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Welcome to the Departure Lounge: Adventures in Mothering Mother

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Overview

The adventure begins when Meg’s mother, Addie, vacationing in Florida, takes a spill. At the hospital, Addie bolts upright on her gurney and yells “I demand an autopsy!” before passing out cold.

“One minute, she is unconscious, the next, she’s nuts,” observes Meg Federico in this hilarious and poignant memoir of taking care of eighty-year-old Addie and her relatively new (and equally old) husband, Walter, in their not-so-golden years.

Addie’s accident is a portent of things to ...

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Welcome to the Departure Lounge: Adventures in Mothering Mother

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Overview

The adventure begins when Meg’s mother, Addie, vacationing in Florida, takes a spill. At the hospital, Addie bolts upright on her gurney and yells “I demand an autopsy!” before passing out cold.

“One minute, she is unconscious, the next, she’s nuts,” observes Meg Federico in this hilarious and poignant memoir of taking care of eighty-year-old Addie and her relatively new (and equally old) husband, Walter, in their not-so-golden years.

Addie’s accident is a portent of things to come over the next two years as Meg oversees her mother’s home care in the Departure Lounge, the nickname Meg gives Addie and Walter’s house in suburban New Jersey. It is a place of odd behaviors and clashing caregivers, where chaos and confusion reign supreme.

Meg had expected that Addie and Walter would settle into a Rockwellian dotage of docile dependency. Instead the pair regress into terrible teens. Meg watches from the sidelines in disbelief as her mother and stepfather, forbidden by doctors to drink, conspire to order cases of scotch by phone; as Addie’s attendant accuses the evening staff of midnight voodoo; as the increasingly demented Walter’s sex drive becomes unbridled and mail-order sex aids are delivered to the front door. Meg jumps in to cope with the pandemonium–even as she struggles to manage her own family back in Nova Scotia.

With a fresh voice and a keen eye for the absurd, Meg Federico writes a story that will resonate with the generation now caring for their parents. Welcome to the Departure Lounge is a moving and madcap chronicle of a family–their moments of joy, the memories they’d rather forget, and the just plain loopiness of their situation. “How’s life at the Departure Lounge?” Meg’s brother asks. Meg doesn’t know where to start. “Let’s just say the drinks are outrageous, and they never run out of nuts.”

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Editorial Reviews

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"Watching my mother for the past few years has been a lot like watching a blindfolded lady ride a unicycle on a tightrope."

Sometimes, all you can do is laugh. Federico was happily ensconced in Nova Scotia when the fateful call came from Florida. Her mother, Addie, had fallen and was taken to the hospital. On the spot, Addie's husband, Walter, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Suddenly, any hope of the elderly couple living out their days in peaceful bliss was dashed.

Leaving her husband and kids, Federico flies south, with the goal of settling Addie and Walter back in their New Jersey home. Hiring a bevy of home health care aides and therapists, she negotiates both cost and care schedules with her siblings, naïvely believing she can now resume her life. Repeatedly she is called back to New Jersey to find the refrigerator empty, the house a mess, jewelry missing, Addie bruised, Walter shouting, and both of them increasingly more confused.

The "Departure Lounge" is the name Federico applies to Addie and Walter's home, but to where? The reader is free to decide: Death? Insanity? Surrender? As Federico well knows, when you enter the Departure Lounge, it's best just to hang on and try to enjoy the ride. (Spring 2009 Selection)
From the Publisher
“Meg Federico has written a deeply moving, hilarious, and unforgettable manifesto on mothering her mother, as Addie takes center stage in the finale of her life. Book clubs will rally around this one–for the laughs, for the sheer honesty, and for the lively discussions that will ensue. Federico has woven the details of her experience, sometimes tragic and always transcendent, into a memoir you will not be able to put down. This is a mother-daughter love story, with an ending that sparkles like the finest diamond.”
–Adriana Trigiani, bestselling author of the Big Stone Gap series and Very Valentine

“Dealing with her aging mother and stepfather is not fun, but in Federico’s deft hands, it’s poignant, terrifying, and very funny.”
–Phyllis Theroux, author of California and Other States of Grace

