We lost Gramma Lola last December and I’ve been wanting to write this story ever since.  Gramma Lola wasn’t my grandmother or my kids’ grandmother, but all the children called her, “Gramma Lola.”  She lived in the retirement community that my mom lives in and was a good, close friend of mom’s despite their age difference.  They had Sunday dinners together and shared groceries and stories and cooking and a lot of other things.  Every visit of Mom’s grandkids lead to a walk to Gramma Lola’s where they’d get hugs, cookies and lots of Gramma Lola love. 

When Mom got sick and her house burned down, Gramma Lola, being the doer and controller that she was, had to take over something.  And me, being the doer and controller that I am, couldn’t give her the important things like holding the contractors and surgeons to their agreements, so I gave Gramma Lola the all-important task of shelving paper.

We were readying for major surgery and the house was readying for final touches, so it was a good compromise when Gramma Lola brought it to me at 4:15 on a Thursday afternoon via a call to my cell phone (that I ignored because I was at work) and then a call to my work phone (that I answered because I was at work).  “Debbie,” she said, sternly, “Your mother needs shelving paper.  Who is doing that?”

When I was growing up my mom worried about things like carpet fringe and shelving paper, but I was pretty sure that at this point she could give a flying hoot about shelving paper while facing the end of her four months of chemotherapy and major surgery to remove over half a lung and a bunch of ribs.  Pretty sure.  But not positive.

“Let me check with Mom to see.” I responded to Gramma Lola.

Text to Mom: “Do you care about shelving paper?  Lola wants to know.”

Text from Mom: “I could give a flying hoot about shelving paper.”

Text to Mom: “Good to know.”

I called Lola back.  “Mom doesn’t care about shelving paper.”  I then received a lecture about how she already knew mom didn’t care because she asked her but that she should care because it has to be in before her dishes are moved back in and that is happening in just a few weeks and the shelving paper has to be measured for and then purchased and then put in and who is going to do all of that?

“Okay.  I didn’t realize that it was important to have.  Could you take care of this for us. I’ll pay for it if you tell me how much.” 

The shit was on.  Lola used her key (after calling all my numbers and emailing me to tell me she was doing so) and measured the cabinets.  She then went to several stores (calling all my numbers and emailing me to tell me results) and priced out options. 

Shelving paper.  Options.

Does Mom want flowers, checks, designs, pictures?  Does Mom want sticky-back, tack, glue? 

All this on voice mails on all my numbers and emails.  When I didn’t respond in an hour (because... Shelving Paper.  Options...), she then called my brother for his decision since I clearly couldn’t be trusted.  She left him a voice mail and he then called me to tell me that he can’t be bothered with shelving paper options while starting a new job.  Could I please get Gramma Lola under control?

Mom was working on finding care for her cat while she went into the hospital and all the other things you prepare for when facing major surgery.  One thing she wasn’t preparing for was shelving paper.  I asked her anyway, in case she really did have a preference. 

Do you want flowers, checks, designs, pictures?  Do you want sticky-back, tack, glue?

I DON’T GIVE A FLYING HOOT ABOUT SHELVING PAPER. (Only she didn’t say hoot)

Agreed.  I called Gramma Lola and told her to put the shelving paper on hold until we were ready for that level of decision.

And then mom had surgery.  The second night, Gramma Lola’s daughter drove her to the hospital to visit Mom. Gramma Lola sat in a chair, heard how mom was (still a bit loopy and tired and clearly hurting) and then asked if mom had decided on shelving paper.  Her daughter interrupted, “Mom, now is not the time to talk about shelving paper.”

Despite my elation at having the shelving paper quandary cut off by someone not me, poor Gramma Lola looked so deflated that I second-guessed myself and Mom felt the same.  After they left, Mom said, “Maybe we should give her something else to be in charge of.” I agreed. We knew that Mom would need a walker until she was stronger and the retirement community collected these kinds of items like my children collected Happy Meal toys in the back of the car.  There was apparently a shed of them.  “See if she can check The Shed for a walker for me.”  Good idea.

I emailed Lola this request from my phone that night and then the horror fest really began.

The next day, I got a message from Gramma Lola.  “I chose a few walkers for your mom. I put them on the porch.”

Every morning, I’d arrive at the hospital at 8am and I’d leave at 8pm.  I was staying at Mom’s half-way renovated home with no hot water and no furniture other than a bed that we’d had delivered.  There were no lamps, as they were still in storage until the painting was complete.  I’d come home to darkness and leave in darkness.  The key on the back door didn’t work, so I had to walk around to the front porch in the dark to unlock the door to get in.

That night I tripped over 42 walkers while stumbling in the dark to the front door.  In the time it took to move them all (in the dark) so that I could get in and turn on the porch light, I already had received five voice mail messages from Lola. 

“I saw your car in the driveway.  Did you see the walkers?” 

“I didn’t hear from you.  Making sure you saw the walkers.” 

“The walkers are on the front porch.” 

“There are different sized walkers on the front porch.” 

“You need to choose a walker.  They are on the porch.”

I walked in, turned on the kitchen light, and called Lola back.  “I see the walkers.  Thank you.”

“Did you choose one?” She asked.

With my hand holding the phone, I went to the front door, opened it, dragged the closest walker through the opening.  “Yep.  Picked out the perfect one.”  I was so proud that this was over.

“Now you have to put the balls on.”

What?  I was exhausted.  I was physically and emotionally so done with the day that I was clearly hallucinating. 

“Are you there?  I left tennis balls on the porch and you need to cut them and put them on.”  My continued silence of confusion confused her.  “The balls.  For the feet of the walker.  Otherwise she will scratch the floor.”  She said this all slowly for me, as it was obvious that I was amazingly stupid and confused and knew nothing at all about walkers.  Or balls.

I thanked her for the walkers, the ball instructions, and for her promise of removing the remaining unchosen the next day.  Then I fell into bed without dinner in a fit of exhaustion.  I awoke at 6:30 the next morning and set off for the hospital.

Mom at this point was in and out of ICU and cardiac care with her prognosis, and room, changing from minute to minute.  I spent my days chasing down help, medicine and food for Mom, while also working my full time job from the hospital. And listening to Lola’s messages.

“The balls are still on the porch.”

“You said you would cut the balls and put them on the walker.”

“If you don’t put the balls on the walker, the floors will get scratched.”

“The floors are brand new from the rebuild after the fire.  Your mom won’t want them scratched.”

“It’s after lunch and then balls are still on the porch.”

“It’s dinner time and the balls are still on the porch.”

“I’m going to bed, but I drove over and saw your car pull in.  The balls are on the porch.”

“It’s 7:30 in the morning and your car’s gone, but the balls are still on the porch.”

This went on for a few days with me not answering.  She then switched to email where she included me, my brother, and my mom, so I had to answer.  “I will have Marc take care of the balls when he comes this weekend,” I said, thinking I was ending this discussion.

This quieted her until the weekend when Marc came.  I was at the hospital, but Marc brought the kids over to be there when PG&E came to hook up the water heater. Lola came over to supervise the Great Ball Project of 2014. Marc failed miserably, not having the proper tools with him.  With a sigh, Lola took the project back over and assigned it to the next door neighbor, Ray (which is a story for another time.  Possibly titled, “The Great Mail Crime of 2014.”).

The next message from Gramma Lola was directed to all of us at 10pm on Sunday night.  “Ray has put the balls on the walker.”

At 5am, Mom, who had been stoically quiet, weak and phone-free for her entire hospital stay, texted me for the first time since surgery.  “Thank God Lola’s balls are done.”

And that is the story of how I knew my mom was going to be just fine.