My Old Lady
I arrive at her door with her groceries at my usual time, spilling out of the elevator, shedding my other three lives with all their cares and worries, just in time. She used to keep an eye on what time I came, opening the door herself, fully dressed and ready for the day, chastising me, tongue-in-cheek, should I be the slightest bit late.
She sits in her usual spot at the kitchen counter hunched over her breakfast, slowly lifting a half loaded teaspoon to her wobbling lips. She had chosen hot breakfast today, even though she pleads she is sick of the glutenous mess that is Malt-O-Meal, but it reminds her of her youth when her mother made it. She still has the orange upholstered tri-cornered chair in which she and her mother used to snuggle. She adored her mother. Her white and grey hair is askew. She looks her ninety eight years this morning. I give her my usual greeting and she tells me how she is tired today.
Her overnight caregiver gives me the low down about how the night went: for the most part she had a good night but the first two hours were difficult when she refused to accept the caregiver’s presence as a positive, someone to care for her and meet her every need. Instead she lurched up and down the hallway outside her beautifully appointed lake view apartment, where she keeps the shades low for fear of fading her art, and mewled for help, pleading for release from this evil person. A kindly neighbor responded to her persistent midnight knocking and guided her back into her apartment, reassuring her that she was safe and that this person was there to take only good care of her. She sat then on a kitchen chair, bundled up in her coat and beret with her purse clutched to her chest, ready to take on the world as she knows it: a hostile environment fraught with shadowy miscreants ready to violently rob her of all her worldly goods. Eventually she conceded to sleep, fully dressed as usual, stretched across the bottom of her bed for a few hours. Her bedsheets go mostly unused now as do her pajamas in her drawer.
I met her on Craigslist. I was looking for somewhere for me and my three small boys to live. I was anxious that no one would want to live near such a rambunctious family, but My Old Lady welcomed us in with open arms. She had raised two boys in the same apartment and many previous renters had boys, she excitedly told me. She liked the energy our bustle and noise brought to her house. She lived in the apartment below, the gracious landlady who kept her back door open a crack if she wanted me to stop in for a little chat on my way up or down the back stairs. She drove an older and similar colored version of my car, it tickled her that these two were garage companions. It broke her heart to say goodbye to hers when it became clear she should no longer drive. But she enjoyed being driven around in mine, mine had heated seats. She enjoyed our trips to art museums, restaurants, visits with friends, or just her favorite supermarket. We would giggle when the plump store owner ignored us or greeted us with smiles. I would listen to her stories again and again.
Her sharp, one-liner, sense of humor has, on most days now, practically vanished instead sometimes replaced with a thinly veiled irritation provoked by the smallest inconvenience or discomfort. When she decides she has had enough of the ministrations of her loving caregivers, an ugliness can emerge, cursing, suspicious and, on the worst days, intent on getting away as far as possible, even if she is half undressed. Her resentment of needing help at these times, “Don’t tell me what to do”, ends up with no underwear and pants on backwards.
Her episodes of paranoia and delusions are sporadic and largely unannounced when it doesn’t matter who you are, to her you are evil and out to get her. Exhausting for even the most patient and skilled of her cohort of wonderful caregivers. Chronic Urinary Tract Infections are largely the culprit and antibiotics are her antidote. We congratulate ourselves for finding a doctor who will prescribe a low preventative dose but quality of life is paramount at this point. A happier, more compliant lady is the end product.
She used to be a prolific artist of some national renown, her handmade jewelry, paintings and metal works still displayed all over the country. Her workshop was in the basement of her well loved house where she existed, sun up to sun down, mole-like, creating her art. It was cold, dark and dirty down there, except for the light over her workbench and a makeshift heater. It was a miracle that such beauty and pride could emerge from such ugliness. She had often traveled near and far to participate in art fairs with her beloved husband and her two boys when they were smaller. She loved doing this nearly as much as creating the things she sold, meeting and interacting with other artists was a joy to her. She had many a story about her artist friends and the customers who bought her work.
Her diseased brain now won’t let go of her habit of working day and night. There are days she paces the floor of her apartment ostensibly working, fiddling with and rearranging items in her rooms, pictures on the walls, the many scruffy boxes on bookcases, some bearing precious works of art, others old and scrunched pieces of paper and plastic bags. She is now incapable of remembering what she did with what she is looking for, if she even remembers what that is.
There is no dignity in dementia. If her old self: well dressed, clean, purposeful, dignified, polite, humorous and gracious, could see her now degenerated self, she would be horrified.
She was only beginning to get old when I met her at ninety two. One day I asked her if she ever participated in the local senior center activities. She pulled herself up to her full four foot four inches and announced to me that she was not a senior, that she was in fact in her advanced middle-age!
We choose her clothes for the day, a daily task that usually brings her pleasure, and head to the bathroom. I prompt her all the way, pointing to where she needs to be and helping her turn, sit, stand until she is washed and dressed, ready for the day. She expresses her appreciation often saying, “I do appreciate that”, for the small things I do for her. On good days she will good-humoredly say “Aha, Oho” when she discovers something, content in her little world.
Sadly she is losing memory of how to do the smallest quotidian tasks, needing coaching on how to use silverware and even the toilet. Her warped perceptions of things seen and unseen around her, together with little short-term memory, create a world where everything is new and unrecognized. Wonderful, and deeply scary. At least today she allows me to help her, some days I am out to kill her and she is very disappointed in me.
We prepare to leave the apartment to participate in one of the many programs offered at her senior living facility. It takes another fifteen minutes to get her ready before she can push her walker to the elevator and the activities downstairs. She tells me she feels old now.
Gone are the days of a quick breakfast and out to the car for an outing. She used to laugh often, and would sing to herself. She had led a happy, productive and fruitful life with many fulfilling personal and professional relationships. She had been married to the love of her life and they had lived a good life together. She nursed him until his death years prior. Her only real regret was that she had not chosen to move nearer her children when she had the chance. Now she was isolated from family, always awaiting their coveted visits.
She sleeps so much more now, the morning exertions of getting her clean and ready for the day exhaust her. She sleeps in the recliner, fitfully sometimes, speaking out her dreams to those existing only in her mind, those who passed from this world many years ago. Night and day are blurred together, daylight or darkness giving her no queue as to stage of day never mind time.
Her son has installed an electronic screen in her apartment that scrolls photographs he uploads of the family, trips he has taken and old photos of her family and friends. This provides endless hours of delight and reminiscing, and on bad days tears.
There is a knock at the door: the next caregiver has arrived. They will take up where I left off, sometimes with more success if I have played the role of villain in her mind that day. I bid her goodbye promising to see her tomorrow. She asks what day that will be and what will be happening. Just another day, I reply, you can be home, nothing special happening. She says that will be lovely.