“[A] frank account, by turns sad and terribly funny . . . Federico gently delineates the humiliating burden caused by the loss of memory, while humanely portraying a brave new sympathy and understanding between her mother and herself.”
–Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“What Meg Federico thinks of as her parents’ spiraling out of control is sort of normal behavior in the South. That’s why I loved this book so much–it’s wise and hilarious, and, no matter where you live, you’ll get something out of it, especially if you have aged parents.”
–Gayden Metcalfe, co-author of Being Dead Is No Excuse

“Federico, who has the eye of a sitcom writer, views her mother with a mixture of love, humor, sympathy and exasperation. . . . A funny yet touching portrayal of the indignities of aging.”
–Kirkus Reviews

Publishers Weekly

In this frank account, by turns sad and terribly funny, the journalist Federico describes how her distant, patrician octogenarian mother, Addie, grew batty and vulnerable. Federico, the youngest of Addie's five children, rearranged her life with her own family in Nova Scotia to fly back and forth over the course of several years to Oldhill, N.J., to assist, along with her brother William, her mother and her mother's Alzheimer's-addled second husband, Walter. Recently married (Addie's first husband, the author's father, died of a heart attack years before), the couple drank heavily, complicating Walter's tendency to become abusive and Addie's physical frailty and bad eyesight. Finally, constant home care was required for the couple, necessitating the hiring of a team of revolving, frequently in-fighting workers, some truly caring, others downright crooked. The house became a disaster zone, christened the Departure Lounge, where the inhabitants erupted in loony non sequiturs and erratic behavior. Addie would put on all her jewelry and sing show tunes (until the jewelry mysteriously disappeared); Walter began receiving sex toys in the mail; and a trip to the bank resulted in $1,600 in dollar bills flying out of the limo window on the way home. Federico gently delineates the humiliating burden caused by the loss of memory, while humanely portraying a brave new sympathy and understanding between her mother and herself. (Feb.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Library Journal

When her 81-year-old mother suddenly descended into dementia, humor writer Federico flew 1000 miles away from her family and her job, thinking she'd help for a short time until her mother settled in with the aides. Things didn't turn out to be that simple. This book attempts to bring humor to the undeniably burdensome (yet often deeply rewarding) experienceof caring for one's aging parents, but it quickly descends into camp, with caricatured descriptions that make empathy difficult.
—Elizabeth Brinkley

Kirkus Reviews
Canadian humorist Federico debuts with a frank account of managing the home care of her aging mother, Addie, and Addie's recently acquired second husband, Walter. When living on their own in West Palm Beach was no longer an option for the ailing couple, Federico and her brother put them on a private plane to New Jersey. A nursing home did not work out, so home care, provided by a large and rotating team of aides, became the solution. For two years, the author shuttled between her home in Nova Scotia and her mother's home, the "Departure Lounge," as crisis after crisis demanded her attention. Federico, who has the eye of a sitcom writer, views her mother with a mixture of love, humor, sympathy and exasperation. There's a sharper touch to her description of Alzheimer's-addled Walter, who was alternately adoring and abusive toward Addie, who was frail, nearly blind and prone to falling down. The aides, numbering as many as 15 at one time, were a mixed bag-some honest and caring, others unreliable, and at least one a jewel thief. A heavy drinker, Walter bought Scotch by the case, ordered sex toys by mail and often didn't recognize himself in the mirror. Addie planned an 82nd birthday bash but forgot to invite guests. There are dozens of such episodes, many ready-made for the screen: a chaotic outing by limo to New York for Addie to get her hair done at Elizabeth Arden's; a second trip to Fifth Avenue for Addie to replace her missing jewelry; a bank visit that ended with hundreds of dollar bills flying out the car window. Federico includes enough details of her mother's earlier life to show her lamentable progression from perfectly groomed, wealthy, socially adept wife and mother toincontinent old woman dependent on hired help and dressed in mismatched clothes. A funny yet touching portrayal of the indignities of aging. Agent: Carolyn Swayze/Carolyn Swayze Literary Agency
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781400067954
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 2/10/2009
  • Pages: 208
  • Product dimensions: 6.30 (w) x 9.30 (h) x 1.00 (d)

Meet the Author

Meg Federico regularly writes humor for the National Post. Her work has appeared in The Globe and Mail, Shambhala Sun, and Agni Magazine (Boston University Press). She has written commentary and created documentaries for CBC Radio. For several years, she wrote a successful column, “Transitions: Issues in Caregiving,” for the Halifax Daily News. She lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, with her family.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

I DEMAND AN AUTOPSY!

