Everything Stays the Same

Six weeks have passed since I last visited the care center, and in such a small time everything seems to have changed, yet everything still seems the same. The same four tables, the same yellow walls, the same three nurses, the same sea of gray metal walkers. But something was definitely not the same and I struggled for a few moments to figure out what it was.

Some health issues, thankfully now resolved, kept me away for the past month and a half and after seriously considering not returning, I ultimately figured out I couldn't not go back. I missed the old, confused folks who are sometimes the only thing that remind me just why we have to live our lives to the fullest now, even if I don't always do such a good job at it. I still can always use the weekly reminder. I made my usual rounds, saying hello to everyone, telling them how pretty they looked, or how much I liked their sweaters, or asking if they were hungry for dinner. A few of my friends on the outside asked me earlier this week if I thought any of the residents would remember me, and I had to admit I didn't think so. Sure enough, I don't think they did, though I did get a military salute from Don like he always does. Alma greeted me by telling me how beautiful I looked and wondering aloud if I've gone out to Hollywood yet to make it big with my beauty. I love Alma. I caught up with Bernice and Lorraine and noticed a couple of new faces. I also noticed a couple of missing faces, namely Mary and John.

Mary has been my main charge for over a year now, half of the Gudrun - Mary duo that has dominated my Wednesday dinners for so long. I've been feeding Mary one hundred percent of her dinner because of her inability to do so. Not her physical inability, but her emotional inability. Her brain just wouldn't allow her hands to work they way they should anymore. Mary spent most meals repeating nonsensical phrases, her favorite being Lawrence Welk's "a one and a two and a three." By the last weeks I saw her in March, she couldn't even lift her head and I literally had to gingerly maneuver a spoon full of pureed something-or-other into her mouth as it rested partially on the laminate table top. I knew she wasn't well, but people last for years unwell so I didn't think too much of it. So when I didn't see Mary right away tonight at her regular spot where her wheelchair fit between Rosalie and Gudrun, I had to ask Kollie the nurse. He told me sadly in his thick Liberian accent that she had died. Honestly, I couldn't even be sad. As cliche as it may be, she is definitely in a better place than she was. I told Kollie that it was probably about time and he agreed. The other missing face tonight belonged to John, a fellow of no more than seventy years, tops, that had joined the dementia unit only about six or eight months prior, but whom I really liked because of his sweet face and demeanor. While he sometimes had an absent look in his eyes, he still said things that made sense and he was cute. His wife visited from time to time, including at the Christmas party in December. I remember watching her hold his hand and sing carols next to him and I wondered what her life was like. Not seeing John at his regular table with Doris and Barbara tonight, I couldn't help but hope he had simply moved to a different unit. But Kollie told me that John had also died. In my two years there, I don't think more than four or five people have died, and in the five dinners I missed two have gone. Again, I'm not so much sad for John as I am for the people who loved him and at least had his physical being there when they needed to see him. John and Mary will be missed.

With Mary gone, it was time for me to take on a new challenge tonight, and a challenge it was. I've written about Melvin before, he's the tall man-child that once peed all over the dining room floor during dinner service and routinely screams in his muppet-like voice about all things indecipherable. Tonight I actually asked Kollie if he ever understands anything Melvin says and, to my relief, he told me no. So it isn't just me. Melvin was rambunctious and talkative as I prodded him to swallow bite after bite of his cheeseburger and fries. He actually did a very good job until he knocked over his full glass of milk which totally upset Alma but had no effect on Gudrun whatsoever. I had to convince Melvin throughout the meal to concentrate on eating and to forget about putting his hand down the front of his sweatpants while bald Lorraine cried like a baby to anyone that would listen that nothing was fair and she didn't like her food.

I'm back at it and, like I said, everything has changed and everything still seems the same.

Away From Her

Everything changes when I miss a week on the Memory Care Unit. Last week's contagious cold left me thinking a visit was not in anyone's best interest, so I opted out and slept instead. Meanwhile, one of my very favorite gals, Leola, moved to another unit. Like other times, I had the uncomfortable task of asking where Leola was tonight, uncomfortable because I always fear the worst. Thankfully, she is still alive, but sadly, she has been moved to a unit for people who need to be assisted physically more than on my ward. I always thought Leola was one of the physical oxen on 2-South, but I guess strength is in the eye of the beholder because she's gone. I'll never forget the day she called out my full name from at least seven feet away, something that hasn't happened before or since on the Memory Care Unit. "Hey, Deb Ellis, I like your outfit," she let me know. It took me a second to realize she was reading my little name tag, and without glasses! I guess her eyes were strong but her limbs weak. I'm going to miss Leola.

It was a tough night on the unit, almost as if it were a full moon or something weird like that. Both Gudrun and Mary couldn't keep their eyes open and Mary wasn't wearing her teeth so her chin stuck out like a witch's and I spilled her protein shake down the front of her bright red track suit while trying to feed her with her head lolling backwards. When the nurse came around to record how much each resident had eaten, I told him he was going to fire me as a volunteer because I'd failed so miserably to feed my charges. He assured me it was okay, that they don't always eat much, but I couldn't help but feel guilty about my already too-skinny elderly friends. At least Bernice was having a good night, taking my good natured kidding in stride and giving it right back.

There's a new woman on the unit, her name is Karen. She's the youngest, prettiest gal I've seen there and I wanted to cry when she showed up at the dinner table with a man who I would guess is her husband from the kiss goodbye he gave her. Karen doesn't look a day over sixty, and she might be younger, but there she was on the dementia unit. Her husband left her there to eat and she sat next to Anita, the only spot available at the time. Karen looked uncomfortable and scared and like she'd rather be anywhere but there. You'd think everyone looks like that there, but they don't. They're either beyond being able to feel the tangible discomfort of life on a Memory Care Unit anymore or they've resigned themselves to their fate, only complaining infrequently that they want to go home. But Karen looked like a little girl at her first sleepover, frightened and shy and wanting her mommy. She reminded me of Julie Christie in the Oscar-winning movie, "Away From Her." In the movie, Christie's character is a victim of early-onset Alzheimer's and struggles between wanting to stay home with her husband and knowing she's a hazard there to him and to herself. She looks lost at the nursing home she chooses to go to, just like Karen did tonight. It's heartbreaking. I hope Karen settles in sooner than later and can relinquish some of the fear that fills her eyes.

