Archive of ‘alzheimers’ category

19
Jan
2016

work // past

categories: alzheimers, family

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

08
Dec
2015

in a parallel universe

categories: alzheimers, new york

I recognized it immediately–the gentle, familiar nudges and consoling words whispered in her ear. The way he held tightly to her arm and corralled her in the right direction. The way he looked up pleadingly, embarrassed, overwhelmed. The way she pulled away from him–dark, hollow eyes, seeing but not seeing, knowing only that she must flea–from what or whom she’s not sure, just that she must get away, from him, from herself from this confusion, from this dark, smelly place. Where am I? She must have thought, hearing the screech of the Q train in the distant tunnel. Who are these people? She must have wondered, feeling the staring faces of nervous strangers on her.

Did you ever see Defending Your Life? It’s a film about this guy who has never done a particularly good or brave thing in his entire existence. Therefore, he has to prove that he deserves entry into heaven. I think of that movie often. The way they played scenes from his childhood like it was a TV show. Intimate moments, fights, embarrassments. All if it caught on film. Well, the collective pearly gate “film reel”–for purposes of standing on trial to determine where you belong in the afterlife.

I thought about that movie today when I held a strangers’ baby while she battled her stroller, when I helped a woman get through the turnstile with her giant bags and scooter, when I co-carried a woman’s stroller up three flights of stairs, when I looked on and did nothing for the old man struggling to get his wife off the subway platform.

Couples kissing, homeless men shuffling, men in suits texting, mothers with children held tightly to their chests, but no one, not one single offer of help. Standing on the downtown platform I wavered. Run up the stairs and over to the uptown side, ask if they need help? Risk spiraling into my own darkness, risk offending, risk an empty offer if I can’t actually help to physically carry her out? As my train screeched to a halt, I watched the couple disappear. He’d managed to calm her, they sat side by side on the bottom of a dirty stairwell. Bodies piled alongside them, figures moving, but unmoved, seeing but not seeing.

What will those strangers’ movies look like when they’re defending their lives? Will they be reminded of the time they left two elderly humans to struggle on their own, two helpless, frightened people to fend for themselves? Or, will this play out only in my own reel? Because, I alone saw, I knew what I was seeing. And, yet, I boarded my train, I sipped my coffee, I got to work on time and lived my life.

16
Nov
2015

memory

categories: alzheimers, california, family

When I was little my mother used to play this game with me before bed. Most nights we were left to our own devices, my siblings and I–brush our teeth, put on our pajamas, read one book, turn out the light–but on the occasion that she was available for bedtime I would beg her to play our name game.

I really have no recollection of how frequent or infrequent these evenings were. They all sort of blend together into one singular experience. Me, lying face up under the covers, my mother hovering over me, sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body against mine. It’s dark and I’m cuddling my favorite brown stuffed bear, or was it red?

“Good night, George,” she would say. I would stifle my laughter and shout, “I’m not George!” She would look confused, furrow her brow, lick her lips and look toward the ceiling. “Oh, you’re not? My mistake. Good night Marianne,” she would say. And, once again I would howl with laughter. This would go on for four or five names before she would finally settle on mine. “You are my daughter and I love you, whatever your name is.”

There were only a few moments when I truly felt my mother didn’t know me. They were during these seemingly random episodes of intense anger and fear–when, out of nowhere, she would look around and think that everyone was trying to harm her. She didn’t recognize anyone or anything, she didn’t know where she was or who she was. They wouldn’t last more than half an hour but they were traumatic and frightening events where I often had to elicit help from strangers because she would get so out of control. That marked the end of our outings to parks, restaurants, the movies–it was too risky to be alone with her in the car, impossible for me to restrain and carry her myself if and when she lost her faculties.

During these episodes I would try to soothe her–I would breathe deeply and make eye contact. I would hold her hands and hum and reassure her. I would remind her who I was and that she was safe with me. But her eyes were wild and her nails would dig into the undersides of my wrists, she would kick at me and curse, spit in my face and call me vulgar and nasty names. Words I had never heard come out of her mouth. Then slowly, slowly, she would come back to me. Her features would soften, her grip would release. She would smile and hug me and make jokes, hiding behind her large sun hat and marching around like a clown–as if nothing had happened–she would just come back into herself and any memory of the episode was gone. As if it never happened.

I would often think about our bedtime rituals after these episodes. Was it a game? Was she pretending at not knowing me just as she had done all those years ago? Was there some small part of her, screaming to tell me something, even as another part of her brain took over? Were the words she spoke and the words she thought the same? Did the actions she wanted to take get lost somewhere between her brain and her limbs–get reversed and scrambled and turned violent? Was there thought, was there understanding–or just instinct? Did she think I was someone specific or just someone who wanted to hurt her? If we weren’t in her favorite public garden, where were we? If I wasn’t me, who was I? But, these were never questions she could answer. The episode would pass and she would be docile again. Non-verbal and goofy, smiley and loving. As though her actions could express her every desire and emotion. Except when they couldn’t.