San Francisco Chronicle - (Sunday)
A MOTHER, A SON AND A HUG
Year of isolation for Alameda woman, 94, ends with embrace
The end was finally near, or at least that’s how it looked. As Marjorie Mann waited to receive her first coronavirus vaccine shot in January, she thought of what she had missed most during the past nine months, and what she might soon experience again.
Inside the Waters Edge Lodge assisted living center in Alameda, portable tables had replaced exercise equipment in a small room near the front entrance. A halfdozen CVS workers in full protective gear welcomed residents and administered the shots.
Marjorie, then 93, softly gripped her magenta walker, smiling behind her yellow mask adorned with red ribbons and fruit designs, and shuffled
toward the front of the line.
“Freedom,” she said after receiving her shot.
“I hope to get my hair done again,” she laughed. “Go out to dinner, have a glass of wine.”
She also longed to spend time with her family — to actually be together, in the same space, without glass separating them or phone calls substituting for facetoface conversation. She looked forward to the day she could embrace her children and grandchildren, including her son, David, who had cared for her so well during the year but who could not set foot inside Waters Edge.
Like thousands of others in nursing homes and assisted living centers, Marjorie had spent most of her days and nights alone in her small onebedroom apartment. In a worldwide pandemic that had killed millions, she was at the very tip of the dagger — elderly and living in an assisted living facility susceptible to outbreaks.
Of the more than 1,500 people reported to have died of COVID19 in Alameda County, more than 1,300 were 61 and older.
But on Jan. 20, when Marjorie received her first shot, it would still be months before she could begin to enjoy the simple pleasures she missed. Physical contact with her family would be among the last.
A Chronicle reporter and photographer spent time with the nonagenarian and her son as they stretched toward the finish line and waited to reunite. As with anything COVIDrelated, nothing was straightforward. There were scares, frustrations, laughs, setbacks and sprinkles of hope.
***
Marjorie was watching TV when the crash happened. It was Feb. 7, 2020, and a sport utility vehicle careened into the master bedroom of her condo, about 6 feet from her.
“I thought a plane crashed,” she said. “I was waiting for the explosion.”
She got chest pains and spent more than a week in the hospital. David Mann remembered a moment when her vital signs waned. “She was fading away,” he recalled. He grabbed a nurse, who quickly stabilized her.
Doctors diagnosed her with broken heart syndrome. She had a swollen chamber in her heart, causing blood to pump abnormally. The symptoms are similar to a heart attack. It can be triggered by great emotional distress.
What she didn’t know at the time was that the stress had only just begun.
A little more than a week after the crash, Marjorie left the hospital and walked into Waters Edge Lodge, an assistedliving facility a couple of miles northwest of Oakland International Airport. She fit right in. What she lost in independence, living alone in her condo, she gained in social interaction.
Bingo, group meals, card games and entertainment. She warned her son not to call her in the 7 o’clock hour — that was for “Jeopardy.”
But just three weeks after moving in, the card games and shopping trips stopped. The inhouse salon closed down. Visits became forbidden. The pandemic had hit and assistedliving facilities were ground zero.
***
Marjorie was born in Escalon, a small town on the drive to Yosemite National Park, before moving to Alameda as an 8yearold. Her father worked for the government and her mother was a bookbinder.
She met her future husband, Bob, on the island. They’d both ride bikes among the military facilities.
“It just seemed like I knew him all of my life,” she said.
The couple were Elks Club members and part of the Rolling Herd, driving their RV across the country. She’d cook Sunday dinners and the family would dine at the Elks once a month.
As her children started their own families, she would paint China, knit booties for her grandchildren and cook pottery in her garage kiln. The extended family would all visit Marjorie’s brother in Maui, with impromptu family reunions on the lanai.
In 2004, her husband passed away and she lived alone for the first time.
“We wanted her to live with us,” her son said, “but she didn’t want to do it.”
***
Marjorie took the phone calls as they trickled in throughout the day. It was Jan. 31, 2021, her 94th birthday. Staff decorated the door of her room.
Her son dropped off a homecooked meal — rack of lamb, mashed potatoes, green beans, green salad and velvet cake. He handed it to a worker who came outside.
“And I snuck her in a glass of Chardonnay,” Mann laughed.
“She gave me a happy life,” he said. “How many dinners did she feed me?”
Mann was born and raised in Alameda with two older sisters. His mother worked in a State Farm insurance office, but mostly tended to the family while his father worked long hours as a crane oiler.