If She Had a Boat

On Wednesday night when I stopped by Bernice's table at the Memory Care Unit to tease her about eating too little and to challenge her to a clean plate contest, she said something about probably not finishing her dinner because she had to get to the boat. I didn't think much of it, out-of-left-field statements being par for the course on Wednesday nights. But when I finished feeding Mary and Gudrun and I had received my first ever hug from Mattie, bestowed upon me as if she were greeting a long lost relative, I stopped in front of Clara as I put on my coat. Clara told me, as she pointed her finger down the long, ornately carpeted hall toward Bernice, that she was going to go see her sister, Christine. I told her that wasn't Christine, she was pointing at Bernice. She insisted I was wrong and continued to tell me that she was going to go spend some time with Christine. She got up and walked away as I took a couple of minutes to say goodbye to Leola and Lorraine.

When I finally made my way down the long hall, I turned the corner and found Clara pushing Bernice in her wheelchair, away from Bernice's room. I asked Clara what they were doing and she told me, very matter-of-factly, that she was taking her sister Christine for a walk. Worried that she wasn't fully on board with this plan, I asked Bernice what she was doing, and if she wanted to go back to her room. She looked up at me from her wheelchair and tears started pouring from her eyes as she said, "I need to get to the boat, I'm going to miss the boat." I'd never heard Bernice sound so much like someone with dementia, as weird as that might sound considering where I was. But Bernice always seemed to me that she was on the wrong ward. I sometimes thought that maybe she just forgot to turn off the stove once in awhile, or maybe she had trouble remembering where she set down her keys from time to time. This was the first time I really saw that her brain was not doing what it was supposed to do. "Please, take me to the boat," she pleaded, as Clara insisted they keep moving to her room where she and her sister Christine could talk.

"Hey, Clara, why don't you turn around and head toward Bernice's room, she's not feeling well," I asked Clara. "No, Christine and I are just going to go talk for awhile, I'll take care of her," she responded. I was finally able to persuade Clara to allow Bernice to push herself to her room, but Clara followed closely behind, promising she'd talk to Christine and be with her to make her feel better. As we got to the narrow doorway of Bernice's room, she refused to go in. "Bernice, you'll feel better if you go into your room and get some rest," I offered. But Bernice wouldn't have it, she cried harder and said, "That's not my room." I assured her it was, telling her there was a picture of her in there and her green Care Bear and the calendar I gave her last week. But she just cried harder that she was going to miss the boat, that she had to get to the boat. Kollie the nurse came into the room and tried to calm her down, but it was difficult because Clara was there, insisting that Christine should calm down and they could talk, which only confused Bernice more. I left, having nothing to offer in the way of helping, knowing Kollie could handle it much better than I ever could.

I sure would like it if Clara's sister Christine could actually be there with her, and I wish Bernice could really tell everyone to kiss her ass, she bought a boat, she's going out to sea.

Dinner in the Chapel

When I walked onto the Memory Care Unit on the second floor tonight, I could smell fresh paint and I noticed new signs with the residents' names on them outside each door. As I rounded the corner down the long hall decorated with outdated carpeting, I came upon an empty dining room. Not a soul was around and there was none of the usual noise that fills the air at the home. It was incredibly eery. I walked back down to the lobby where the disinterested front desk girl was barely able to waste her time telling me that the folks were eating in the chapel tonight as she pointed down the opposite hall.

When I turned the corner past the "chapel" sign and the floor-to-ceiling bird cage housing six colorful finches, I saw a set of double doors and entered. Indeed, dinner was being served in the chapel. The room was quite large, with folding plastic banquet tables strewn about haphazardly on carpeted floors. I couldn't help but wonder how the food would come out of the carpet. Everyone was seated in different groups than usual, next to stained glass windows depicting various biblical characters and cheap prints of Jesus Christ. Nobody seemed aware that they were in a chapel, despite the bible quotes on the walls and the bibles along the shelves. I made my usual rounds, saying hello to everyone, gently rubbing their backs, challenging them to eat every last bite on their plates. When I came to Katherine, the meanest woman I've ever met, I asked her, apprehensively, how she was doing. "Shut up," she responded. It was an improvement over last week when, out of the blue, she called me a bitch. I couldn't help but think she was warming up to me.

I took a seat next to Mary, which also happened to put me next to John. Usually John is at the next table and I love to look over at him because he's really cute and smiley. He's gregarious and talkative, but nothing he says ever really goes anywhere. It always sounds as though he's going to say something normal but then it trails off along with his gaze. You can almost see the words extinguished in the air while his brow furrows. But he always recovers quickly. Every time I asked Mary a question, "Mary, do you want to drink some juice?" John would answer. Every time. I loved it. His wife visited him last year during the Christmas party and my heart broke in half for her, watching as she held John's hand while they sang carols with the group. I couldn't help but wonder while she was making sure John was well cared for, who was taking care of her?

When I finished feeding Mary mashed potatoes with gravy and pureed carrots, while completely avoiding giving her the ham that I knew wasn't pureed finely enough and would cause Mary to chew and chew and chew forever, I got up to say goodbye to everyone. Bernice sat crying gently over her still-full plate but assured me she was okay. I waved over at the new lady, Ethel, rather than going over to talk to her because, frankly, she scares me. She's terribly skinny with thin hair and skin so translucent you can see all of the veins in her forehead and face. She looks like one of those fish, so popular in children's aquariums, that are clear so you can see all of their internal organs. Last week when I said goodbye to her, she took my hand and asked me if I was going to call her husband. She went on to tell me that he lives at 3424 Dupont Avenue South and that she wanted to talk to him so could I call him? Her eyes pleaded with me. I said I would try and then Nurse Kollie added, "Ethel, I told you I tried to call him but he didn't answer. I'll try again later." I don't even know if her husband is alive or if Kollie really tried or if he told her that to calm her down.

