realities of the situation clipped their enthusiasm. “Even if we leave our house and all of our life insurance to Jason, which would not be fair to Josh,” Trish says, reminding them that she does have another, albeit “normal,” son to think about, “it won’t be enough to keep him in assisted living forever. What will they do when he runs out of money?” She shudders. “I don’t even want to think about that.” Trish slurps her tea and glues her eyes to the shining laminated table top.
She is right, of course. Establishing a group home involves not only the purchase of the physical home itself, but also the property’s upkeep, the screening, training, and employment of appropriately certified staff, utilities, transportation for their children to get to and from work and social activities, and a hundred other little things that add up to more than too much for any of the families to handle.
“I put Mara on the waiting list at RADS,” Sylvia whispers through the tendrils of steam rising from her mug, not daring to meet their eyes. Reality And Down Syndrome—RADS—is a new facility near Fox Chapel, touting a green and New Age-y approach to group living. It is seen as “cool” by Mara and her peers. They were all jealous when she told them that she was moving there. Of course, the waiting list is about four years long, but at least she’s on it.
Lois puts a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Syl wrings a wistful smile from her tired lips and looks up at her friend. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I know.” Lois knows all right. Lois knows her friend is scared, and tired, and worried, and overwrought. Sylvia’s heart attack had set all six mothers in motion, scrambling to make long-term plans for their children’s care. All six had had their children later in life, and five of them lived in fear of being in Sylvia’s shoes. Barbara, Donald’s mom, was so worried that she’d wound up in the UPMC Emergency Room herself with chest pains brought on by a panic attack. They gave her Ativan and told her to exercise to keep her anxiety under control as her life’s clock ticked down.
Comforting.
“I’m serious about doing this,” Lois tells Sylvia and Trish. “I know it will be expensive, but let’s just see how much money we’re talking about and if it’s even remotely possible, okay? I mean, before you write it off as a pipe dream.”
***
“Here’s one,” Lois says, waving Earl over to the computer from the jigsaw puzzle he has spread all over the 1960s dining room table. He’d had to relocate plastic bags stuffed with other plastic bags, an old cake box filled with bottle caps, unopened packages of Pokemon birthday party plates, a case of Hunt’s catsup bottles (also unopened), a Stratocaster guitar with no strings, a large bag of marbles, several “terrible towels” (it’s a Steelers thing), and a big plastic cooler full of mismatched mittens in order to make room. He steps over a heap of vintage ice skates to get to the computer. (You never know when you might need a rusty pair of ice skates from the 1950s.)
“I know Bellevue’s kind of far, but look at this place. Look at the price.” Lois hates to get excited before she had collected every single fact pertaining to an issue, but she couldn’t help it. The house has seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, a nice kitchen, big common areas, and is close to public transportation. The school system is good—not that they would use the schools, but good schools attract nice families, so, Lois thinks, the area must not be terrible. She jots down the real estate agent’s number as Earl clicks on pictures of the property.
“I don’t know…Bellevue…,” he mutters. Earl had been born and raised in Upper St. Clair and he holds very definite opinions about each and every community in and around Pittsburgh. Lois is from Mt. Lebanon, which is not much more diverse than Earl’s childhood neighborhood, but
She is right, of course. Establishing a group home involves not only the purchase of the physical home itself, but also the property’s upkeep, the screening, training, and employment of appropriately certified staff, utilities, transportation for their children to get to and from work and social activities, and a hundred other little things that add up to more than too much for any of the families to handle.
“I put Mara on the waiting list at RADS,” Sylvia whispers through the tendrils of steam rising from her mug, not daring to meet their eyes. Reality And Down Syndrome—RADS—is a new facility near Fox Chapel, touting a green and New Age-y approach to group living. It is seen as “cool” by Mara and her peers. They were all jealous when she told them that she was moving there. Of course, the waiting list is about four years long, but at least she’s on it.
Lois puts a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Syl wrings a wistful smile from her tired lips and looks up at her friend. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I know.” Lois knows all right. Lois knows her friend is scared, and tired, and worried, and overwrought. Sylvia’s heart attack had set all six mothers in motion, scrambling to make long-term plans for their children’s care. All six had had their children later in life, and five of them lived in fear of being in Sylvia’s shoes. Barbara, Donald’s mom, was so worried that she’d wound up in the UPMC Emergency Room herself with chest pains brought on by a panic attack. They gave her Ativan and told her to exercise to keep her anxiety under control as her life’s clock ticked down.
Comforting.
“I’m serious about doing this,” Lois tells Sylvia and Trish. “I know it will be expensive, but let’s just see how much money we’re talking about and if it’s even remotely possible, okay? I mean, before you write it off as a pipe dream.”
***
“Here’s one,” Lois says, waving Earl over to the computer from the jigsaw puzzle he has spread all over the 1960s dining room table. He’d had to relocate plastic bags stuffed with other plastic bags, an old cake box filled with bottle caps, unopened packages of Pokemon birthday party plates, a case of Hunt’s catsup bottles (also unopened), a Stratocaster guitar with no strings, a large bag of marbles, several “terrible towels” (it’s a Steelers thing), and a big plastic cooler full of mismatched mittens in order to make room. He steps over a heap of vintage ice skates to get to the computer. (You never know when you might need a rusty pair of ice skates from the 1950s.)
“I know Bellevue’s kind of far, but look at this place. Look at the price.” Lois hates to get excited before she had collected every single fact pertaining to an issue, but she couldn’t help it. The house has seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, a nice kitchen, big common areas, and is close to public transportation. The school system is good—not that they would use the schools, but good schools attract nice families, so, Lois thinks, the area must not be terrible. She jots down the real estate agent’s number as Earl clicks on pictures of the property.
“I don’t know…Bellevue…,” he mutters. Earl had been born and raised in Upper St. Clair and he holds very definite opinions about each and every community in and around Pittsburgh. Lois is from Mt. Lebanon, which is not much more diverse than Earl’s childhood neighborhood, but
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