Sunday, March 9th, 2025
Wednesday, December 10th, 2025: Catalina, Hikes, Southeast Arizona.
I’m in transition between major phases of my life – in shock, depressed, functioning at a minimal level. Needing solitude, peace, and quiet to plumb the depths of my loss, not knowing how or when I’ll emerge and the next phase will begin – expecting only that it will come slowly and gradually.
A physical therapy appointment had been made long ago at a stand-alone facility in Tucson. I was hoping to do a challenging hike before the Tuesday appointment, with some pain afterward so the therapist would see how bad it can get. Expecting crowds on trails near the city, I waited until Monday for the hike.
I’ve visited Tucson regularly since moving to southwestern New Mexico 19 years ago – but knowing the trails would be heavily traveled, I’d never hiked there. The nearest trails start in the foothills of the Santa Catalina range on the northern edge of the city, via about 10 different trailheads established from east to west. Tucson would be nothing without this spectacular, 6,000-foot-tall wall of rock at its north, constantly changing color throughout the day.
I chose a trail that my brief online research suggested would be less popular. A glance at the map showed that it starts in a canyon at just over 3,000 feet, then climbs up the east ridge to a saddle before traversing farther up the ridge into the high country. I paid no further attention to distances, elevations, or neighboring trails, assuming that urban trails would be well signed, and I would just go as far as possible in the available time. My hope was to reach pine habitat – ideally ponderosa – but starting at 3,000 feet there really wasn’t much chance of that.
The high in town was forecast to reach the mid-70s, with clear skies. Trailhead parking, in this affluent neighborhood of contemporary mansions on gated streets, was the most deluxe I’d ever seen, with freshly marked spaces for about 40 vehicles and a brass drinking fountain at the entrance. At 9:45 on Monday morning it was almost 90 percent full, so I assume on weekends most hikers have to look elsewhere.
The city ends abruptly at the back yards of these mansions, which directly abut the National Forest. But it’s not just open space – it’s a federally-designated wilderness area, right next to these rich folks’ homes, where a sign claims that bighorn sheep populations are declining due to home building, and gas-powered leaf blowers and other implements spread stressful noise deep into supposedly wild habitat.
I’d never seen such a sharp, stark border between the natural and the artificial. The dissonance increased as I climbed the canyon and both military and commercial airplanes roared overhead. Our homes, our pets, our transport, our recreation – everything we do is at war with the wildlife in our natural habitats.
My hikes in Arizona near home range between about 4,000 and 10,000 feet. At the low end it’s similar to the Mojave Desert, and at the high end it’s similar to my local mountains, but with subtle differences I appreciate more and more over time.
In this lower Sonoran habitat, farther west, the giant saguaro cacti represented the most dramatic difference, but I also quickly found unfamiliar acacias and riparian plants as the trail meandered between boulders up the lower canyon. The trail is named for a rock formation high on the western ridge, and eventually I spotted it looming thousands of feet above, as I passed a pool of water and a tall, solitary cottonwood, and the trail began climbing out of the canyon bottom. By that point, I’d passed four or five other hikers heading back from their short morning walks – none of them talkative.
Almost everything I do now evokes painful thoughts – rock formations evoke painful thoughts, writing a dispatch about my hike evokes painful thoughts. This was an incredibly spectacular landscape, and I tried to enjoy it, but ultimately couldn’t. I was just going through the motions to stay in shape.
Climbing out of the canyon bottom, the trail fell under the shadow of the rimrock cliffs above, and stayed in that shadow for most of the way up. I’d taken off my sweater below in the sun and was cold now, but from here on, the trail became incredibly steep and rocky – basically a series of mostly natural rock steps alternating with long, steep slabs of tilted bedrock. I passed a talkative guy and we exchanged multiple confirmations about what a beautiful day it was, what a beautiful place, how lucky we were, etc.
But the steep traverse below those gloomy cliffs was brutal and seemed to go on forever, rounding outlying shoulder after shoulder, with me hoping each would be the last.
Finally I got high enough for oaks, and eventually I reached a sunny ledge overlooking a funnel-like interior basin where side canyons converged with the main one. I stopped for a snack, and another guy caught up and passed me.
Continuing on the trail, I saw my first juniper of the day, then a tall pinyon pine above in a north-facing alcove. These, which you’d normally find above 6,000 feet at this latitude, emphasized how low the trailhead had been. I lost all hope of reaching ponderosas.
The trail curved back into a shady, semi-forested cove where I had a good view of the opposite slope, across which I assumed my trail would continue traversing up the canyon. The hiker that passed me had worn a bright blue shirt but I couldn’t see him ahead and wondered where he’d disappeared to. And soon I was at an unexpected trail junction.
The canyon trail continued left, but a branch trail went right to a saddle, only a hundred yards and a few dozen feet higher. I thought I remembered the name of the branch trail from the sign at my trailhead, hours ago. Could this become a loop? I sure hoped so – I’d been dreading that steep, rocky return on my hurt knee.
At the saddle, the trail surface became smooth, packed dirt, and on the open grassy slopes below I could see it making long, gentle switchbacks. I decided to chance it being a loop back to my trailhead. At worst, if it led to a different trailhead, I might have to walk a few miles on city streets to get back to the truck.
I shortly met a young woman who confirmed this would return to my trailhead. She asked me about the trail in the other canyon, and I warned her – I wonder if she continued that way after reaching the saddle?
I met several others on the way down, including a stocky, crusty woman about my age who warned me that this trail also got steep and rocky toward the bottom. At least it was all in the sun. She was easily the oldest woman I’ve ever met doing a hike this difficult, alone.
Dozens of switchbacks later, and more than 1,500 feet lower, I reached the steep and rocky part. At this point I was favoring my hurt knee and lowering myself slowly over each rock step. I’m calling them steps – mostly it was stepping down from embedded rock to embedded rock – but trailbuilders had put a huge amount of work into this urban wilderness trail, building steps in many places where natural slopes were just too steep for human feet.
I assumed I’d already gone at least four miles to reach the saddle, and my overall distance would be about eight miles. I was exhausted and sore when I found myself only a few hundred feet above the foothill mansions. The trail dropped into the level sand of a broad dry wash, and all the bootprints appeared to lead down the wash.