Tonight when I saw Ethel sitting in the creepy, white PVC wheelchair, it looked like she had bloody stitches all around her mouth. Thankfully, it turned out to be chocolate, but I already had that image in my head from the Shutter Island movie previews and I was totally freaking out on the inside. But since I embarked on this whole experience to face my fears in the first place, I decided to say a personal goodbye to Ethel and walked over to her chair. She repeatedly beseeched me to open the little gate on her odd wheelchair that kept her from falling forward to the floor. I tried to change the subject but she kept asking me to open the little gate. Finally she said something I couldn't understand and I nodded my head in agreement, hoping to appease her in some way, and she seemed to calm down and sat back down in the square chair and allowed me to finally walk away. I have no idea what I agreed to. Chances are Ethel doesn't, either.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

I'm too tired from reading seemingly thousands of resumes for days and days at work to tell you how tonight at the Memory Care Center, Bald Lorraine, who is tiny and white and lacking in hair on her round, shiny head called the tall, black nurse "Mommy." I'm much too exhausted to mention how when I was feeding Mary and asked her "Are you thirsty, Mary?" she answered "I'm everything." I'm unable to relate to you how I showed a book full of photos of residents of the unit, many of them in the photos sitting just feet away from Mattie, and she couldn't name one of them even though she lives with them every single day. She tried to fake it, but I could tell she had no clue who was in those photos. I'm lacking the energy to tell you how Melvin poured his baked beans all over his hands and pants and then his head dropped to his chest and he fell fast asleep at the dinner table. I don't have the strength to talk about how Bernice blushed and smiled coyly and drooled slightly when I showed her a photo of herself at the Christmas party and told her how beautifully she photographs and that she's practically a supermodel.

Fortunately, I'm not too tired to post this photograph of my mom and me, taken a couple of (hundred) years ago. See, there are beautiful things in this life. My mom's dress just isn't one of them.

Making Christmas Memories

This year's Christmas party on the Memory Care Unit was an extravaganza of Santa, presents, food and music. My parents, Jude and Gord, came along and even agreed to wear Santa hats and reindeer antlers to help make the second floor south feel more like the North Pole.

It started out with volunteers passing out lefse and julekage, sweet treats from Scandinavia that probably meant more to Gudrun (above) from Sweden than to Rosalie from New Orleans. The residents that can't tolerate solid foods enjoyed chocolate Snack Pack pudding instead. Nobody seemed disappointed by this, no matter what I might have thought. After snacks, the lyrics to several well-known Christmas songs were passed out to everyone and I'm pretty sure not one of them was used. Folks either sang from memory or they didn't. Lorraine, one of my favorites, knew the words to every song and happily sung along, her tiny little mouth ringed with chocolate pudding and shaped into a huge smile. I've never seen Lorraine so happy and just that alone made the whole party worth the effort. Singing Christmas carols while using the lyric sheet always reminds me how few of the words I actually know to the classic tunes. Lorraine had it all over me there.

When the three carols had been sung, suddenly a very feminine Santa showed up, much to the delight of the residents who didn't seem to know Santa wasn't a dude. I knew there had been trouble finding a Santa, I think in the end they had to use a female employee. But it was neat because she knew sign language so she was able to communicate with Inez. I never see anyone communicate with Inez, who is deaf and mute, so that made for a nice Christmas itself. Santa brought two gifts for everyone and we assisted residents in opening them and then labeling their new stuff so that they would be sent to the proper room. Presents ranged from new shirts and track suits to socks and boxes of fancy shortbread cookies. Don, below, was thrilled with his fancy new pen and notebook and immediately wrote his name in an old man scrawl on the first blank page. Don already sports quite a fine pen collection in his shirt pocket that I comment on every time I see him. You can't say too many things about a four-color pen!

Today someone asked me if it's sad for me to visit the nursing home every week. I really had to think about it because, in a way, it certainly is. It would be nice if the folks could still be in the homes they loved, near the people that adore them, and it is sad that this is no longer a possibility. But since that's not reality and as sad as it is that the Memory Care Unit is home now, I think it would be even sadder to think of nobody visiting them at all.

Sweet Lorraine

Last night at the home an exciting, glamorous lady joined the folks on the Memory Care Unit. While I complimented Alma on her new red Target bag that I watched her open at the Christmas party and she replied, "Thank you, I received it for my birthday," the folks ate and complained as usual that they don't get enough sugar. I thought it was going to be a regular old night, void of much Christmas cheer, even with the strains of Nat 'King' Cole serenading us about chestnuts on an open fire, but then the new Lorraine showed up late to dinner.

I was sitting between Gudrun and Mary, making sure each ingested enough calories to keep them healthy and alive, when a woman I'd never seen before entered the dining room. She wore only a hospital gown but she had fire-red hair, reminiscent of Lucille Ball's iconic mop, except that it was jutting out in crazy puffs all over her head, the victim of a rough afternoon of sleep. She sat down at the table with the most able residents and began talking right away. She bellowed out to anyone that would listen, "Who is singing this song?" When nobody answered, she asked again until I called across the room, "It's Nat 'King' Cole!" "That's right," she replied, "I love Nat 'King' Cole! He sings my song, Sweet Lorraine!" That's when I learned her name really is Lorraine, which makes her the third Lorraine on the unit, and she even shares the same last name as another Lorraine there! It's a small Lorraine world.

But this Lorraine was different than the others. My original Lorraine is quiet and nice as pie, rarely complaining and always smiling anytime her head isn't lying on the table top while she naps before dinner. The second Lorraine suffers from male pattern baldness and whines a lot about not wanting to eat her dinner. She's tougher to love, but looks so much like a sick child that you can't help it. But this new Lorraine was like a hurricane whirling through the unit! Her fiery hair and tongue hide the symptoms of dementia, at least so far. She just seemed like a kooky, fun old lady. Throughout the meal the firehead Lorraine talked and talked and talked and I strained to hear everything she was saying because so much of it was amusing. But Gudrun had a lot of Swedish to speak to me, or to anyone really, and she had some singing to do, so I couldn't hear it all.