I was sitting at my desk plowing through bills when the phone rang. My stepsister, Cathy, never called unless we had “problems.” Her father, Walter Huber (age eighty-two), and my mother, Addie Henry (age eighty-one), after a dramatic and sometimes bruising courtship, married a few years ago. Not one of the eight offspring (me and my four siblings, Cathy and her two) in our newly blended family was pleased about this union, but there was nothing we could do about it. After all, our parents were grown-ups.

At present, Addie and Walter were escaping the New Jersey winter, vacationing in West Palm Beach, Florida, where, Cathy informed me, Mom stumbled and fell and hit her head on the curb. A stranger, seeing the two old people in a state of emergency (a fairly common sight in Florida), kindly called an ambulance for Mom and packed Walter into a taxi.

The ambulance paramedic, recoiling from Mother’s ninety-proof breath, scribbled etoh all over her medical forms. etoh is medical jargon for ethanol. In Mom’s case, it meant martinis.

While Mom was out cold, the ER staff tried to pry information out of Walter, who was upset and couldn’t remember anything. Suddenly, Mom sat bolt upright on the gurney and yelled, “I demand an autopsy!” before passing out again.

“I’m not getting an autopsy!” Walter roared. “You have to be dead to get an autopsy!” Apparently, after the nurses got him calmed down, they shipped him off to an emergency Alzheimer’s unit (which they also have in Florida), where he had been locked up for three days before he finally divulged Cathy’s number. She was now on her way to retrieve him.

I called St. Stephen’s Hospital and finally got Mom. “Oh, hello, dearie,” she said brightly, as though I just happened to call as she bounded off the tennis court. “Isn’t this a bore? I could leave right now, but to be safe I thought I’d get a few tests done.” She sounded peachy. “A lamp fell on my head at the hotel, but really it’s nothing. A big old Biedermeier lamp!” Like any good liar, she added the Biedermeier bit to make her story plausible. The facts were irrelevant; I wasn’t going to win any arguments against that lamp.

Watching my mother for the past few years had been a lot like watching a blindfolded lady ride a unicycle on a tightrope. You can’t take your eyes off her as she wobbles up there completely unaware that she’s fifty feet above the ground because she can’t see. And if you attempt to point out her peril, she thinks you’re trying to ruin her career. Just when you’re sure she’s going to plunge to her death, the blind lady yanks the bike upright. “See?” she says. “You worry too much.”

I did worry. I’d been worried for years, because one day Mom was going to fall. It would be a terrible accident I could not prevent, and she might just fall right on top of me.

Then later that same day, Cathy called again, from the Sunshine State. Our problems were getting worse. “You better get down here. This hospital is not exactly Columbia-Presbyterian, and frankly I have my hands full with Walter.” The emergency lockup ward for stray dementia folks was like a holding cell. Walter’s suitcase had been ransacked and his wallet emptied, and he was so distraught he’d forgotten how to use the toilet.

“The food here isn’t as good as the other places,” he confided to Cathy, presumably referring to the swanky four-star resorts he and Mom patronized. “And that fellow is not very interesting,” he said, indicating his roommate, who could only burble.

I lived in Nova Scotia, a thousand miles from Mom’s house in New Jersey and a lot farther than that from West Palm Beach. I had a job (fund-raising), three children (a son, fourteen; two daughters, twelve and eleven), a husband (Rob), and a dog. My mother was going blind, and as she gradually lost her eyesight she began to drink even more heavily than she had before. Sometimes Walter drove her to the ER, where she got stitched up and was kept overnight for observation. Sometimes an ambulance was required.

I rarely heard about these accidents from Mom because she didn’t want me to know. One of her remaining gossipy friends would report the gory details of each debacle with keen enthusiasm.

“I’m glad your father didn’t live long enough to see this!” declared my informant.

I didn’t bother to point out that if Daddy weren’t planted in the family plot, Mom would not be running around with Walter.

If the situation sounded bad enough, I jumped on a plane. But it had to be sufficiently dire to warrant the turmoil: getting time off work, lining up babysitters, convincing my skeptical spouse we had to spend the money. Of course, it’s very hard to tell, long-distance, how bad things really are. My half sister, Alice, lived in New Jersey not that far from Addie, but I hated to ask Alice to shoulder Addie’s predicaments. (Alice had recently dealt with her own mother’s illness and death—she’d fulfilled her filial duties.) My brothers and my sister all lived a plane ride away; we had to jump through hoops and pass through time zones to get back home. I was usually the first responder on the crisis management team because my flight was the shortest.