Standing in the wash, I didn’t see a continuation of the trail on the other side, so I just followed the tracks. And of course, like in the Mojave, I was soon clambering over boulders and forcing my way through dense riparian vegetation. But the tracks continued to lead me on.
Eventually the boulders became car-sized, then house-sized, and I had to make detours through patches of riparian jungle and lower myself over dry waterfalls. Then I saw a mansion, a couple dozen feet above me, then a bridge crossing the wash, with another mansion above the opposite bank. What the hell had I got myself into?
The retaining walls below the houses and the bridge were all vertical and twenty feet high, so I crept under the viaduct. There was a crumbling, mesquite-choked bank on the other side that I could just barely climb, so I forced my way up it and found myself in someone’s driveway, on a street lined with contemporary mansions. I was looking pretty shabby, and recalled the cleaning lady who’d knocked on the wrong door in a suburban neighborhood back in Indiana, and was shot and killed by the homeowner. He was released, because they have a law allowing homeowners to use lethal force when feeling threatened. I knew this was a gated neighborhood and wondered how deep I was inside the gate.
As I trudged west up the street, totally exposed in this expensively xeriscaped neighborhood, I was approached by a car that slowed down to check me out. I smiled and waved, and the driver continued past. A few hundred yards further, I spotted the gate in the distance. It was opening, and an elderly couple walked through. They crossed the street in front of me, pointedly avoiding my eyes, as the gate began to close behind them. It was closed long before I reached it, so I darted furtively into someone else’s side yard and dropped over their retaining wall into the public street. Ah, the urban-wildland interface!
It turns out the trail did resume across that track-filled wash – I was just misled by all the bootprints in the sand. Either way, this hike was at the limit of what I can do now with my knee injury, so I’m still facing a lot of rehab work ahead.
Monday, December 15th, 2025: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I didn’t feel like hiking this Sunday, but the night before, I reviewed my options and made a short list.
In the morning, I reviewed my list, and didn’t like the areas I’d chosen. I reviewed the options again, and found a partial hike I could do in an area that appealed to me more.
Finally, on the drive north toward our high mountains, I realized there was another hike on my way that felt more interesting. It goes up a super-rugged, rocky canyon to an 8,200 foot saddle overlooking the next canyon. The rockiest stretch is really slow going, but I figured I would have just barely enough time.
On the long gravel drive to the trailhead – made longer by dozens of washouts last summer that still hadn’t been graded – I was surprised to notice a snowfield just below the 10,700 foot peak. Pretty impressive – our last storm was, what, more than a month ago?
Trailhead parking was empty, a relief after my last hike, in Tucson. Clear skies, temps in the high fifties, but hiking in the sun kept me almost warm enough in my sweater.
The trail begins with a mile of difficult and slow climbing up and down a couple hundred vertical feet over loose rock, finally reaching the creek.
In a bare patch I found fairly recent boot tracks.
The trail in the lower canyon was catastrophically washed out a few years ago, and eventually rebuilt. For some reason, the cliffs above are easier to see now – the canyon bottom used to be a jungle with low visibility.
Blowdown, washouts, and debris flows since our 2012 wildfire have repeatedly invalidated the Forest Service map for this trail, and early GPS routes were low resolution, yielding a mileage to the saddle that I always knew was too low. But the most recent GPS is more accurate. The trail proceeds in five sections: the rocky hike from trailhead to creek, the rebuilt section that mostly uses creekbed and banks, the mid-section detouring around boulders the size of apartment buildings, the gentler final canyon bottom stretch, ending in the long, steep traverse to the saddle.
The trail up the canyon bottom was a slog as usual, but with mostly good tread, and as mentioned above, I enjoyed the exposed boulders, cliffs, and rock formations more than before, with the creek frequently pouring over little waterfalls for a soundtrack.
I’d started late, and by the time I reached the traverse to the saddle I knew I was going to run out of daylight. To make it worse, I had to stop often to catch my breath. But because the fire burned at high-intensity on this slope, regrowth was brushy, providing great views over the spectacular head of the main canyon, and after each stop I kept going.
And when the trail rounded a shoulder into the side canyon where you can first glimpse the surviving mixed-conifer forest below the saddle, I knew I would go all the way, despite having to drive home in the dark.
In the past, this saddle would’ve been only the first milestone as I continued to the crest, or all the way down into the next canyon. But in my current condition, having lost so much strength and cardio capacity, it felt like a real achievement.
The next canyon is one of the biggest and most rugged in the range – and with no trails up it, can only be accessed from the adjoining canyons, with this being the nearest. Aspen seedlings in the saddle blocked my view, so I continued down the trail for a few hundred yards to a rocky shoulder, making my full out-and-back distance exactly 8 miles.
My new physical therapist had recommended using trekking poles when going downhill, so I’d carried them in my pack all day. I’d bought these expensive poles last winter, tried them and hated them. And now, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to assemble them. They’re totally non-intuitive, and the instructions that came with them were pictorial and made no sense.
I ended up using them as much as possible anyway on the traverse, but they kept coming loose, and I couldn’t use them at all in places where shrubs or dense annuals crowded the trail, because the poles would get hung up in the vegetation.
I had a headache, my neck was so stiff I could barely turn my head, there was a sharp pain in my right hip, and both my legs were burning. I knew it would last all night, so I kept putting off taking my pain meds.
The canyon was in deep shadow by the time I reached the bottom of the traverse, and I still had three miles to go, including the hard middle part. But it was beautiful with the rim, high above, lit golden by the setting sun. And for some reason, I noticed the many abandoned mine tunnels, in cliffs on the east side, for the first time.
I finally took a couple of pain pills at the halfway point. The sun had completely set by the time I started the final section, out of the canyon bottom on all that loose rock, but the pills had done their job, freeing me to enjoy my surroundings.
The washed out access road resulted in an hour-and-a-half drive home, but the clear sky revealed a splendor of stars and constellations as I made the final descent into town.
Letters to My Mother, Part 1: Why Did You Suffer?
Friday, December 26th, 2025: Letters to My Mother, Stories, Trouble.
You brought so much light, so much joy to our world!