When folks were finishing their meals and the nurses were making the rounds, recording how much food each resident had eaten, like they do after every single meal, Kollie stopped at the new Lorraine's table. My ears perked up when I heard Lorraine ask demure, shy Barbara over and over, "How old are you? How old are you? You can't be sixty, you look too old to be sixty. Maybe seventy? How old are you?" Barbara wouldn't answer, she rarely does more than smile in response to anything said to her, but Lorraine wouldn't have it. She turned to Kollie who was standing there with his clipboard and she asked him, "How old is this lady? She won't say anything!" I looked at Kollie with an uncomfortable grin and he lifted his eyebrows as if to say, "How did I get into this?" But he calmly replied to Lorraine, "I don't know how old Barbara is, you have to ask her." Lorraine, clearly exasperated, barked, "But she won't tell me! I've asked!" Kollie, quick as a wink, then said, "Maybe she doesn't want to tell you. How old are you, Lorraine?" To which Lorraine snapped back loudly, "That's none of your damned business!"

I think I'm going to like Sweet Lorraine.

Santa Socks

Christmas came a little early to the Memory Care Unit today when Santa (played by a girl who knew sign language) showed up to shower the residents with fun gifts plus treats and music. Here is one of my very favorite gals, Bernice, showing off her new Gold Toe socks. She thought they were pretty cool. I think she's pretty cool.

Jive Turkey

Last Wednesday night at the nursing home, Alma was perusing a catalog of old time music. I asked her what kind of music she enjoyed listening to and she seemed confused, so I pointed to the Elvis CD for sale in the catalog and asked her if she liked to listen to Elvis Presley. "Oh yes, I like Elvis," she told me. Rosalie overheard our conversation and commented that she, too, liked Elvis. I asked Rosalie if she knew any Elvis songs and she suddenly broke into the King's hit Are You Lonesome Tonight? I sang along with her, helping her along at parts she had forgotten. The nurses on the floor laughed, saying they'd never heard Rosalie break into song like that. As Rosalie continued singing, alternating between Are You Lonesome Tonight? and O Holy Night, and sometimes singing both interwoven as the same song, I told Mary that she wasn't eating enough and I wanted her to eat more. Rosalie, hearing this, announced that we at our table were all "jive turkeys." Laughing on the inside, I asked her why she was calling us all jive turkeys. She answered that it was because nobody at the table was eating. She said whoever is eating is not a jive turkey. I looked at her plate, still full of ham and potatoes because she was too busy singing to eat, and said, "Then you must be a jive turkey, Rosalie, because you're not eating!" Rosalie couldn't believe she was having her super cool term, jive turkey, thrown right back at her and didn't know what to say. Mattie, who was clearly sick of listening to Rosalie belt out Elvis tunes, laughed and said to Rosalie, "She got you!"

Today I picked up an Elvis CD to bring to the nursing home next week. It should be interesting!

Lucidity

Mary doesn't respond very often to direct questions, at least not with direct answers. But tonight in the dementia unit at the nursing home she seemed to be lost in the gentle strains of the old time music wafting from the cheap boom box, so I thought I'd ask her if she knew what she was listening to. A Muzak version of Blue Moon interrupted the clink of fork tines scraping along plates and folks yelling about some imagined wrongdoing. I looked at Mary and asked her, "Mary, do you know this song?" She continued to look faraway and didn't answer. When Somewhere Over the Rainbow came on, I asked her if she knew that song. Nothing. However, Alma volunteered that she indeed knew the song. She and I then discussed watching The Wizard of Oz sometime and we agreed that would be fun. Then The Platters' tune, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, performed with a forlorn-sounding saxophone, caught my ear. I've always loved the song so I sang along and then asked Mary the obvious question, "How about this one, Mary? Smoke Gets in Your Eyes?" Mary looked right at me and said, plain as day, "Yes, sometimes it does." I couldn't help but laugh, she had answered my question, in a way.

She's Gone

My favorite nursing home resident, Angie, died last week. Most every Wednesday evening for more than a year I've spent in an old pink vinyl and wood chair squeezed between Angie and Mary, alternately feeding both a spoonful of pureed food. Angie had the physical ability to lift the fork to her mouth and feed herself, but something in her brain wouldn't trigger her hands to actually do it. She'd sit in front of her dinner all night and never touch it, but if you fed her, she'd thank you for every single spoonful before it passed her lips. Occasionally she'd take a drink of something without being told, but not often. When I'd try to encourage her to drink some milk herself, she'd point at each beverage on the tray – the juice, the tea, the milk – unsure which was milk. When I'd show her, she'd thank me and take a small sip. Angie had conversations with everyone at the table, though nobody seemed to know it. She'd laugh and nod at whatever Mary was saying, which was always gibberish, as if they were sharing a good story. Angie was always in a good mood, always smiling and pointing at the few remaining teeth she had on the bottom front of her mouth. She was expressive and delightful to be around. At the Christmas party last year, the room was pretty warm with all of the additional people helping celebrate, so Angie did what she thought she needed to do to alleviate the problem, she started stripping her turtleneck sweater right off over her head. I quickly caught her and encouraged her to put it back on and suggested we open a window instead. Of course, she happily agreed.

