So I walked Willie to memory care, a meandering journey through the independent living building to the joint assisted living/memory care building at the Temple of Doom. 

And she was … fine. 

No fight. No protests.  

That — that isn’t Willie. Willie’s a fighter. Willie loves nothing more than a good fight. 

Even when there’s nothing to fight about. 

While emptying Willie’s independent living apartment, I found a letter from my ninth-grade gym teacher. 

She was not warm and fuzzy, this teacher. 

One day, she told me I didn’t know the meaning of hard work because, despite multiple attempts, I couldn’t get into a gymnast’s tripod position. 

Have you seen a tripod?  

Imagine a headstand. Now maintain that headstand while bending your elbows as you would with a pushup. Rest your knees on your elbows, like potted plants on a shelf. 

Yeah. Let me tell you something. If I could do a tripod, I’d have a very different career. 

Willie was furious. 

Not just on my behalf.  

On hers as well. 

The gym teacher’s accusation, apparently, extended to Willie’s parenting.  

Because everyone knows the ability to form a tripod is not only the true mark of a man, but of a man’s mom. 

I don’t know what Willie said in her correspondence with the gym teacher. Based on the gym teacher’s response, I assume Willie demanded not only an apology to me, but to Willie as well. 

The gym teacher’s letter, which I found stashed with other tempestuous letters Willie wrote over the years, made clear she owed Willie exactly nothing. 

The gym teacher did tell Willie that she — the gym teacher — apologized to me.

Not so much.  

I would call what she did a defense of her right to predict my overall success in life based on my ability to perform a gymnast’s tripod. 

Only those dedicated to the tripod graduate high school. Have careers. Families. Friends. Four bedroom houses with enough beagle fur to carpet that gym floor witness to my tripod failure. 

OK. Did not realize I was still mad about that.  

Anyway. 

For Willie to go to memory care calmly — I couldn’t take it. 

“I wish she was fighting,” I told the Temple of Doom staff, tears brimming my eyes. 

You know, I also wished for new Uggs, six-pack abs, and a fifth season of Sherlock. 

But what I got was Willie, all stern like Drago while I danced around like Apollo Creed. 

Six days into her memory care tenure, Willie called me. 

“I must break you,” she said. 

Kidding.  

She actually asked me to come over. 

When I arrived, Willie was hastily throwing necessities into a garbage bag.  

“I’m sleeping at your house tonight,” Willie said. 

Um, that’s never going to happen.  

Just one of us wakes up alive in that scenario. 

My money is on Willie.  

“Fine,” Willie said. “Then call Mike Brady. I’ll sleep there.” 

Wait. I’m not even allowed to have coed sleepovers, and I’ve been married for 20 years.  

Also, Willie visiting the independent living building is against the Temple of Doom rules.  

I — I can’t break the rules.  

Once, I accidentally — accidentally — left my infant son unbuckled in his car seat. 

I cried for days. It took me two years to tell my husband. 

And let’s be honest. Tripod-capable people don’t forget to buckle their babies. 

“Well,” Willie said, “I’m not sleeping here. Ever again.” 
 
Oh boy. 

I waved a hand at the staff. The time had come. Willie needed the antianxiety medication her doctor so astutely ordered for the move. 

But at the same time, I agreed with Willie. Memory care and Willie fit together about as well as the Montagues and Capulets.  

None of the other residents function at Willie’s level. Showers are supervised. The unit is locked. 

I called my husband. 

“I need a reality check,” I said. “Am I assessing this correctly? Or am I just a grieving daughter?”  

He encouraged me to trust myself. Which, I imagine, tripod-capable people already know how to do. 

The following day was the two-year anniversary of Indy’s — gah, this still hurts — death. Before that morning saw eight o’clock, I had the Temple of Doom administration on the phone.  

Willie was right. She didn’t spend another night in memory care.  

Twelve hours after Willie packed a garbage bag like a protected witness on the move, the Temple of Doom upgraded her to assisted living.  

I picked out the largest room for Willie. A new, plush carpet washed the room in a warm blush. I bought Willie a ticking-striped recliner and a cream-colored mini fridge. I hung pictures. I promised her a trip to Ikea. 

“This is nice,” Willie said. “This will do … until I get back to independent living, that is.” 

Huh.  

Maybe if I could do a tripod, Willie would accept assisted living. 

But her friends never will. 

Just wait until you hear that story.