But back to West Palm Beach. First the good news: Walter was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. That he had it wasn’t good, but finally a doctor had said so. Frankly, I’d always found Walter scary. One minute he was calling Mom his “beloved Bride,” the next he was shaking his fist at her, red-faced and swearing. If I was around, he’d yell at me, too. And he drove on the wrong side of the road. When I tried to talk to Cathy about him, I got nowhere. “He’s always been like that,” she’d say. I naïvely thought that an expert medical diagnosis would change things for the better. Now, instead of running around loose, Walter would be managed. By experts.

The bad news was that over the course of the next few days, my mother went from her bossy self to an “unresponsive state,” and the hospital offered no explanation. I hit the phone lines and frantically briefed my brothers and sisters, choreographed a quick departure (babysitter, dog walker, tuna noodle casserole), and got on a plane. As the jet thundered down the runway, I had no idea if, on the return trip, I’d be drinking martinis with Mom in executive class or accompanying her home in a box.

I had a five-hour layover in the Continental terminal at Newark Airport, which is not my favorite place because years ago, quite possibly in the exact spot where I sat waiting for my flight to West Palm Beach, my father dropped dead of a heart attack. I was getting married and on the day before my wedding, my oldest brother, William, was flying in for the big event. Dad invited me along for the ride out to the airport, but I didn’t want to get stuck in the backseat of the Buick while he drove Mom crazy by telling her how to drive. The whole reason she was driving in the first place was that Dad couldn’t see an elephant if it was seated on the dashboard. On the other hand, Mom was so accustomed to his insistent navigation, she couldn’t get anywhere without him: Dad hunching forward in his seat telling her to watch the road, Mother sighing dramatically to let him know she was just letting him think she was taking orders—I couldn’t stand it.

So I told Dad I had a few last-minute bride-type errands—and while Dad was dying, I was in a department store buying a beige slip.

When my stupid errand was finished, I sat drinking tea in the kitchen with Frances, the black lady who had pretty much raised me. She fiddled with cut flowers for the guest rooms, humming, “Loh de doh,” under her breath, as she had for as long as I could remember. I hummed that song myself sometimes: Loh de doh. “They must have hit traffic,” I said to Frances.

Then William called to say that Dad had had a heart attack. Airports have defibrillators stationed all over the place now, but twenty years ago they did not.

“It doesn’t look good, honey,” he said from a pay phone.

For years, Dad had never gone out of the house without a vial of nitro tablets in his pocket, but in the end they didn’t save him. Who knows if he even had time to get one into his mouth? I thought of him hurrying down the concourse with his crookedy old-man walk and then falling, collapsing, while people like me looked on.

Maybe those people still tell the story about the time they saw the old man drop dead in the airport.

My mother didn’t miss a beat. By the next morning she had a huge mess on her hands because cases of wedding champagne were being delivered at the back door, as the first of the funeral flowers were arriving at the front. Confronting the real disaster—namely, life without Dad—would have to wait. The rest of us could afford to go numb, but Mom had to move into action.

She stationed herself in the dining room with a yellow legal pad and a very sharp pencil, her blouse crisp, the stiff collar framing her face. The platinum wedding band on her finger looked obvious and sad. As I slid into a chair, Frances placed a hot cup of coffee in front of me. We didn’t say a word to each other, because those were the dining room rules.

Mom tapped her pencil and frowned at her long list. She must have figured that Dad would die first; he was so much older than she was. She had probably planned the funeral years ago or at least thought about it, because she was big on planning ahead. Looking up at me, she jumped right in.

“Darling, your father’s favorite suit, the blue pinstripe he wanted to wear to your wedding? It’s fresh from the dry cleaner. Would you mind, terribly, if he was buried in that suit?”

“Of course not, Mother.”

“Now, the dress I was going to wear to the wedding is navy and it isn’t low-cut, really. It’s just as appropriate for a funeral, so would you mind if I—”

“Of course not,” I said. Mother gripped her pencil with both hands, before releasing it to target another item.