Now that you’re gone, our world is a darker, meaner place
In public, you were sunny, joyful, candid, outspoken
Known and loved for your honesty and directness
Curious to know strangers and learn about your environment
Drawn to outsiders, defender of the helpless
In private, you were thoughtful, critical, empathetic, compassionate
Nature and the arts were your great passions
Yet you suffered terribly at the end
Why?
You changed inside
Became afraid, even terrified
Not of anything in particular
But consumed by fear
At times, and at the end
You became a different person
With a different voice
Agitated, insistent
Shouting, repetitive, mechanical
What was wrong with you?
Science could not describe it
Science had no answers
The most accurate explanation
The most sensible description
Comes from native people
A demon came inside you
Tried to possess you
But why you?
Throughout your long life
You suffered disappointments, loss
Abuse and trauma
Your first marriage ended in divorce
You saw a son gravely injured and disabled
Who became a lifelong responsibility and strain
Later, your closest friend killed herself
You remarried, nursed your husband
Then he turned mean, left you out of his will
You lost your hearing
Lost the freedom to drive
The confidence to walk outside
Grew more and more isolated
You outlived your lifelong best friends
No one left to understand you
Then your demon came
I tried to find help
Your first doctors were arrogant
Their tests and treatments failed
You lost the only home
You’d ever made yourself
I found places to care for you
Where those we paid
Mistreated us both
So again and again
You were moved
Had to adapt to strange places, people
Even moved across the continent
To the mountains of the Southwest
Where you would never see your disabled son again
I tried to help you
Failed in the end
But even as you were losing
You were still giving
And you fought the demon
To the end
Suffered terribly
Why?
I know I should be grateful
For your long life, and what you gave me
I want to celebrate that
But first, I need to understand
This story is just the beginning
Of my struggle to make sense
Next: Your Journey
Letters to My Mother, Part 2: Your Journey
Friday, December 26th, 2025: Letters to My Mother, Stories, Trouble.
Previous: Why Did You Suffer?
Childhood, College, First Marriage, Motherhood
Single Mom, Teaching, Second Marriage
Artist, Gallerist, Traveler, Inspiration
Illness, Hospitals, Depression
Hospice, Nursing Home, Recovery,
New Mexico, Festivals, Rocks, Clouds, Art, Wildfire, Doctors
Your Demon, Sleeping and Starving
Childhood, College, First Marriage, Motherhood
Infinite soul in a tiny package
Raised in a small town your ancestor had founded
Amid the cornfields of southern Indiana
Surrounded by family
Fired by a passion to understand the world around you
The soil, the rocks, the rivers, the moon and clouds
Why is it like that?
What made it that way?
You studied piano
At the best music school in the country
Abandoned your career after a mistake at a competition
Completed a bachelor of arts in English
Became a secretary at a famous brokerage in Chicago
Met my father in the cutting edge culture of the time
The birth of bebop and modern jazz
Married and became my mother
In your husband’s hometown
College town on the Ohio River
You always had a piano
A beautiful Steinway baby grand in our first house
You continued to practice, accompany singers
Taught me some Bach
After eight years of nightly arguments
And a second son, you divorced
Single Mom, Teaching, Second Marriage
You moved us to your hometown
Raised two boys as a single mom
With the nearby help of your mother and father
Obtained your Master’s degree in American Literature
Taught
English to hundreds of teenagers for twenty-five years
Regularly took your sons to the capital
For concerts, dance performances, theater, art shows
By artists from around the world
Your father, healthy and fit
Died one night at home, of a heart attack
Another night, you found your younger son
On a sidewalk, bloody, struggling to get up
After being hit in a freak accident
Involving a sheriff’s deputy
He suffered massive brain damage
The county denied responsibility
Then spread the rumor that your son’s injury was minor
Said we’d defrauded the county out of a fortune
Your talented son ended up with permanent disabilities
Physical, mental, emotional
He could never keep a job, got in trouble repeatedly
Became a constant strain on the entire family
Then your best remaining local girlfriend
Hung herself in her garage
You comforted her family
And years later, you married the widowed husband
A local man you’d known all your life
Who’d inherited a fortune from his grandmother
You retired from teaching
The two of you started traveling
Became fine art photographers
Opened the state’s first photography gallery
In an old industrial building in the capital
Your husband was the businessman
Enjoyed the company of artists
But you’d spent your life
Loving and passionately following the arts
Used your gallery to promote those
Just starting out, or doing experimental work
Your mother had been experiencing blackouts
Checked herself into a nursing home
Finally decided it wasn’t worth it anymore
Refused to eat
Lay in a hospital bed, silently wasting away
For two weeks, as we took turns holding her hand
Your grandfather had only daughters
Left his two highly productive farms to them
To be held in perpetuity
Your mother was the last to die
After her, you were the only survivor
Who wanted to keep the farms
Got in a bitter struggle with your cousin
Who believed sale would bring a fortune
You lost, and in the end
The sale price, split so many ways
Only left a pittance
Priceless land
Thrown away by foolish greed
Artist, Gallerist, Traveler, Inspiration
You and your husband moved away
To the capital’s vibrant downtown arts district
Reopened your gallery there on the Avenue
Only blocks from your new home
The first home you’d ever designed and owned yourself
You turned it into a museum filled wall to wall
Floor to ceiling
With art by you, your family and friends
Your music, your beloved books
Relics of your travels
Respected in the downtown arts community
Beloved in your neighborhood
An inspiration for younger generations
All our ancestors had died of heart disease
And finally you had your heart attack