I received an email a few days ago from the volunteer coordinator at the nursing home that Angie had died. It included information on a celebration of her life at the home and her memorial service. I attended the memorial service yesterday at a funeral home in south Minneapolis because I really wanted to know what sort of life Angie enjoyed. It didn't seem possible that a woman so happy in dementia had been anything less in better times. There was an enormous yellowed photo of Angie as a very young woman framed at the front of the room, next to a Japanese-style urn with her ashes inside. Not surprisingly, because she was a lovely old person, she was gorgeous when she was young. There were poster boards covered in photos of Angie through the years. In her younger years pictures of her with her sister, wearing kimonos. Later, in America, there was Angie wearing dated polyester jump suits and sporting bad perms, but always looking radiant. Angie's son spoke for quite a long time, sharing stories about Angie that were wonderful to hear. He told us how Angie had been born and raised in Tokyo and how she had seven brothers and sisters, three whom had died of disease as children. She had a brother who had been trained at fifteen years old to be a kamikaze pilot but had never been called to action. She survived several bombings in Tokyo during WWII but watched several friends die. She came to America, with very little knowledge of any form of English, with an American serviceman, and endured much post-WWII Japanese hatred from Americans with anti-Japanese sentiments burned on their brains. But she never let it bother her, she understood it and dealt with it. She hated war and never wanted her sons to join the military. She loved nothing more than her family and her cats. She traveled to Mexico, Dominican Republic, Japan, and other places and loved it. Angie's son told funny stories of Angie finally learning to drive when her husband took ill with cancer, how it took seven driving tests for her to finally pass and how he thinks the driving instructor just passed her to be done with her. She took classes to learn to read and write English, but still swore and talked in her sleep in Japanese.

Then Angie's son told of her being diagnosed with dementia in 1999, which began what he called "the ten year goodbye." Angie's daughter, who worked at home, and her husband were able to take Angie in for seven years, watching her and keeping her from hurting herself. But her tendencies to wander got to be too much and they couldn't put enough locks on the doors to keep Angie from leaving and being missing for hours at a time. It was too much so they put her in the Memory Care Unit at the nursing home. It was great to hear that they thought the nursing home did a great job with her, I have no way of knowing. Angie's son said she did well in the nursing home, even attracting a suitor (Don) who spent hours with her and made her happy. But then her health started failing and soon last week Angie was in a coma and passed away the next day.

The last time I saw Angie a couple of weeks ago she complained of being in pain. She rubbed her legs and pulled her pajamas up high, revealing her skinny legs and knobby knees. I didn't know it was probably part of the beginning of the end. I don't know how the doctors and nurses who care for dementia patients figure anything out, it seems almost impossible to know what's really bothering them. I am very sad for Angie's family, and I'm definitely going to miss her every Wednesday evening, but it's weird. I sort of feel like the folks I'm with are transitional people, as if they're people at a weigh station, awaiting their next assignment. They have no history and no future. Don't get me wrong, they're fully developed people with brains and hearts and minds, but they're not the folks their families once knew and they don't have dreams of their futures ahead of them. So their passing, while sad, is inevitable and not altogether the unhappiest thing that could happen to them. They're not in a place they ever could have wanted to be. I wish they were still vital parents and sons and daughters and friends, but they're not. Their families have those memories now, and these vulnerable people, void of past and future, just need to be cared for and loved on their way to their next journey, wherever that may take them.

A Time Lapse Life

It's only been a week since I last saw Lorraine, but in that half fortnight it looked as though she aged fifty years. That's no easy feat when she already looked well into her eighties. For the first time she was in a wheelchair tonight instead of just a chair with an alarm pad that would go off if she tried to stand up without assistance. It's strange to almost be able to physically watch a person age, like viewing a piece of fruit rotting using the magic of time lapse photography. I asked Kollie about Lorraine and he said she definitely isn't feeling well. It makes you wonder if she's close to death or, worse yet, not close at all.

The Last Finger Wave

Two weeks ago at the care center I noticed that Albert wasn't around to wave at me using just his little index finger, but I didn't give it too much thought because it's not unusual for someone to miss a meal due to illness. When he wasn't there again last week I started to worry, but couldn't get any information because the two regular nurses were on vacation and their replacements not only didn't know Albert, they didn't know anyone. By default I became leader of the pack, directing portable dinners to their proper owners because the replacement nurses didn't know who was who and would have taken forever trying to read each resident's name on their ID bracelets to make sure each got the proper meal. So I pointed to Gerhard and motioned toward Eileen and cautioned that Mary couldn't have coffee with her meal. I was too busy trying to make sure everyone got fed to really take note of Albert's absence.

Tonight when I arrived for dinner duty, Kollie the nurse was back. I was relieved to see him, knowing that everything would go much more smoothly with him on the job. He was sitting and chatting (as much as anyone can) with Gudrun, waiting for the meal delivery from the kitchen. We reconnected and I told him about last week when I was in charge by virtue of nobody else being able to do it. Kollie was pretty impressed and I was happy about that. Then I meekly looked over at the spot at the table where Albert usually sits and asked quietly, "Where's Albert?" Kollie replied in a low, forlorn voice, "Oh, Albert died. Yeah, he died." I asked how old he was but Kollie could only hazard a guess that he had been in his 70s or 80s. I felt sad for Albert, knowing I would miss his messy bed head and large eyes spaced far apart on his ruddy face, giving him the appearance of a really cute alien. I could tell he had once, long ago, been very handsome, and he had retained that sparkle in his blue eyes that many of the residents relinquished long ago. He was always just a little angry that his meal hadn't arrived yet and liked to call other folks sons-of-bitches and to use other mild profanity. It only made me like him even more. Standing there looking at his empty chair today, I felt sad that Albert was gone and that I would never wave at him from my table and receive his piercing look and tiny finger wave back, but I couldn't help but believe he's in a better spot now. Earth is no place for people suffering the awful fate of dementia. Hopefully, wherever Albert is right now, somewhere beyond, he's swearing up a storm and waving at cute girls with just his little index finger.

Forgetting

Everything seemed so calm on Wednesday at the nursing home, little did I know it would just be a facade. I arrived a short time before dinner did, which always means I have a few minutes to "work the room." It's taken me some time to become comfortable enough to walk around from person to person, asking each how they're doing, giving them a little shoulder squeeze. Even now I don't feel completely natural doing it, but I just worry that the only people these folks see regularly are nurses and that maybe they can use some outside interaction.

