This first appeared in November, 2011. Reprinted by request.
Mid-life crises come in many shapes and sizes. My younger brother’s came after he had his second heart attack before the age of 45 after which he quit his job, sold his South Florida house and bought a double-wide outside of Ocala where he can commune with nature and listen to the dueling banjos.
My brother is a great big bear of a man, over 300 pounds with a Grizzly Adams beard that, at an airport, makes him look like a terrorist, but in Ocala makes him a Babe Magnet. “The women think I’m a catch,” he told me. “The double wide is paid for and I have my own teeth.”
Because he has unlimited spare time he is good natured about helping out those of us who are still living in the South Florida rat-race. This includes coming down periodically to stay with our 90-year old mom when my sister, who is my mom’s usual caregiver, must get out of town or risk losing her mind.
He came to stay with Mom last month when my sister went on a short trip to Naples. Through some weird scheduling coincidence, all of my siblings were also out of town: I was at a trade show in Boston. My older brother was at a meeting in Norfolk and my middle sister was at a training session in Orlando.
Text messaging is my brother’s preferred form of communication, and when the plane landed in Boston, a text was waiting for me. “WTF?” I read. “You are ALL gone?” I texted back that he would be fine. “Of course I will,” he texted. “Gotta go. Mom wants some tea. How hard can this be?”
I chose not to respond to that one. As anyone with an elderly parent knows, there are certain personality traits that change with age. In Mom’s case she has become extraordinarily structured, and any slight deviation from her regular rigid routine can trigger a minor domestic crisis. My brother has a Zen-like aspect to his personality thanks to the many medications he is on for his heart disease, but as it turned out, he was not medicated enough to deal with our mother.
I was in the rental car bus when the next text came. “What cup does she use for her tea? The black one was too big and the white one was too heavy.” Before I could respond, he texted: “No worries. I found her favorite cup, but now the tea is cold. I have to rewarm it.”
I responded with a platitude, but I knew what was coming. “The tea was too hot so I gave her some crushed ice, but the cubes were too big so I had to reheat the tea. But then it was too hot again.”
A minute later: “Is she fucking with my mind?” This was followed by: “Where’s the ruler?” Apparently, the tea cup was too hot for Mom to hold so she asked for a straw, but the straw was too long so he had to cut it. Then it was too short. “Five inches is the proper length,” he texted tersely. “In case anyone cares.”
I was checking into the hotel when I saw three more texts had come in. “I’m in Hell,” said the first. “Shoot me now,” said the second. I looked at my watch. He had been at my mother’s house for an hour. He had 71 more to go. I read the third text and, even though I’ll probably burn for it, I laughed out loud. “The tea is too sweet.”