Stents were placed, you recovered
When your husband’s health began to fail
You nursed him for years
As he grew bitter, wanted to die
Became a mean drunk, cursed you
Finally your disabled son was arrested
In our hometown, on fraudulent charges
After decades of slanderous rumors
Driving the last of our family
Out of the county we founded
Then the last and best of your childhood girlfriends
Died, two thousand miles away
Widowed, Isolated, Declining
Finally your husband died
You were heartbroken
But his daughter had always resented you
Made you leave, took his body away
Shut you out of their plans
After the funeral and burial
We discovered your husband had broken his promise
Failed to provide for you in his will
We had to fight his hostile estate
For a settlement that might give you security
Your heart was doubly broken
Memories of your partner soured
Twenty-five years of joyous memories
Turned bittersweet
I had hip surgery in Seattle
At the age of 89, you flew out to help me recover
Three months later you had a stroke
Standing in the kitchen at night
You wrote “I’m having a stroke” on a notepad
You spent months re-learning to talk
Lost your smile, your ability to play piano
Your fluent speech, your singing voice
But you still had your young girlfriends
Your greatest pleasure
Driving to your favorite restaurants
Meeting them for brunch
Hearing about their lives and ventures
Although by this time
You’d lost most of your hearing
Could seldom understand what they were saying
Your closest cousin died
And with all the girlfriends of your childhood and youth gone
I’m the last, you said
The last of my generation
Then you lost the freedom to drive
Lost the freedom of your city
Another hard blow to your confidence
But you could still walk
With your cane
Over to the Avenue
Meet strangers, visit friends in their shops
Your hearing was so poor
You ordered expensive hearing aids
But they were too complicated
So you ended up never using them
Then the pandemic hit
And you lost the confidence to walk outside
Your world closed in
Between the walls of your memory palace
Even after lockdown ended
Friends stopped visiting
Stopped returning your calls
I don’t need them, you said
I’m content in my solitude
If someone did call, wanting to meet
Now you just said no
Your last surviving pleasure was to read
Frost, Rebecca, Simenon, Tolkien
Life was sleeping late
New York Times for breakfast
Nap in afternoon
Snack, book or movie
Seinfeld or Law and Order
Early to bed
Living in that small, cluttered house
With your injured son
Tempers frayed
The two of you had terrible arguments
He threatened to kill himself
You broke down crying
Called me to mediate
You let some bills go unpaid
I had to start managing your accounts
Tried to talk to you about moving
Into assisted living
You threw a tantrum
Said you would never leave this
The only house that had ever really been yours
But every time you injured yourself
You called 911, ended up in the ER
I arranged a home health aide twice a week
To cook, shop, clean for you
I arranged a nurse to come weekly
To organize and monitor your meds
Illness, Hospitals, Depression
But in July
Your digestive system began to go haywire
I’m so afraid, you cried on the phone
What’s wrong with me?
Finally, at the beginning of September
Miserable with nausea, you called 911
Ended up back in the ER
Where you tested positive for a urinary infection
Doctor Etienne prescribed Keflex
Said you were “safe to go home”
And discharged you
Back home, you called me
Agitated, confused
Didn’t understand how to take the Keflex
Clearly an unsafe discharge
So we called 911 and had you returned
You ended up in the care of a team
Hospitalist, geriatrician, GI specialist
Led by Doctor Botkin
After a week of testing, Botkin said
We can’t find anything wrong
It’s all in your head
There’s nothing we can do
You were hysterical
If you can’t stop this nausea, you cried
Then put me out of my misery!
I flew in from New Mexico
We need a second opinion, I told Botkin
There are no second opinions, Botkin replied
I’m the authority here
You couldn’t believe
This place you’d trusted for decades
Could no longer help you
So I asked Botkin to explain
And the man of science told you
You’re in God’s hands now
I will pray for you
Despite claiming it was all in your head
Botkin gave you no referral to a psychiatrist
Since the hospital – the biggest in the metro area
Had none on staff
At home
You sat on the sofa
Hunched over, head in hands
I had a terrible nightmare
I can’t eat
I can’t do anything
I discovered another hospital
Far to the north
Had a geriatric psychiatric unit
The only one in the area, maybe the state
When we arrived in their ER
You were so depressed
You couldn’t talk
You couldn’t drink or eat
You could barely open your eyes
They put you in the care of another team
Hospitalist, geriatrician, psychiatrist
I told them about the GI tests and scans
Performed already, ruling out a GI condition
But of course they couldn’t trust me
Had to repeat everything
They sent in Doctor McNulty
A geriatrician
I told him I was your son
With powers of attorney
I could speak for you
I’ll be the judge of that, he said
My mother is severely depressed, I continued
Nothing you’ve described to me implies depression, he said
Now if you don’t mind
I’d like to examine my patient
McNulty decided your problem was upper GI
Tried carafate, ordered an upper endoscopy
The drug failed, the test negative
Nothing we can do, he echoed Botkin
She belongs in hospice
Meanwhile your nose was bleeding uncontrollably
You lay in feces while I ran around calling for help
Finally the hospitalist gave you IV antibiotics for another UTI
I tracked down the psychiatrist
He agreed to transfer you upstairs
To the geriatric psychiatric unit
In the meantime
He prescribed Ritalin
Hoping it would relieve your depression
Increase your appetite
So you were moved
Into another lockdown unit
Like a prison
At the dark end of a long corridor
Last painted decades ago
Where I could not call in
And could only visit between 12 and 1
By announcing myself at the intercom
Outside the security door
The Ritalin destroyed your ability to pay attention
Made you nervous, jumpy, agitated
Twitching, eyes darting around
I waited over the weekend
To see the director, Doctor Class
Who’d received his medical training
At the esteemed Oral Roberts University!