“She went to all my Little League games, swimming. She was supportive and came to all my activities,” he said. “My dad was working and rarely able to go to those events.”
Mann married his wife, Carol, who works at the San Francisco Zoo, in 1987.
In the late 1990s, Mann left his sales job and bought out one of the original owners of La Val’s Pizza in Alameda.
“I always had restaurant in my blood,” the 63yearold said. The profit margin thinned and he sold the business in late 2019.
In February 2020, the San Leandro resident began working in the pro shop at the Corica Park Golf Course in
Alameda. He loved golf, the hours were flexible and the course sat across the street from his mother’s care facility.
But the course shut its doors in March 2020 with the first stayathome order. He was laid off. For six weeks he was out of work.
He spent his time renovating his mom’s damaged condo.
***
Waters Edge is a familyrun operation. Stephen Zimmerman is chief operating officer. His mother is director of nursing. His sister is CEO. Their retired father started the business.
They’ve operated two facilities in Alameda for 50 years. None like 2020.
“It was stressful,” Zimmerman said. “Just that fear. Waiting for tests to come back ... What new symptom to look for. And you’re managing the fear of staff and families, too.”
It’s been hard watching his residents stuck inside their rooms. During the pandemic he noticed more falls associated with balance and leg issues. Isolated in their apartments, residents got less exercise and their muscles atrophied quickly.
Some residents struggled with keeping on weight.
“When they’re with people, they eat more and it’s not a chore,” he said.
***
“You got it on speaker?” Mann asked.
It was Feb. 2. Mann, wearing a Titleist hat, scooted his chair close to the window. His mom did the same.
They had reserved a 10 a.m. window visit.
Sitting inches from each other, Mann updated his mother on her condo and shared photos, holding his phone against the glass pane.
But there was more important business to discuss. The Super Bowl was less than a week away. Marjorie needed to pick her square for her son’s Super Bowl pool. She had already won the regular season “survivor” contest.
She shared an envelope with Mann with the entry fee for squares from friends in the facility.
“She’s getting her friends in on it,” Mann said, shaking his head.
After they hung up, Mann
walked to the rear of the facility by a lagoon and phoned her again. Marjorie appeared at her secondstory window. They both put down their phones and yelled to each other.
“This is way better,” Mann said. “There’s no phones, glass or reflections.”
***
Mann showed up Super Bowl Sunday at the Waters Edge front door.
“I’m bringing her some food so she has a little bit of a tailgate,” he said.
He dropped off the plate of barbecue brisket and chicken legs, coleslaw and potatoes.
Waters Edge used to host a Super Bowl party, showing the game in two rooms on big screen TVs, with snacks and drinks. But this year, the room was limited to five residents spaced out. Marjorie, a diehard Raiders fan, preferred to watch in her room, where she could concentrate.
“I like the quiet around me,” she said.
Her square didn’t hit, but her son won.
“Horrible game,” Marjorie said. “I felt sorry for Kansas City. They had no defense.”
***
On Feb. 10, Marjorie got her second vaccine shot.
Staff laid a butcher paper sign on a table with “2 Shot Ready to Rock!” emblazoned across the top and markers available for residents to sign their own messages.
“Covid … Hit the road Jack!!” one resident named Sean wrote in pink.
It’s been a long, lonely year at the facility.
“It’s hard to describe,” said 83yearold Gaye Eisen. “We’re all separated and we can’t associate with other people.”
Dottie Clark was born in 1917, a year before the Spanish flu wreaked havoc across the globe. The 103yearold has a granddaughter in Alameda, but many relatives have passed away.
“She only lives like 10 minutes away, but neither of us can go in each other’s home,” Clark said. “I’m ready to go any place.”
***
On Feb. 13, CVS emailed Waters Edge to alert the facility that one of its technicians at the clinic three days earlier had tested positive for the virus.
“We are notifying everyone who was there of their potential exposure,” Zimmerman said.
For two weeks, tests would resume on staff and residents, he said. A Chronicle reporter and photographer also got tested and cleared.
One resident tested positive the next week. He was quarantined, but that was it. The disaster was averted.
The next week, Mann would be allowed to take his mother to Oakland Kaiser for tests. She was producing too many white blood cells. While it was a serious doctor’s visit, he planned to stretch it out and give his mom a tour of her old neighborhood.
“It’s a step in the right direction,” he said. “It’s a first step of a couple more big steps.”
***
Marjorie joined another resident and the activity director for a short walk to the CVS store next door.
