children know about your finances, your health, your doctors, your prescriptions, and so on, the better. That way they can't meddle in your affairs.
My father believed he knew better than anyone how to run a facility, an organization, a college, a medical office, a town, a state, a corporation, the country, and the world economy as well. Although he was an engineer, he felt qualified to run the family finances, make medical decisions, and tell everybody else in the world how to do their jobs. He told me after I recovered from cancer that I'd never had it at all. I guess he thought it was a plot I'd cooked up to trick him.
Both parents developed early dementia and heart problems. My father fell down and bled all over the floor; my mother refused to let anyone call an ambulance because it would "cost money." My father had heart surgery and went downhill. Aides were brought in, and more aides, until they were paying for 6 outside aides a day, two at a time around the clock. My mother complained bitterly that the aides ate lunch, and that they talked to each other. Had I ever heard of a job that included lunch?
The next thing my brother and I knew, my mother decided to move back into the old Victorian to die. She was nowhere near dying, but she was very fond of thinking about it, and decided she wanted to draw her last breath in the house she had allowed to fall into wrack and ruin. The idea was insane. but she ALWAYS got what she wanted, no matter the cost or consequences.
The house was right at the brink of being gutted or torn down. First a professional cleaning service was hired to eliminate the stench, the thick layer of dust and mold everywhere, and the black soot from decades of two improperly ventilated wood-burning stoves. Exterminators got rid of the bats, squirrels, mice, voles, ants, and spiders. Dozens of builders tore down the rotting sides of the house, added a new roof, installed new windows, patched the holes, put up new sheetrock, and painted the walls and ceilings. Fresh curtains were hung and hospital beds were brought in. New appliances were purchased and all the mouse poop was cleaned out of the kitchen. My mother refused to share a bathroom with my father, so a giant extra bathroom was added for an additional few hundred thousand dollars. By then senile, incontinent, and unable to walk, he never used it.
Steps were replaced by ramps with large golden handrails. A bridge for wheelchairs was constructed from the road to the house. Although I am in a wheelchair, I will never get to use these ramps, because my mother has decreed that I am not to inherit the house. She said I'm not bright enough to manage it by myself.
Round-the-clock live-in caregivers were hired, visiting nurses were found, a "boutique" doctor was secured, and the new nursing care facility opened in March, 2012, for its two residents.
My mother got everything she wanted, from her separate bathroom, to painting the porch furniture a special color, to eating fresh vegetables at every meal with local fish or Cornish game hens or filet mignon. There was a new flat-screen TV she refused to watch, a new sun room she refused to sit in, and a new CD player from me she refused to listen to.
Was she happy? Of course not! If you asked how she was, she would reply - like Violet in "August: Osage County" - "there are Africans in my house." She was irate that the caregivers would TALK to each other. She was furious that they used up hot water for showers. She was outraged that they ate meals. She refused to pay 69 cents for a bag of pretzels for the women who cleaned, fed, toileted, and dressed her day and night. She routinely drove them to tears by fighting with them over trivial matters, and accusing them of ridiculous imaginary crimes they did not commit.
My mother took to sitting by the phone and calling up anyone who would listen to complain that she was starving, that she had no bed, that the caregivers were abusing her, that no one took her to the doctor, etc. She always was a liar, but she fooled people well. A couple of old friends took her seriously and dropped by with cans of stew. They tried to find different nurses, and made unnecessary medical appointments for her. She could no longer remember when she went anywhere, so she had her teeth cleaned twice in three weeks on the sly.
She was disdainful of my father for being senile and called him "a burden." She never liked her children or grandchildren, but periodically she would imperiously command us to visit because we "owed her." She treated everyone, including us, like her servants. And she lacked even the most basic empathy.
Then ... she complained of loneliness.
As my father drifted off into his own world, my mother, like Violet, ended up alone, except for the paid help. It was the only possible conclusion to all her life choices.
As for me - well, moving from rental to rental, disabled, and dependent on disability payments and Medicare, I spent many years resenting my mother's health, wealth, and amazing good fortune. The disparity between our lives was so enormous that it fed my sense of injustice and created a cancer in my life - literally. It took me almost six decades to realize that getting exactly what you want - every. single. time. - does not guarantee happiness. Having no responsibilities, a life of idleness, and millions of dollars with which to pursue any dream does not add up to anything if you have no dreams.
I still carry a great deal of resentment - is anyone out there happy about being molested and abused? - but I see my mother now like a moldy shell of fruit rotting from within. Sure, I'd love to have her riches. But at least I can say I earned an honest living. Yes, I wish I'd had her life of idleness. But I have something better: a "to do" list of goals long enough to last several lifetimes. And most importantly, my husband and children mean more to me than any amount of money. I'd rather have pizza in my rental home with my kids than filet mignon in a mansion, alone.
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