Doctor Class had a wonderful bedside manner
He changed your meds
Put you on something new for anxiety
I had to fly back to New Mexico
To refill my pain meds
While I was gone
Doctor Class pronounced you treated
Said you were ready for rehab
To prepare you to return home
Hospice, Nursing Home, Recovery
I’d studied facilities all over the area
Dozens, maybe over a hundred
Found the ratings all disagreed
Asked around, got a personal recommendation
To a “continuing care” home
In a wealthy suburb north of the city
Part of a corporate chain
Isolated in a corporate park
Up to a two-hour drive in rush hour
From your home downtown
Where I was staying
When I flew back a week later
At the beginning of October
I found you terminally depressed
You’d refused therapy
You could not stand
You could not walk
You could not eat
You could not drink
You could not even talk
I sat there beside your bed
You stared at me, yearning
I asked if you wanted to die
You nodded yes
I asked if you wanted to go home
You shook your head no
You’d always wanted to die at home
And that’s what I wanted for you
But your small, cluttered home, with its steep stairs
Was no longer safe for you
And now, you would never see your home again
You were admitted to hospice at the facility
Moved to a room at the very end
Of the long-term care unit
Where out your window
We could watch the staff carrying garbage to the dumpster
I told them to take you off all the anxiety drugs
You continued to suffer from nausea
Numbness of your mouth and throat
But gradually, you recovered
No longer wanted to die
And thus began the cycle
The joy, the relief of recovery
The return of your anxiety
The nightmare of your suffering
Your room was tiny
But I took photos of your art at home
And you picked the pieces
And where they would go
In these care facilities
They woke you early
To give you meds
Shocking your system
Confusing you
Offered strange food you couldn’t eat
At times when you weren’t hungry
And when you were hungry
The kitchen was closed
You needed an aide’s help to go to the toilet
Your bed and bath had a call button
But it took them up to 45 minutes to respond
So you screamed for help
They called you a fall risk
And wouldn’t let you walk on your own
During the day, they confined you in a wheelchair
The armrests were too high
So you couldn’t move by yourself
Had to be pushed around
They kept you at the nurse’s station all day
Surrounded by patients who couldn’t talk
Where you slept sitting up
Waiting to be pushed somewhere else
Their programmed activities, like wheelchair yoga
Made you dizzy because you couldn’t hear
What they called entertainment was only tired cliches
Celebrities, Little House on the Prairie, juvenile cartoons
Drugs and confinement had weakened you
Shortened your attention span
You could no longer read
No longer operate your phone, iPod, computer, remotes
I got you a notebook
You kept a journal
In the flowing cursive you learned
During the Great Depression
Days and times
What you ate
Medicines they gave you
Where they took you
Who you talked to
What was said
Grateful when you weren’t afraid
When I visited, you made me read it
COOL IT, JOAN! you wrote
At first you loved your caregivers
Some loved you back
Others were just collecting a paycheck
One kept hurting your crippled shoulder
Jerking your top off every morning
Kylie, the executive director of the nursing home
Had a wonderful bedside manner
In late October, I told her an aide was hurting you
Kylie demanded the name of the aide
But I had no way of getting it
Then I can’t help you, she said
I had to return out West
But in our talks, you said
That woman keeps hurting me
Every morning
So after a month of this
I told Kylie I would have to report it to the state
She finally investigated
Found a systemic problem, suspended an aide
Too late for us
I was the only one you could trust
Memory Care, UTI, Recovery
At the end of November
Again, I found myself looking for a home for you
All the best places had waiting lists
But a room was available at the newest location
Of a small, exclusive, locally-owned
Highly-regarded chain of memory care facilities
I told them you were not suffering from dementia
Only from anxiety
No problem, said Diane, the director
She sounds perfect
Because we had an unusually close relationship
And because of our history with unreliable caregivers
We needed to be together as much as possible
Nearing the end of your life
But Diane said
We advise families not to visit
For at least the first ten days
Gives new residents a chance to settle in
Learn to trust their staff
Adapt to their new home
In mid-December, within days after you moved in
You were yelling, your face tense
What’s going on?
What am I doing? over and over, like a machine
Sounds like a UTI, said Lindsey, your nurse
She put you on a strong antibiotic
And within days, your agitation stopped
Your anxiety was gone
For the first time since June
I studied the daily journal I’d kept since September
Concluded your problem all along
Had been chronic, untreated urinary infections
We put you on a daily, low-level antibiotic
To prevent future outbreaks
The other residents
Your neighbors
Were all advanced with dementia
Crying all the time
Acting out
Pacing back and forth like zombies
None of them could talk to you
Your heart reached out to them
You held their hands, tried to comfort them
During the following weeks
You suddenly discovered how to “walk” your wheelchair
Using your toes
You were so excited!
Regaining some freedom
After months of helpless confinement
A week later you suddenly stood up, unassisted
And began using a walker
All over the house by yourself
You recovered the ability to toilet independently
Read, check your email
You still had help changing and bathing
But for months, you’d complained
Of blurred vision in your right eye
I had you taken to an ophthalmologist
Who diagnosed glaucoma
The home advertises healthy chef-cooked meals
But we soon discovered the chef buys prepared foods in bulk
Often frozen, which the aides warm up onsite
Frozen tater tots being the most common menu item
Confined in that house
With those mute women
In the middle of Midwestern winter
You were bored, stir crazy
The rooms didn’t have call buttons
When you could get someone to help call me, you said
They don’t come when I call for help
And when I yell for help, it makes them angry
I’m miserable here, take me away!
