The Visitor

Chad was here last week for four days and it was great having him here-I’m not quite sure if I can say the same for our guest. I mean, I’m sure he had a perfectly lovely time but the trip was not without a few missteps.

Before he got here I started to wonder what he’d make of this little “Baby Jane” act we’ve got going on here-although sometimes I think we veer awfully close to performing George and Martha in “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?”…….”I am George, I am”, Martha says as she gazes absently out of the window, spent from a night of accusations, recriminations, disappointments and disgust (yepper-that’s us!).

Anyway, we don’t get many visitors, well, not many that can stay for any significant amount of time anyway. Once a week or so Marcia (the cat lady from downstairs) might come up for a visit or the relatives of unknown relation might stop by but then that’s only for a few hours, too. Adele comes around and my friend, William has been here several times and most recently my friends Brian and Mark were in town and stopped by to meet Miss Cathy.

It’s easy to keep up the pretext of civility and harmony for a few hours-who can’t do that?! It’s letting someone behind the curtain for days on end that can be vexing, having someone around, “witnessing” it all.

I wondered what he was thinking…was he watching how we relate? How I interacted and cared for her? Was he judging what I was doing and how I was doing it? And if he was, what should I care but I did, I do. Maybe it’s not that I care what he thinks so much as I noticed how he was around Miss Cathy and I wondered, ”Should I be more like him?”

It’s not like I was trying to hide that I serve her rats for dinner under a silver cloche or dispose of the empty whiskey bottles after she’s long passed out form some sedative I’ve given her to shut her up, no, its more likely that I’m making her a late night snack of chicken salad or peanut butter and jelly, making sure she’s taken her night time meds and then creeping out late at night to dispose of empty cans of Fresca and roasted chicken containers.

Chad’s visit passed pleasantly enough, he brought her gifts, paid attention to her, listened to her, he even cooked her a meal and best of all he was a new audience for her shtick-a guaranteed good time for her. And there was the afternoon that Chad and I taught Miss Cathy how to play 3-13, a card game that Chad introduced me to back in Kansas City, that was a fun afternoon.

I got to have some grown up time, too. Chad and I spent a lot of time alone together, and we even went into DC for dinner with William at a hot new Cuban restaurant, Cuba Libre-so, fun was had by all. But, not all the time, he did witness a “moment” or two, one of which was the incident after he and I returned from a movie on what was the first snow-day of the season. Chad and Miss Cathy were in the living room and I overheard her talking to him about my driving skills (in snow and in general). Instead of ignoring what I was hearing, I went into the living room and proceeded to lecture her on the dangers of being a “back seat driver”, she (in typical Miss Cathy fashion) didn’t back down from her position that SHE was doing the driver (me, or anybody else who happened to be behind the wheel) a favor by pointing out what she thought the driver might have missed or needed to know.

It was less Baby Jane and Blanche Hudson and classic Miss Cathy and me, locked in our resolve that each was right and as usual neither giving an inch, oblivious of our guest and how boring it must all have been for him.

Chad had only met Miss Cathy last year, briefly, when he and William brought me by the apartment as part of my 50th birthday “Amazing Race” trip across four states. They didn’t get to spend much time together so he’s only getting to know her now, after her diagnosis. So, he doesn’t have much (or any history) knowing her “before” so he tells me that his observations are more of someone who’s getting to know an elderly person, with the usual limitations and fascinations that the septuagenarian possesses.

He’s very aware of all that’s transpired and everything that’s happened this year. He’s been very supportive of me and all that I (and Miss Cathy) have been through.

If anything, he swears that the conflicts that I’m dealing with are less Alzheimer’s (right now anyway) and more that Miss Cathy is me-in a dress. If that’s the case then I just need to get a rock and beat myself to death right now.

A change of season/reason/etiquette

Last Wednesday Chad came to visit and to my surprise Miss Cathy took a pass on going to the airport to pick him up. “It’s too cold out there buddy!” she said as if we were going to walk the twenty miles to the Baltimore-Washington International Airport.

His plane didn’t touch down till mid-afternoon so we had all morning to talk about his arrival. I’d known for several weeks that Chad was planning to visit but I didn’t tell Miss Cathy till last week because (frankly) I didn’t want his visit to be the “sixth” topic in her daily repertoire of five subjects: weather, traffic, death, family gossip and money (or lack thereof). I’m still feeling out the situation here and learning how to handle her but it seems that giving Miss Cathy a weeks’ “notice” (of upcoming events, appointments or changes to her routine) is working out pretty good (for me anyway), she gets enough time to digest the information, a few days to forget about it and then there’s still plenty of time to obsess and talk ad nauseum till “it” happens.

So, during the week there was the expected discussion of food and comfort, but on this day Miss Cathy (mostly) just wanted to state what she wouldn’t be doing. “I don’t need to go to any fancy restaurants or anything like that,” she said. “It’s too cold out there, besides I don’t need to spend all that money for food when I can make something to eat here at home for free.”