“Darling, the wedding caterers? Well, I asked them to handle the funeral reception. They’re all set to make the tortellini and the—”

“That will be fine,” I said, as she checked that item off her list. “And if we slice it in the kitchen and serve it directly on plates, no one will recognize the wedding cake.”

I gulped. I did not want those mourners eating what they thought was just some nice white cake! My father was dead and my wedding was canceled. I wanted to stand on a cliff and throw the cake—all three layers, plus the plastic bride and groom—into the ocean while everyone watched and felt sorry for me.

“Of course you can, Mom,” I said. “About your wedding, dear—it’s terrible. Your father would be so distressed about it, if he knew.” Mother gazed at me tenderly, and I felt the tears well up. “But it is really so convenient that everyone is already on their way. Saves a lot of phone calls.” I choked on my coffee.

Within a day, the entire event had been transformed from wedding white to bereavement black, with the exception of one small detail. I couldn’t reach the wedding photographer, who was probably out taking pictures of some other bride and groom, who’d never know how lucky they were.

“Candid Shots of Dad’s Funeral will look nice on your coffee table,” said William as he chewed on a slice of ham. Funeral hams were now arriving along with the flowers, and Mom sent the champagne back. “Tasteful black leather, gold lettering, and the date—now, wouldn’t that be a conversation piece?” he asked through another large mouthful. In our family, everyone eats and makes wisecracks rather than messy displays of grief.

“That is not funny,” I told him, but I laughed.

Of course there is no such album, because I managed to cancel the photographer at the last minute. Then, figuring there was no point in waiting, Rob and I ran down to City Hall and got married. In lieu of a celebration, my entire extended family—all seventeen of us— descended on Black’s funeral home.

Every room in the converted Victorian house displayed caskets, discreetly backlit and adorned with real flowers. Gleaming wood and polished brass created a corporate atmosphere. We chose the “Executive,” which seemed fitting for the businessman my father had been. On the day of his viewing, dressed as though ready for a day at work, he looked a lot like he was lying in a large desk drawer.

The grandchildren feigned terror at the sight of a dead body, but poked at Dad’s face when no one was looking, then climbed underneath the coffin, where they played comfortably out of the way in a world of their own.

The reception after the burial was crowded and noisy. People juggled their drinks and plates of tortellini, salad spilling over the edge. But Mom stood in her navy-blue dress, smiling and nodding with a polite disinterest that deflected the slightest intimacy. Without Dad, Mom was stranded. Once or twice I saw her eye the crowd, exasperation crossing her face: Now, where has he gotten to? Then she remembered, and her shoulders sagged. A gloss of manners and poise held her together so effectively that my cousin thought Mom didn’t care. But, to me, those sagging shoulders said it all.

And poor Rob—as he ate his incognito wedding cake, people kept pumping his hand, saying, “Congratulations, we’re so sorry.”

Now I wish I had a few photos. Just one or two.

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Reading Group Guide

1. Meg’s mother and step-father both suffered from dementia. What seemed to be some of the most challenging aspects of caring for them and what advice might you give for those who are currently caring for loved ones with Alzheimer’s disease?

2. As the Boomer Generation cares for their ailing parents and faces their own approach to old-age, what steps can they take to prepare themselves and their families for what’s to come?

3. What do you think the care-giving industry needs today in order to successfully handle their increasing demand while still offering the best support and care for their patients?

4. Addie & Walter were in a different financial situation than the average aging individual. In what ways did this help and hinder their care?

5. What advice might you have for those children that face the difficult decision of keeping their parents at home or placing them in assisted living or nursing home care?

6. As with many aging individuals with dementia, the confusion brought about a tremendous amount of frustration and physical aggression in Addie and Walter. They also faced alcohol and sexual issues. Have you had to deal with similar issues with your parents or loved ones?

7. Meg Federico uses humor throughout WELCOME TO THE DEPARTURE LOUNGE when describing some of the emotional and trying experiences she had while caring for her parents. Did a sense of humor help you while caring for parents or other loved ones?

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 15 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 15 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 30, 2009

    Welcome to the Departure Lounge

    This was a good book but it should be fiction. No one I know could afford to have a staff of 14, much less spending all the other money mentioned in the book, i.e eating at such classy restaurants and buying such expensive clothes. It seems unbelievable to me due to the fact that it apparently was written by and about a very rich family. It would have been more helpful and enlightening if it were written about an average family in America, I think.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 30, 2014

    This story was a hoot as well as heartbreaking. Although I don't

    This story was a hoot as well as heartbreaking. Although I don't have aging parents, and don't know anyone with that much money at
    their disposal, I could still relate to the conflicts, anguish and frustration of the author. It's written that well.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 25, 2013

    It was actually between 2-3 stars, but I didn't have the option.