The families of other residents visited often
Staff spoke with reverence of a doctor
Whose wife, suffering from dementia
Had been a nurse
Doctor Klein gave us that piano, they said
The wife often acted out, attacking staff
Attacking me, needed to be restrained
But Doctor Klein, who lives in the former governor’s mansion
Visited daily and was always welcomed
In January, I emailed Diane, the director
With some suggestions for helping you
She loves it here, Diane said
She’s only miserable when you arrive
Must be the mother-son dynamic
And as I prepared to cross the continent
Back to my home
I was in your tiny room hanging a picture
When two residents with dementia ran in
One threw herself on your bed
The other backed you into the corner
Yelling and shaking her fists
I called for the aides
One came in, gently tried to encourage
The invaders to leave
You were crying, the aide ignored you
After they all left, I went to find the aides
Told them you were traumatized
Asked them to comfort you
Why should we? Sarah responded
It’s all your fault
Must be the mother-son dynamic
I turned to Ashley, that I had befriended for months
She’s always fine until you arrive, Ashley said
We’re all glad you’re leaving
Sarah nodded, and smirked
When she saw how shocked and hurt I was
New Mexico, Festivals, Rocks, Clouds, Art, Wildfire, Doctors
Travel was killing me
In February, we talked it over as a family
You agreed to move to my hometown in New Mexico
Your disabled son also wanted to move
Looked forward to getting out of the big city
Again, I wanted to care for you at home
But my home was not accessible
And it was too small even for my needs
We have two “assisted living” homes here
I picked the least depressing
Figuring I could make up
By spending more time with you
Entertain you at my house
Introduce you to my neighbors
Take you to restaurants, galleries, museums
On road trips into our mountains
Maybe even open a gallery together
Preparing for the move
You practiced walking with your cane
Which no one had let you use
Since last summer
The trip out, in mid-March
Was traumatic for both of us
Flying with a nurse
Overnight in Phoenix, the nurse
Put your suitcase next to the bed
So that getting up to pee
You fell over it, gashing your leg
I was up all night taking care of you
While the nurse slept
Your new home had a shabby facade
And a rustic, mazelike interior
Built in the Seventies
Rooms like a motel
Yours the smallest
All the way in the back
But it was clean and odor-free
With vintage, feminine decorations you loved
Plants everywhere
Flowers in a central patio
Caregivers simple country girls
Some friendly, some indifferent, some hostile
There was more wall space here
I filled with your pictures
Bookcase full of your books and movies
But you could no longer work the player
Desk for your computer
But you could no longer use it
At least you could still read
And across from your bed
The wee ceramic house from your Christmas village
Windows glowing safe at night
Again
Elizabeth, the onsite owner, told me to stay away
For at least ten days
Give you a chance to settle in
Learn to trust them
Adapt to your new home
But of course, I couldn’t stay away
You were my mother
I was your son
These times together were precious to us
They only allowed visitors
Daily from 10 to 12 and 2 to 4
Whereas in Indiana
Family were always welcome at mealtime
Here, family were not allowed
To visit during meals
Ernestine, the manager
Resented me from the beginning
Scowled whenever she saw me
Because I remained in charge of your healthcare, normally her job
And because I was the only person you trusted
The second day after you arrived
Before I visited you
I met with Elizabeth and Ernestine to discuss your anxiety
She’s fine, said Elizabeth
You just need to stay away, said Ernestine
She gets agitated when she sees you
Suddenly I could hear you screaming
Somewhere in the back, out of sight
WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? you cried
HOW DO I GET HELP?
Over and over, like a machine
I took you to the ER
To get antibiotics for a UTI
It worked, again, at first
It was April, our dry season
When I visited, you almost always wanted to be taken out
You used the walker inside
But I got a transport wheelchair to take you out
And the first thing you wanted to see was rocks
You’d become obsessed
With pictures of rock formations in my Dispatches
OH! OH! you cried
Look! Look at them!
You know the first thing I’m going to ask you
You continued
What made them that way?
What are they made of?
Do rocks have roots?
Do they talk to each other?
Wiser than most geology students
I took you for an ear cleaning
You started wearing your hearing aids
At last, you could hear, carry on conversations
You’d graduated from hospice after six months
I got you a doctor, your first PCP
Since your old one quit last June
Had your first checkup in over a year
I invited Ernestine
And when I mentioned your anxiety, your outbreaks
Ernestine interrupted
There’s nothing wrong with her, she said
You’re the one that needs help
You’re the one that’s causing her problems
I told her to shut up, she never forgave me
In May, you needed a haircut
And once there, you asked for a dye job
First in your life
To assert your independence
Everyone loved it, I was so proud
Why did you choose this town? you asked
So many reasons, but elder care not one of them
I took you to a psychiatric nurse
Since doctors were so few here, and hard to see
I kept asking providers if you could get a brain scan
And a comprehensive neurological exam
But that would require hours of travel to a big city
And they all said it wasn’t needed
The psych nurse put you back on the drug
That had controlled your anxiety at home, for years
I took you to the best of our local art galleries
This is very sophisticated, you said
It could be New York
The small-town attendant had no idea
What you were talking about
Took you to our biggest festival of the year
You loved people-watching
Bought a quilt
In June, I took you to a Latin festival
Saw one of the two best musical acts
I’ve seen since I moved here
But you were restless, became agitated
Back at the home
Again, you couldn’t adapt to the schedule
Didn’t recognize most of their food
And they wouldn’t feed you when you were hungry
You were rapidly losing weight
I bought a mini-fridge for your room
Filled it with your favorite snacks
Yogurt, Boost, Sprite, ginger ale
Most of the staff at our medical practice
Resigned, accusing the director of sexual harassment
So I had to move our care to a new place
And a wildfire started
In the mountains north of town
Spread east, then back west
Toward town
I took you out to watch the smoke column
A display of nature’s power
You might never see again
The fire came over the ridge above town
Evacuation zone only two miles from you
I called Elizabeth
What’s your plan for evacuating residents, I asked
We don’t have one, she replied
It’s up to families to save their loved ones
Cumulus clouds were forming
Ahead of the monsoon
OH! OH! you cried
Look at them!
Told me how as a girl
You found faces in them
People, dogs, horses
Shapes others couldn’t see
Why are they like that?
Where do they come from?
I took you on a longer road trip
To see rock formations in a canyon
In our high mountains, where I often hike
Discovered you became agitated on road trips
I was wearing a knee brace
Had to push your wheelchair up and downhill
Attend to your endless needs
Still, you talked about it for days afterwards
Our monsoon started the first of July
Our most important season
Every time I visited, you wanted to go see the clouds
I found places where we could pull off the road
And watch from the car
You always demanded a hot fudge sundae
At Dairy Queen
Where I hated to wait in line at the drive-up
Beside the filthy dumpster in back
I was writing new songs
I brought my guitar to play them for you
As always, even at the age of 98
You gave me insights
They’re all defined by rhythms, you said
Rhythms for dancing!
Other residents joined us
Ernestine overheard, said she loved my music
The first time she’d been friendly
Two-faced, you said
Kind to you one time, mean to you the next
You had another episode of hysterical agitation
I took you to the ER for antibiotics to treat the UTI
Your culture tested negative
But the episode faded
You seemed really weak and sluggish one day
Slurring your speech
I took you to Isaac, he ordered a brain scan
It showed nothing abnormal and you recovered
I finally took you to our university museum
Featuring the pottery of the ancient ones
Who farmed the river valleys east and west of town
Unique in the world
You were surprised, delighted, intrigued
Kept wanting to come back
Back at the home
They never saw you having fun
They only heard you crying my name
And hated it
Angry that you couldn’t adapt
Never felt at home
Never came to trust them
Last fall, hospice had ordered lorazepam oral concentrate
Administered with a dropper on your tongue
It was the “silver bullet” for anxiety attacks
Taking effect in about 20 minutes
We called it your “drops”
You asked for it two or three times a week
I couldn’t find an apartment for your disabled son
Started looking at houses for him
For both of you, maybe even for all of us
Spent days driving and touring with my realtor
Took you to my long-time PCP
We started a comprehensive review of your meds
Asked Ernestine to help
I’ll never cooperate with you, she said
You made it clear you don’t want my help
By August, it was clear the monsoon would be poor
Our drought would continue
But the clouds continued
Your delight unabated
I finally found an apartment for my brother
Management began renovating it
You had good days and bad days
Calm days and frightened days
Sometimes changing moment to moment
Your “drops” couldn’t always keep up with it
STOP IT! you wrote in your journal
It’s hard – too hard – can I continue this?
