Why I'm not going to Canada

When I was about twenty, my parents were leaving on a road trip and my father said sternly, "Judy, if anything happens to us, you will take care of Jenny, won't you?" Of course I didn't want to think about something happening to my parents, so I blew off the Jenny part.
Jenny was my cousin in Toronto, about two years older, with some severe mental disorder--I was never sure what but some kind of bipolar syndrome I suspect. I last saw her 53 years ago, so saying we were not close is an understatement. She lived her life in and out of institutions. About ten years ago, my father's words echoed loud in my mind. Our aunt, who had watched over Jenny, was failing. I offered to take over care of her affairs and, with Jenny's consent, was given power of attorney. I've been paying bills, dealing with care facilities, watching her checkbook (I made sure she had no access because she gave huge sums she couldn't afford to animal welfare shelters). I made sure she was well cared for, had necessary medical attention, paid her bills and her taxes, and all that. And as best as I could, I saw that she was happy. I became good friends with the patient coordinator or whatever at the care center, and we corresponded frequently about Jenny. My cousin and I spoke only once, and with my bad hearing and her speech garbled from a stroke, it was a disaster. I sent her small gifts--stuffed animals--and pictures of my dogs. She would look with interest and two minutes later ask, "Who are they?" But sometimes she would dictate a note to be sent to me.
Jenny died May 13, and it became a big deal for me to go to Toronto to see her buried. My oldest son, Colin, would go with me, and we would see the lawyer, Senior Health Centre people (who were so good to Jenny and really loved her) and banker, in addition to having the service. But it turned out none of those people were available on the date we chose to go, the date I had the interment ceremony in her family cemetery all planned.
Last night I had an epiphany: I was about to spend $4,000 or thereabouts to go stand at the graveside of a woman I hadn't seen in 53 years and didn't really know. I had this vision of Colin and me in Toronto for two days saying, "Now what?" I cancelled our plans but have been frantically arranging for the interment to go on--cemetery will be ready, flowers will be there, minister on hand. The only person I haven't gotten is the funeral director who will bring the ashes--it's kind of crucial that he be there or it would be like throwing a party without the guest of honor. I think some staff from the Senior Health Centre will also attend.
This decision has been hard on me. I feel guilty letting her be buried without family there (she has no other relatives and no friends) but I have come to the conclusion that I can say, with a clear conscience, "Yes, Dad, I took care of Jenny." And that's enough.

Conflicting emotions...and a big to-do-list

My cousin died Tuesday night in a Toronto nursing home. She'd been in nursing homes for ten years or more and before that lived unhappily, sometimes almost homeless, dumpster diving and all when she'd get off her meds. I never have known a specific diagnosis but I'm sure she was bipolar. I have not seen her since I was twelve--a long time ago, believe me--but for at least seven years I've been taking care of her affairs. I could not understand her on the phone since she had a stroke and my hearing is bad, and her handwriting is illegible (which caused some legal problems). I know she loved dogs, live and stuffed, and she was a pack rat, her room crowded with "stuff."
When I was about twenty, my parents were taking off on a road trip and that morning my dad fixed me with a solemn look and said, "Judy, if anything happens to us, you will take care of Jenny, won't you?" At twenty I didn't want to even think about something happening to my parents, but about ten years ago, when the aunt who watched over Jenny as best she could, began to fail, my dad's words came thundering back at me.
When people offer sympathy, I'm a bit at a loss. She was happy where she was, in a provincial home where people loved her. They've written me about her laughter and her sense of humor and I'm sad for her that's gone. I'm sad too for her miserable life and all that she missed. But she left no hole in my life, no personal sense of loss--and that too is sad.
What I am left with is all the details of administering estate, complicated greatly by the fact that she was in Canada and I am a non-resident. I now have a Canadian lawyer, have sent an obituary to the Toronto paper, have filled out cemetery papers, and done all sorts of other paper work. Yesterday, every time I did one thing, five more ran through my brain. I was exhausted last night but have a better handle on things today.
Colin, my oldest, will go with me to Canada sometime soon for a graveside service. To my surprise, the staff of the nursing home want to attend. I thought we would be the only mourners, and I am pleased. But I somehow just couldn't let her leave without some sort of farewell.
And we're going to see if my grandmother's house is still standing. I have such lovely memories of it. It will be good to be in Ontario again.

My father's words . . . and cat report #3

When I was about 20, my parents were departing on some trip (they traveled a lot) and at breakfast my father looked at me and said, "Judy, if anything happens to us, you will take care of Jenny, won't you?" Jenny is my cousin in Canada, maybe three or four years older, bipolar though I've never known the actual diagnosis. At the time, all I could think was "Nothing can happen to my parents!" But now all these years, his words come back to haunt me. I have not seen Jenny since I was about 14, and we spent some time together at my aunt's cabin on the lake the family had called home for years. But my aunt declined and was no longer able to take care of Jenny (and has since died), so for the last three or four years, I have had power of attorney and managed Jenny's affairs. She is in a provincial nursing home, where they seem to love her quirky personality and put up with her neediness. Yesterday I had to cancel her daily companion--it was costing more than Jenny's pensions bring in. And her trust funds are dwindling (though in provincial nursing homes, they take care of you no matter what). She has been diagnosed with breast cancer--thank heaven for Canada's socialized medicine. But still I am trying to be a responsible steward--and it's hard long distance. I cannot understand Jenny on the phone, so I have given up on phone calls. Occasionally she dictates a notes to someone to send to me. Both the companion and the nursing home staff member who is my contact have told me how often Jenny talks about her dear, dear cousin Judy, asks about my children, etc. So today I sent her a copy of my cookbook/memoir, with its pictures of the children and grandchildren. And I resolve to write to her more often. I've just been absorbed in counting the pennies and ignored the human factor, and I'm a bit ashamed.
Meanwhile, for those who are following my cat report: Wywy is better today, sleeping on my desk, etc., begging for food--but not eating. So this morning I bought a can of whitefish in tuna sauce cat food (I know tuna is the worse thing for an older male cat with even mild kidney disorder, but . . . .) and I bought cottage cheese, which I know she loves (but I'm afraid will give her diarrhea). She is scarfing them down, so I've lost all my cat food principles. I'm going to start trying to mix in the kidney diet food gradually. This is the fourth day since her traumatic visit to the "spa."
Tonight Jeannie and Betty and I had dinner at Betty's Star Cafe. Jeannie and I split chicken fried steak (who could eat a whole one?) and I was stuffed, could barely touch the mashed potatoes with cream gravy that I had longed for. Thoroughly fun, though I'm full and feel like I've fallen off the calorie wagon.