She bought a tube of toothpaste, mouthwash and a bottle of wine.
“I used to be in CVS probably once a week,” she said after the March 9 excursion. “But I hadn’t been in there for over a year.” Waters Edge was opening back up. She booked a hair appointment — all the beauticians had been vaccinated. She made a St. Patrick’s Day wreath in craft class for her door. She played Bingo every night, with tables set up in the same room where the residents got vaccinated. A quarter a game, eight games a night. “Overall, I’m down,” she laughed.
Days earlier, she met her son in the parking lot at a distance. No glass partition between them. No cell phone.
“I wish he’d be able to get it,” she said of the vaccine.
With its positivity rate dropping, the county moved into a less restrictive tier on March 10.
The next day — even more good news. Federal officials announced vaccinated nursing home residents could get hugs again from loved ones, if certain conditions were met.
“There is no substitute for physical contact, such as the warm embrace between a resident and their loved one,” the feds said in their guidance.
At Waters Edge, three residents waited to finish their 14day waiting period. The last resident without vaccination received his first shot.
Nearly all of the staff were vaccinated, and the rest were on their way. Private visits opened up. Even if visitors had no vaccination, they could take a rapid test and if they turn up negative, they could visit in private.
Still, Mann wanted to wait to get his shots.
***
Marjorie skipped lunch March 16. She slipped on her mask and inched her walker out to an idling red Prius in the Waters Edge parking lot. Though she was fully vaccinated, she was waiting on a doctor’s note to release her from restrictions. She left anyway.
The car full of nonagenarians slowly drove off.
A couple of blocks away, the car pulled into a friend’s house. A table full of St. Patrick’s Daythemed snacks and green cookies awaited the rogue seniors.
For the first time in a year, the group, who had met at the local senior center, played a game of their beloved mahjongg. The tiles dropped onto the table with a crackle. The group, all doublevaccinated, took off their masks. Marjorie was rusty. She asked questions, clarifying the rules. As they played, Marjorie shared updates on Waters Edge, news about her son and his “ideal job” at the golf course. They finished the game and ate snacks in the back sunroom. “We all love to play,” Marjorie said, “and to get out to play again was really nice.”
***
Mann finally got his first Pfizer dose on March 23.
That week, life continued to reopen at Waters Edge. A resident softly played piano in the lobby. Marjorie went to the hair salon for a perm.
“It felt great,” she said. “Instead of washing my hair in the shower and getting soap in my eyes, I got someone to give me a real shampoo. It felt wonderful.”
That Friday, Marjorie joined five other masked women for bingo. Martha Laris, the 20year bingo volunteer, pulled wooden balls and called out numbers as the women spread out their oldfashioned green slider cards, two residents to a table.
“We’re oldfashioned,” said Laris, who runs the sixnightaweek operation. “This is for people who don’t use computers.”
Marjorie chuckled as Laris bellowed out numbers. “Every number I want is one away,” she said. “So close but not quite.”
***
Mann got his second Pfizer shot on April 20 at Walgreens. A day later he drove his mother to Kohl’s.
Fatigue and aches clenched his body, but he had promised his mom a trip to the store and with the softening of restrictions, the pair could embrace, hold hands, drive together.
Marjorie placed her walker into a shopping cart and pushed it straight to the handbag section. She wanted a small purse to hang around her neck for the walks she now was permitted to take.
“I am not paying 50 bucks for a purse,” she said with a laugh.
“Let’s go look for a shower curtain,” she told her son.
As they walked past the lingerie section, Marjorie turned her head to a trailing reporter and photographer.
“I won’t be shopping for underwear today,” she laughed as they went to buy a shower curtain and liner.
As they checked out, Mann ran back to his truck to get his wallet to pay for the items.
“He’s been there for me if I needed him, no matter what,” Marjorie said. “Oh, I don’t know what I would’ve done without him this past year.” Mann took the long way back to Waters Edge, pulling over to show his mother their childhood home. The property was undergoing a major makeover. They rattled past the facility and turned into the condo complex where she still owned her rental.
They returned to Waters Edge. A streamer hung along the fence: “We Are in This Together.”
Mann walked around his pickup, opened the passenger door and held his mother’s hand to help her out. They hugged.
“Stay out of trouble until I see you next,” Mann said.
“All right,” his mother said. “You go home and take a nap.”
“It felt great. Instead of washing my hair in the shower and getting soap in my eyes, I got someone to give me a real shampoo. It felt wonderful.” Marjorie Mann, describing the steady reopening at Waters Edge