Several days before I was to fly ORD to LAX, I called my daughter. “I’m worried,” I said, “Tommy sometimes gags when he eats. I think it’s a side affect of his condition. Something about the part of the brain that screws up his speech messes with swallowing.”

“Mom, when did that start?” Jill asked.

I was embarrassed. “Actually, a few weeks ago,” I said. “When I see it happening, I tell him to take small bites, put the fork down between mouthfuls. But now...”

My daughter interrupted, “Mom, you can’t let him eat alone when you’re gone.”

I called the home health agency. “Can you send aides to monitor his mealtimes?” I asked.

“All set,” I told my daughter. 

Then, I thought about it. I imagined Tommy confused in that whirlpool of caregivers. I worried — even with all those overseers in place — would one remind him to take his daily medications, especially the thyroid pills? Would another ask him to smile, as I do every morning, to be sure he’s inserted his dental bridge? Would another check the kitchen sink to make sure he’s turned off the faucets, and the front door to confirm he’s removed his keys from the lock? And would his meal companions be vigilant?

And what if he was frightened and wanted me home?

“Canceling,” I texted Jill. 

“What happened?” she asked in the phone call that followed.

“I can’t leave him,” I said. 

“I thought you had your team in place.” 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said. “He could never handle it.”

I could never handle it. I couldn’t relax in my bathing suit at poolside. I couldn’t enjoy my grandsons’ faces or antics. I couldn’t devour time with my daughter. My head would be back in Chicago, worrying about my husband. I’d startle at the ping of a text or ring of a cell, wondering if the news would calm or scare me.

The empty suitcase remains on the bed. Instead of returning the clothing to closets and dresser drawers, I’m plucking them one by one for my daily wardrobe. Eventually, only the empty suitcase will remain. And, for now, me.

©2012 Elaine Soloway for SeniorWomen.com

Elaine Soloway's new novel is She's Not The Type

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