When the food finally arrived I sat between Angie and Mary, as usual, and proceeded to alternate feeding them pureed taco salads and apple sauce. They both had pretty good appetites and Angie smiled a lot and pointed to her only teeth - the six or eight on the bottom - business as usual. When Inez's food arrived, she was fidgety and, also as usual, pushed her tray away and refused to eat. This is pretty much par for the course for Inez so I just gently pushed the tray back and encouraged her to eat. Since she is deaf and mute, I'm not sure what she's getting out of my commentary, but it's all I know to do. Inez continued to push her tray away, which then hit other trays on the crowded table, which agitated the girls. Mattie, my Tina Turner look-a-like, even attempted to feed Inez, which freaked me out. Here was a woman with dementia feeding another woman with dementia as if only one of them suffered from it. Still Inez refused and, before I knew what was going on, she pulled off her cheap, black suede shoe and sent it flying across the Muzak-filled room. It sailed through the air for what seemed like a full minute of hang time until it landed squarely on Ruthie's shoulder and fell to the floor. Ruthie was simply sitting there, waiting patiently for her meal like she does every day, when this flying shoe came out of nowhere and almost conked her on the head, and she didn't even flinch. It was like it never happened. I got up and picked up the shoe and handed it back to Inez, trying to demonstrate with my hands that the shoe goes back on her foot, not into the air. It worked, but Inez never settled down and pretty soon one of the nurses had to remove her from the dining room. Inez was slapping herself and rapping on the table top and disturbing everyone. She seemed happy to leave, and so did everyone remaining at the dinner table.

After I had helped clear trays and told the ladies to be good till next week, which usually makes them smile, I walked down the hall to leave. Out of the corner of my eye I saw skinny Bernice sitting in her wheelchair with her head poking out of the door to her room. Since I didn't see her at dinner and she's always good for a chuckle, I thought I'd stop and say hello before I left. When I reached her, she looked like she was trying to roll out of her room, so I asked if she needed any help. She said she needed help getting into bed. Even though tiny Bernice can't weigh more than ninety pounds, I am not trained to assist a person from a wheelchair to a bed, so I told her I'd go get the nurse. Suddenly, without warning, Bernice started to cry. "What's wrong, Bernice?" I asked gently. "The nurses won't help me, they don't like me," she sobbed. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, I'd never seen Bernice sad before and it broke my heart. I tried to convince her that not only did the nurses not dislike her, they really loved her quite a lot, that they thought she was funny and sweet, but Bernice wouldn't hear it. She continued bawling until her eyes were beet red and her face was soaked with a combination of hot tears and snot.

Since it would take a few minutes for a nurse to come as they were busy finishing up the dinner service, I thought I would try to diffuse Bernice's sadness by distracting her. I walked into her room, expecting to see lots of personal effects I could comment on, things like Hummel figurines and fake flowers and framed photos of cute children. But there was almost nothing in the room except for a television, a green teddy bear and a framed head shot of a chubby woman obviously taken many years ago. As Bernice sat agonizing in her wheelchair about how the staff hates her, I asked her about the woman in the framed photo. She told me it was a picture of her from high school. The woman in the photo was probably Bernice, with several more pounds and many fewer years than now, but I highly doubt it went as far back as high school. Nonetheless I told her she looked really pretty as she blew her nose and then, when it was clear she wasn't going to stop crying and out of complete desperation, I complimented her little flat screen television. Through her sobs she managed to squeak out, "It cost $300," which made me smile a little on the inside, if not the outside. I didn't know what else I could say to Bernice to make her stop crying, I'd pretty much surveyed her entire life in less than sixty seconds and had nothing else to comment on in the room. If you think that little piece of information won't stick with an outsider like me for a long time, think again. Finally I told Bernice that a nurse would be happy to help her into bed and I walked down the hall to get one. The nurse shook his head when I told him what Bernice said and told me that of course he likes her. I told him I knew that, but at the moment Bernice didn't. The female nurse put down the meal trays and followed me back to Bernice's room and, once she saw her distraught state, went to get a washcloth that she wetted with warm water and used to wash away Bernice's endless tears.

Once the nurse was there to help, Bernice seemed to let go of her sadness and allowed the nurse to assist her into bed. I told Bernice I'd see her next week and I walked to the elevator, glad that she could forget her sudden sadness so quickly and wishing with all my might that I could do the same.

Thanks for the Memories

I am continually amazed by Bernice. She's the woman at the care center who bears more than just a passing resemblance to the muppet named Beaker. Bernice is super thin, all of her plaid shirts and long skirts swimming on her narrow frame, with a shock of curly gray hair and a weak chin. Bernice and most of her teeth parted ways some time ago but, oddly, it's not really that noticeable. I don't get to talk to her much anymore because she sits in her wheelchair at the far table from mine and she usually wheels out of there long before I'm finished trying to convince Angie and Mary that eating dinner is in their best interest. But every opportunity I can get to have a chat with Bernice I swear she remembers me, though it would seem unlikely.

Tonight Bernice was rolling out of the sunroom as usual and since Angie was having a nonsensical chat with her little old man boyfriend from across the room and therefore wasn't eating, I decided to call out to her. "Hey, Bernice, I like your autumn sweater!" I said loudly. Bernice was wearing a pretty, green wool cardigan with appliqued leaves on it that I hadn't seen before. She wheeled over and thanked me kindly. I thought that would be about it for conversation, as conversations are usually pretty short on the second floor, but Bernice continued. "I wish I could find that other sweater, you know the one." I was shocked, I knew she was talking about the plum-colored sweater she received from Santa Joel at the care center Christmas party. I had opened the box with her and helped her label it as hers and she has mentioned that sweater to me several times since then, without prompting. I asked her, "Do you mean the plum-colored sweater from Christmas?" She nodded. "Where did it go?" She told me it went to the laundry one day and never came back. She said it with a tone of resignation, like it wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last for wayward clothing last seen off to the laundry. "Well, I hope you're able to hold onto this pretty green autumn sweater for a long time!" I told her. She hunched down and said with a laugh, "I'm guarding it with my life." And then she was gone, back to her room.