    It was supposed to be a memoir, but read like a novel for me. Parts of it were unbelievable. And I mean parts like hiring as many as 11 different people to wander in and out of these old folks lives WEEKLY (one with Alzheimer's and one who went in and out of reality) - with no one in charge. The daughter (who hired these people) then returned to her own family in Canada and came back sort of monthly. It was funny at times; it was sad at times. We discussed it at book club. I found it interesting that members that were going through similar situations - or had gone through similar situations - didn't like the book. The few members who have not yet- of necessity - become involved in their aging parents lives, enjoyed the book.

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  • Posted May 9, 2010

    emotional

    I found myself laughing at the absurdity of the situation and wry humour at the same time I cried with sorrow about the departure lounge; relieved that, as someone caring for a parent with dementia while trying to juggle a normal family life, someone else has walked the walk and can talk the talk. Didn't want to put it down!

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  • Posted August 5, 2009

    Must read this memoir!!

    In Meg Federico's exceptionally well-written memoir, she shares her bittersweet story of caring for her dementia-impaired mother, Addie, during her final months. But keeping Addie in her own home means coping with the antics of her Alzheimers-ridden husband, Walter. An extensive health care team is assembled to take care of all the couple's needs. When complete and total chaos erupts, Ms. Federico chooses to remain with her mother, sacrificing signifcant periods of time with her family. She strives to make her mother as comfortable as possible during her deterioration. I absolutely loved this wonderful, touching book. As I read, I was extremely impressed by Ms. Federico's poignant candor and warm humor. She was able to eloquently express the indignity suffered by both Addie and Walter. Repeatedly, I was touched by her deep feelings of compassion for her mother. This book teaches many important lessons. I learned that in order to survive anything, a sense of humor is essential, even in the most dire circumstances. Unfathomable patience and understanding are also expressed for us to learn from. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND that everyone with aging parents read this captivating, heartwarming memoir.

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  • Posted July 2, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I laughed, I cried.

    This book was easy to read and gave me a laugh or a tear on every page. I loved her writing and hope she writes more soon. A story many can relate to with aging parents. I gave this book to 2 people going through a similar situation and they enjoyed it too.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 29, 2009

    So funny, So true

    I gave this book to my Mom for Mother's Day. She got such a kick out of it. Everytime I came over she was raving about another part of the book she had read. Perfect for anyone who has had to take care of another person they love. I highly reccommend this book!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 20, 2009

    Welcome to the Departure Lounge

    I found the book rather depressing; but then my Mother had dementia for several years. However, the ladies in our bookclub who had not been touched by this disease seemed to get an enlightened education from the book.

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  • Posted May 12, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Old Folks Home

    This story actually made me sad. Sad that this daughter felt compelled to tell a story that, while I am sure truthful and accurate, depicted her mother in such a negative way. The lengths that seniors will go to in order to remain independent is extraordinary and compelling. I do commend the author on her care for her mother and her time spent taking care of her during her period of decline. I would also add that many people were raised by parents of this generation and by women who were wives first and mother's second. It wasn't perfect...but it was what they knew and what was expected of them. I'm glad our generation has broken this mold. I'm not sure I would recommend the book though.

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  • Posted April 10, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Great book, couldn't put it down

    This is a wonderful, touching book describing the emmotions of both the writer and the characters. Although the reality of this illness is devastating, the writer showed her compassion, intelligence, and her unique sense of humor.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 8, 2009

    Growing Old touches many.

    One rarely thinks how growing old will affect/effect others. Many will never understand how their aging touches others. I am not sure how one should feel as I watch the aging of those I know or love. This book may give someone a bit of insight they never conceived would/could happen to their lives due to an aging loved one.

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  • Posted February 23, 2009

    Funny and touching read - a gentle introduction to the perils of caring for one's parents...

    This was a touching, hilarious, and by turns sad book that was impossible to put down. Federico brings a fresh eye to the very timely subject of caring for one's parents.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 19, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted May 13, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 16, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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