Calm down!
And when I took you out, you said
All the things you like about this town, I like, too!
This town has everything we need!
Well, almost
At the beginning of September, the apartment was ready
I arranged to sign the lease
But your disabled son changed his mind
Your heart was broken
You’d never see him again
Your fear was now almost daily
I’m so afraid, you said when I visited
I’m going to die!
And between my visits, you yelled
TIM! TIM! TIM! over and over, like a machine
Your Demon, Sleeping and Starving
I finally realized I’d come to the wrong conclusion last winter
You hadn’t been suffering from chronic UTIs
Your problem had been mental all along
Beginning last summer, with your nausea, upset stomach
Intestinal distress, negative hospital tests
Failed psychiatric treatment
I know you don’t want to hear it, Ernestine told me
But before you became involved, she was happy and calm
Now she’s miserable all the time
Stephanie was the only aide you loved, and loved you back
The one who always went the extra mile for you
Elizabeth tried to trick me into accusing her
Of insubordination
Stephanie knew her value, and left
Our PCP referred you to our leading psychiatrist
I told her I’d never heard of anyone
Suffering and declining at the end of their life
From anxiety and agitation
She said it happens sometimes
We don’t know why
She started you on an anti-psychotic, quetiapine
Back at the home, with Stephanie gone
The remaining aides let your care lapse
Your hair and teeth unbrushed
Skin rough and dry
Facial hair and nails grew long
Hearing aids uncharged, inadequately inserted
I made a list, scheduled a meeting
You and your mother are never satisfied with what we do, Elizabeth said
We don’t need your list
Our staff tell us everything we need
Your mother refuses our care
, Elizabeth said
Yelling and screaming at our staff
She’s the worst we’ve ever had
In 40 years
Ernestine nodded her agreement
And Elizabeth ran out of the office
She’s really angry, said Ernestine
We’ve only had to give 30 days notice twice before
And we’re close to doing it now, with your mother
You should stop visiting so often, said Ernestine
That would make it easier on us
I agreed to cut back to twice a week
And began taking a second, deeper look
At the other options
The nursing home next door had fluorescent lighting
Stained walls, peeling paint, hospital beds
No space for your pictures
The other assisted living place, downtown
Was understaffed, twice I gave up and left
When no one came to let me in
Pipes running along the walls inside
Tiny, dark rooms that hadn’t been painted in decades
The veteran’s hospital, ten miles east
Had huge, spacious long-term care units
Newly built, with friendly staff
But with hospital beds in shared rooms
And no space for your pictures or anything personal
Your illness advanced
Took away your ability to read
Your ability to make calls
Watch TV
TIM! TIM! TIM! you cried
Over and over, like a machine
When you needed something
And I wasn’t there
I’m afraid, you told me
I’m so scared!
They’re mean to me here!
They’re making fun of me!
Take me away!
Science had no explanation for your illness
Terminal anxiety was not an authorized diagnosis
Your chart had shown “vascular dementia” for years
But that just meant you had some short-term memory loss
Your mind remained sharp to the end
You remembered important things
Native people would say
You were possessed by an inner demon
That’s the only explanation that makes sense to me
The antipsychotic, quetiapine
Mostly kept you calm
By making you sleep
Almost all the time
Weaker, you needed more help
But the aides were overwhelmed helping others
Quetiapine robbed you of speech
And the ability to write
The last entry in your journal
October 13, 2025
I could only understand you
After you’d struggled to talk for a half hour or so
Still there were many words
You just could not find
You were hungry whenever you woke up
But that was never at mealtimes
And since they wouldn’t feed you when you were hungry
You continued to lose weight
And with weight, strength
Visibly skin and bones
The medicine was killing you
But taking you off
Would release your demon
Weak and dizzy, you fell
Bruised your head
Tore the skin of your arm
I called Ernestine to your room
Told her about your fall
She said it was not on your record
So it couldn’t have happened
She has a mental illness, Ernestine said
You can’t trust anything she says
Barely conscious, you turned 99
As far as I can tell
None of our ancestors ever lived that long
Your doctor wanted to put you in another
Hospital psychiatric unit
The nearest were either a 3-hour or 5-hour drive
But we’d been there, done that
A few days’ “treatment” in prison-like conditions
Is no solution for anyone
What you needed was love, not more drugs
So I spent a week studying and interviewing
Residential behavioral health treatment centers
In cities 3 to 5 hours away
None of them would accept you
Because of the level of care you needed
Meanwhile, you were dying in the “care” of Elizabeth and Ernestine
So I drove to the nearest city
Where based on an hour-long intake interview
A friendly agent gave me a tour of potential homes
But all had problems
Claustrophobic facilities with caring people
Or luxurious facilities with inadequate care
And I knew the drive would wear me down
Desperate, with sole responsibility for you
Needing someone else besides Ernestine
I got you admitted to hospice for a second time
Severe protein-calorie malnutrition
Was your official diagnosis
Starving to death
I wanted to bring you home
To my house
A local agency offered to provide home help
We had calls and meetings
Planning and scheduling
I called a contractor to make my home accessible
But at the last minute, the home help agency cancelled
Neither they nor any other agency here could provide caregivers
Overnight and on weekends
When we needed them the most
And when you woke up
I hate sleeping all the time! you struggled to tell me
I want to walk!
I want to go out and walk!
But I don’t want to get up
And I hate that!