Meanwhile, Rosalie seemed overly happy to see me (she greeted me with a kiss!) and noticed that I had been gone for awhile. It's true, I didn't go to the care center last Wednesday because of the tornado damage nearby. I couldn't believe Rosalie had really noticed. She was all excited and giggly tonight, not confused like usual. While she happily ate her ham and macaroni salad, she kept marveling at how long it had been since she'd seen me, and I was just thrilled that she remembered. Then, after she finished the last bite of her gummy-looking breadstick, she stood up to leave. I was still glowing from all the memories that were swirling around the place and reached out to Rosalie to pat her on the arm as she brushed past me to get to her room. She looked at me, smiling, and told me again how nice it was to see me after so long, then asked me sweetly how my baby was doing. Oh, well, so much for the memories.

Business as Usual

Two weeks of Wednesday work commitments have kept me away from the care center, but I was back at it last night and happy to be there. I haven't missed two weeks in a row since I started volunteering there over a year ago and I must admit that I was a little nervous because a lot can happen – not all of it good – in just a few short weeks at a nursing home. So it was with great relief that I walked into the dining room and saw that things were running pretty much the same as when I left.

I spent several minutes placing clothing protectors around the necks of all of my regular favorites, telling Eileen that I thought it was her singing when I heard the radio, asking Leola if she was hungry, telling Mary that her purple velour sweater made her eyes sparkle. It didn't take long to get back into the swing of things, teasing Rosie about finishing her food, laughing with Mattie about the song Gudrun was humming over and over, and feeding Angie and Mary their pureed taco salads. Angie was in a good mood, laughing and bowing her head and clasping her hands together in thanks. Mary was talkative as usual, and as always answered my question "Do you want a drink of milk?" in the positive, just not about the milk. For example:

Me: "Mary, are you thirsty? Would you like a drink?"

Mary: "Yes, I think I might like to go for a walk."

When she answers in the positive, no matter what question she answers, Mary is ready for a drink. If she answers more along the lines of "I don't think I'll need that wrench," then I know she won't open her lips to the cup of milk so I might as well not bother. It's fascinating.

It was so nice being back, alternately feeding Mary and Angie with opposite hands so as not to cross-contaminate with any germs I might be carrying, laughing with Rosie and Mattie. But reality always finds a way to interject and Doris, who sits at the next table just a few feet from me and has a pretty good sense of humor, leaned over to me and asked, "Are you my niece?" I gently assured her I was not her niece and she looked a little confused and just grunted quietly and went back to her dinner. I hoped to myself that I'd never not know if my nephew George is my nephew or not. Then suddenly the nurse yelled at Melvin and I looked over and there Melvin was, pants around knees and diaper unfastened. I was back, business as usual.

To Laugh Often and Much

I'd never seen Ruthie exhibit any sort of emotion or expression, I'd only seen her constantly grab her oversized spectacles, with lenses as thick as bullet-proof glass, and push them up over her eyes so that she could drink her Boost shake without hitting them with her cup. But today I got off the elevator on the second floor, along with a nurse, and Ruthie was standing there in her usual oversized jumper dress, leaning on her walker, and bawling. Not just crying, her eyes were ringed with redness and snot poured out of her nose as she wailed. The nurse asked her what was wrong but Ruthie isn't much of a communicator so that went nowhere. All we could do was encourage Ruthie to follow us to the dining room where, we assured her, some food would help her to feel better.

A beautician had obviously swept through the south end of the second floor, because many of the ladies were sporting new hairdo's, though my compliments seemed lost on them. Katherine especially received a drastic cut, her formerly longish, thinning gray hair now bobbed just above her shoulder. While it softened her look, it did nothing to change her personality. She spent several minutes, her eyes fixed in anger, accusing Anita of several small crimes she wasn't remotely guilty of. "You did it, didn't you? Why don't you just say it? Say you're sorry. Can't you just say it? I bet you won't. You'll never say you're sorry. You've been drinking." The accusations continued without pause, until Anita screamed something unintelligible at the top of her lungs and slapped the table top. Katherine slapped the table in response and the conversation stopped. Trying to change the subject, I asked Katherine if she was hungry. "Who wouldn't be?" she asked me as if it were the silliest question in the world. I suppose when you're dealing with an alcoholic who owes you an apology, like she is, it is a silly question.

When Ruthie finally entered the dining room, I encouraged her to sit down and Katherine even kindly pulled the chair out for her. But by the time I finished my sentence, Ruthie had broken down crying again, tears and mucus flowing from her face and into her hands. I sweetly told her everything was going to be alright and she surprised me and wrapped her arms around me, her snot-covered hands gripping my shoulders. I surreptitiously wiped my shirt off, so as not to offend Ruthie, as if she would have known what I was doing anyway. Rosalie sat across from me while I made her laugh by challenging her to win a clean plate club contest against Mary. Mary is about a hundred years old and can't feed herself, so Rosalie got a kick out of my made-up battle. Wait, I take that back, Mary certainly can feed herself, and tried several times during the meal to do so by flopping her arthritic old hand into her mashed potatoes and gravy and licking her fingers. I went through several napkins attempting to keep her clean but for an old lady, she's greased lightning. As I wiped Mary's hand clean again and Rosalie begged for yet another glass of water and Katherine growled at Anita and Inez flailed her arms about the room in some sort of sign language frenzy, Angie just laughed and laughed and laughed at nothing in particular. I couldn't help but join her, so crazy was the whole surreal dinner hour tonight. Because if you don't laugh at it all like Angie, you'll just end up crying like Ruthie.

The Dirty Joke

Gudrun grabbed her floppy right breast through her paisley pattern blouse and shook the aged body part at me, laughing wildly and speaking in her native Swedish. At the care center last week, it seemed like she was sharing a funny joke and that the punch line was the breast grab, but I can't really say because I can spend an hour straight feeding Gudrun and not understand a single word she's saying. Hopefully she doesn't know that I don't understand, I try to respond with a reaction that seems like it might be appropriate for the given situation. I pepper my "conversations" with Gudrun with lots of comments like "that is so true!" and "you've got to be kidding!" Apparently last Wednesday I unknowingly responded in the positive to her when she said, "Want to hear a dirty joke?" Considering what happened, I will be rethinking my conversation strategy this week.

Albert

Last week at the care center Katherine stated that she wasn't sure she'd still be around when I returned this week, seeing as how somebody was trying to kill her and all. I'm happy to report that Katherine was there last night, decked out in plaid and surly as ever.

Speaking of surly, Albert was on a tear. Albert is a new favorite whom I've not met, only smiled at from across the room. He's old, but his eyes aren't. They still have youth in them, albeit a confused youth. His hair is unintentionally hip, turned into an ultra cool faux-hawk by uneven sleep. When his eye catches mine he waves at me flirtatiously, using just one finger. But last night there was no flirting because Melvin was too much for Albert. Melvin is too much for most people, what with his penchant for disrobing and inappropriately relieving himself.

Last night the kitchen forgot to include Albert's dinner tray and even though the food looks ghastly, Albert was not pleased that he didn't get anything to eat. The staff went right to work to get their hands on Albert's dinner, but that didn't calm him down right away. Kollie, the male nurse from Liberia, put his arm around Albert in a sweet hug and told him that, as his friend, he was going to see to it that his dinner was brought up immediately, that he was really sorry. This placated Albert, at least until Melvin went too far. When the tray arrived, Albert tore into his ham sandwich like a man who hadn't seen food for weeks. So when Melvin's hand ventured a little too closely into Albert's space, as it probably does fairly frequently, Albert would have none of it. Suddenly, the faint musical strains of Jesus Loves Me, This I Know coming from the CD player were interrupted by the exasperated cries of an old man who just wanted his ham sandwich. "Goddammit, you bastard!" Albert yelled, giant food crumbs spraying out of his mouth and all over the table. "Get your hands off my food, you son-of-a-bitch!" My adorable, across-the-room sweetheart, Albert, was clearly not amused by Melvin's childish antics. Then, just as quickly as his temper flared, it was gone and he quietly finished his meal.

Maybe the youth I see in Albert's eyes is a reflection of the child he's becoming again. Regressing, revisiting his childhood one failing synapse at a time. Falling backward into a time when restraint wasn't well known and anger exploded quickly. Then, a moment later, gone.

If You Hear a Bang

When I got to the care center tonight I sat down between a grumpy Angie and a sleeping Mary, ready to cajole them with mushy, starchy vegetables and gravy, when in walked another volunteer and stood over me, watching me. I've met this volunteer before, but only once or twice. She's from Africa and she's very nice, but she obviously wanted me gone from Angie's table. I pretended I didn't know it because I wasn't sure why this volunteer gets to "call" Angie and Mary, but she didn't move. Finally, before the food arrived, piping lukewarm, I asked the volunteer if she wanted to feed Angie and Mary. She told me yes, in a way that indicated that it was never going to be any other way. So I was banished to...the other table. 

The other table was my original table, the one where I first met Ardella and Mattie, all of whom have moved on (to other places in the building, not heaven). But the only gal left from my original group was Lorraine, and she was in a bad mood. When I arrived I had placed my hand on her shoulder like I always do, but she brushed me away, so I knew she was having a bad night. I pulled up a chair between Gudrun and Eileen and asked the nurse what level Gudrun was at so I would know whether to physically feed her or just encourage her. I know Eileen and I really like her. She sits in her wheelchair, looking maybe sixty years old at the most, head bowed in either meditation or sleep or thought. I'm not sure. Usually Eileen breaks out into a falsetto song while her head is bowed and if you don't know where the singing is coming from, you wouldn't think it was from this sleeping woman! 

Gudrun talks. A lot. In Swedish. With a little English thrown in from time to time. Swedlish, really. She just talks and talks and talks and I just nod and nod and nod. Then she picks up her napkin and starts to walk away. I have to convince her to stay and eat, but it's not easy. Occasionally the nurse has to warn her sharply to sit still and eat. I feel bad for her, chastised like a child. But it's necessary. I pretend to understand Gudrun between bites of pureed hamburger, but I think I'm just agreeing that she should get up and leave, which she shouldn't, because she just keeps trying to do it. Lorraine swipes at the nurse, not wanting to eat and upset that he keeps asking her to try some food. Eileen feeds herself except for the applesauce. Then she secretly sings.

All the while I can't take my eyes off of Katherine, who is sitting next to Lorraine. Katherine is the woman who cried and cried at the Christmas party saying she didn't deserve any gifts because she shot him. Whatever that meant. I don't always see Katherine, but when I do I am mesmerized. She's tiny, like a frail old kitty. She's all bones and eyeglasses and thinning hair (perhaps a bonnet is in order!) and always a man's plaid shirt. And she always talks about very dark things. Tonight when crazy Anita, the lady who screams everything she says at the top of her lungs, pushed her clothing protector one too many times toward Katherine. Katherine just looked at Anita over her giant glasses and said meanly, "Do that one more time and I'm going to hit you in the face." But Anita is too far gone on her journey of dementia to understand it. Which would seem like a nice place to be, until you see Katherine. Katherine is constantly scared and angry. Tonight she repeatedly said that he "might try to kill her tonight." But she never explained who or why and she probably doesn't even know. At one point she kept eying a man at a far away table and telling the nurse that "he" was over there. The nurse asked who was over there and where? Katherine said she couldn't see him right at that moment but that he might just be hiding behind someone fatter than him. That was kind of cute, compared to the nightmares she usually talks about. Finally she decided it was time to leave and I said, "Good night, Katherine." She replied that I was talking about her, wasn't I? I told her no, I would never do that. She said I'd better not. I told her I'd see her next week and she said, "Probably not. I'll be dead before morning. If you hear a bang, it'll be from my apartment." What on earth happened during this woman's existence prior to the care center? Did she live a life of violence? Was she oppressed by someone, kept from realizing any of her dreams? Or was she a regular happy wife and mother whose new reality bears no resemblance to her old one? I couldn't stop thinking about her as I left the home for my own.

When I arrived back at my place with its snow crab trees busting at the seams to bloom but not quite ready, there was a giant rainbow towering over the neighbors' homes. Nice reminders that there is still beauty in this world, if not in Katherine's head.