They finally lost one of your $6,000 hearing aids
And now, half your hearing was gone
Your glaucoma had advanced
You said you could no longer see out of your right eye
The medicine that controlled the worst of your fear
The medicine that made you sleep and miss meals
The refusal of the home to give you the food you liked
The refusal of the home to feed you when you were hungry
The weight you’d lost as a result
It all told your body to start shutting down
And finally, you began to leave this world
Next: Losing Your Struggle
Letters to My Mother, Part 3: Losing Your Struggle
Friday, December 26th, 2025: Letters to My Mother, Stories, Trouble.
Previous: Your Journey
I’m in another world, you told me
I was dreaming
I was in my dream world
I was trying to think things out
You weren’t here
I’m just trying to get things straightened out
I’m not here (you tapped the quilt)
I’m here (you tapped your chest)
I wish I could replicate it for you
And another time:
How did you get here?
What took you so long?
I’m so scared!
They’re mean to me here!
Take me away!
I want to go home!
To my home? I asked
Yes!
So I cleared a room in my house
Hospice delivered a bed, commode, supplies
I set up a bedroom for you
With easy chair, lamp, TV, pictures
Modified my bathroom
Added thresholds for your walker in doorways
And night lights between rooms
Built a wheelchair ramp for my front entry
Shopped and filled cupboard and fridge
With your favorite foods
You couldn’t get at assisted living
Moved you the day before Thanksgiving
You were so weak
For the first time
I had to lift your entire body weight into my car
At home I cooked for you
You were hungry but couldn’t feed yourself
I had to feed you, clean up the food you spilled
And after, for the first time
You could no longer stand or walk
I had to lift your entire body weight out of bed
On and off the commode
As there was less and less of your body
I became more and more familiar with it
Body that had formed me
Body I came out of
You fell asleep in bed in mid-afternoon
Slept through till next morning
Thanksgiving Day
MOTHER! MOTHER! MOTHER! you cried
Over and over like a machine
Eyes staring up
Searching eternity
Sleeping, waking
MOTHER! MOTHER! MOTHER!
Chest heaving in your endless cry
I gave you the anxiety drops
Waited twenty minutes
A fool, I tried to explain
Your mother died long ago
You turned to stare at me
Mother was here!
Earlier!
Is Mother gone?
Is Mother dead?
We never really die, I said
We always live in the hearts of those we love
Now I was crying
Do you suppose we’ll learn to swim? you said
Where did you learn to swim?
And at sundown
DADDY! DADDY! DADDY! you cried
Desperately, like a machine
Eyes wide
Searching eternity
From then on
Every fifteen minutes or so
You cried for Daddy endlessly
Until you ran out of breath
I didn’t know what to do
In 73 years of life
Nothing had prepared me for this
By mid-evening
Your face white as a ghost
Your lips raw red from shouting
I gave you another dose
But you wouldn’t let up
Crying for Daddy
With all your heart
The medicine wasn’t helping
I called hospice
Give her the morphine, they said
I gave you the morphine
Waited an hour
DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!
I went to your side, stroked your hot brow
Tried words of comfort
You looked at me one last time
Get in bed with me! you pleaded
So I rolled the bed out from the wall
And laid down beside you
And you relaxed at last
You fell asleep
I was weak
I couldn’t take this anymore
I called Ernestine
Now you know what we’ve been putting up with for months, she said
And in the morning, she took you away
When I arrived at the home a few hours later
You were still yelling, in your room
GRANDFATHER! GRANDFATHER! GRANDFATHER!
Grandfather’s farm
That’s where you wanted your ashes spread
And now, you’re on your way
In the midst of your cries
Aides tried to swab your mouth
Apply balm to your lips
If they tried to give you water
You clamped your mouth shut
GRANDFATHER! GRANDFATHER! GRANDFATHER!
Hoping to ease your suffering
I asked Ernestine to start you on the morphine
She’ll never wake up again! she warned me
I nodded yes
Hospice said you had three days at most
But I wasn’t sure when that started
You’d had a bit to eat and drink yesterday morning
Nothing since then
At home I prepared
To return and keep a vigil by your side
Came back the next day
You were drowning
Gasping
Neck arching
Shoulders wrenching
Fighting a flood rising inside you
Fluid filling your chest and throat
They said you were sedated – another lie
You would not give up
Their comfort an empty promise
It just got worse and worse
Sunday I came prepared to spend the night
Sat and watched you drowning and fighting
Held your hand
Stroked your forehead
Called you Sweet Mother
Called you my love
Aides came two at a time to swab and turn you
Check and attend to sores
I stepped back to watch
These were the aides who cared
But the shift changed
A departing aide gave me a long hug
The hostile and indifferent aides arrived
I stayed out of their way
But they didn’t check you for sores
Treated you like an object
And when they turned you
They hurt your shoulder
You moaned
I mentioned your crippled shoulder
Asked them to be careful
Thanked them as they left
Shortly Ernestine called
Told me I would have to leave
My presence was making her staff uncomfortable
She said,
If you wanted to be with her when she died
You should’ve kept her at home
And back at home
Less than an hour later
I got the call
You had lost your struggle
Without my hand
Without my voice
Alone at the end
I returned
Past the hostile aide at the door
Past Ernestine in the dining room
I sat with you, held your still-warm shoulder
They’d dressed you in someone else’s clothes
But you were more beautiful than ever
Your long-clenched skin finally relaxed
Smooth and youthful
The lines of your bones strong and straight
Eyelids lowered over the bottomless dark
Of eyes I would never see again
A face I can never forget
That kills me to recall
I laid myself down over you
Cheek to cheek
Hugged your shoulders
Kissed your cooling flesh
I spoke to you softly
My voice hoarse from crying
Sweet mother!
Beautiful mother!
You’re with me always
Where will I go to escape?
Is that what I want?
I don’t want to live
I would’ve stayed there forever
Kept you warm as you grew cold
And as you left me
You led me into your sacred space
A space that only happens
Once in a lifetime
To show me
The Greatest Mystery
Light and darkness
Flesh and bone
Warmth and chill
The pain was gone
And all that was left
Your stunning beauty
Everlasting, in my hands
In my eyes
In my mind
Beyond life
Beyond death
Next: I Tried to Help
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