“Okay,” I thought to myself, first of all the food at home isn’t “free” you had to pay for it or they wouldn’t let you out of the grocery store (so, that’s not even “Miss Cathy logic”-that’s just straight up dumb) and as I’ve said before “whenever has she had to worry about paying? She’s never reached for (or been expected to pay for) any tab in the few restaurants she’s ever deigned to enter.” What I said was, “Well, Chad and I like to eat out so I’m sure we’ll be going to a few restaurants while he’s here and you’re welcome to join us. I’m probably going to be taking him to lunch when his plane lands and you can come if you want to.”

“That’s okay”, she replied, “I’ll just stay here.”

My, my, what a switch since the last visit, it’s only been a couple months since Chad was here and now a change in attitude. When he visited in October she was emphatic about going to the airport, saying that it would be rude “not” to show up and greet him, “How would it look?” she queried. “You always go to greet people when they come to visit.” she said, schooling me in the art of airport etiquette, telling me that it was bad manners not to and processed to show me how it was done; she took the rollers out of hair, got dressed and sat herself in the back seat ready to greet her guest

So, I guess what she neglected to mention (back when the weather was nice) was that airport manners are “seasonal” and apply only during the “better” months-as determined by what is or is not a temperature pleasant enough to toddle from a climate controlled Condo into a waiting car.

So, I went to the airport alone, driving along the Parkway looking at the landscape that like Miss Cathy’s logic had changed with the season.

Miss Independent

The friend that Miss Cathy went to visit in the hospital a couple weeks ago died. It was kinda unexpected (at least to me) because the last I heard they were sending Percy home with six months to live. I found out the other morning while we were going about the business of getting the day started. I mentioned that I didn’t sleep very well and Miss Cathy said that she hadn’t either, that she was tossing and turning all night thinking about Percy and whether or not she was going to the funeral.

So, color me surprised that she wanted me to take her to the wake/funeral/whatever; I just assumed she’d be going with Adele-oh well. I can’t say that I was thrilled to have to go to a funeral but then I thought, “I don’t have to ‘go’ to the funeral-I can just drop Miss Cathy off”. I mean, it’s not like I knew the guy or anything.

My rationale is that “if” Miss Cathy were still driving she’d be going alone so why should I feel obligated? I’m just a glorified “driver” anyway. When I drive her over to Adele’s house, I don’t go in, I stay in the car while she visits, so, how is this any different? Granted, the guy is dead but still…… I see this as “me” aiding her in “her” independence-or it’s just a rationalization to justify my NOT wanting to go.

Besides, I’ve got to pace myself, I mean, lets be real here, at Miss Cathy’s age and with the health (or lack thereof) her friends are going to start dropping like flies. Unfortunately, not many of them got the memo that 70-something is the new 60-something. Pretty soon, this is going to become a common occurrence around here, so I need to establish my pattern of behavior right up front. Besides, I do not want to spend all day Saturday sitting in a church and/or funeral home with a bunch of sad, crying black folks that I do not know.

“I’ll make it,” Miss Cathy says the next morning, giving a reassuring answer to a question that nobody asked. Since going to the funeral was her idea you’d think she’d be up and at’m but she was still in bed when I got up at 8:00am. No, “Good morning”, “How’d you sleep?” or any other the other morning staples, just, “I’ll make it.” ……. OK.

After several deep sighs and a few encouraging words to herself she finally got out of bed. Of course I know that it’s all to do with showing me how “hard” going the funereal was going to be for her. “Great!”, I thought, she found a way to make this all about her.

According to the schedule she’d given me the night before we were suppose to have been to Adele’s and on our way to the church by 9:30am but as of 10:00 she was still getting ready so I went out to warm up the car.

I told her last night that I was going to drive her, drop her off and wait. “You’re not coming in with me?” she asked. “No”, I said, “Just think of me as Poke and you’re Miss Daisy”.

“Oh no you don’t”, I thought as she lay there looking sad, small and vulnerable. No way do you get to pick and choose when you want to be “dependent” (like now when you don’t want to do something alone) and then you purport to be “Miss Independent” (when you have to do something you don’t agree with-like going over to Tony’s house).

The mood in the car was a little funereal so to lift her spirits I decided to tell Miss Cathy that Chad was coming to visit next week. She perked right up and for a few minutes she was smiling and happy as we talked about his visit. I learned long ago to find the right time to share news or info with her because whatever I tell her becomes the main topic of conversation for days on end.

Despite the late start I got her to the church on time. It was quite the crowd from what I could see of the cars parked and others pulling into the circle drive of the mega-church. I didn’t know Percy or anything about his life but Quell-turn out! The old guy sure knew a lot of people. Made me stop to wonder how many people you’d get to show up at my funeral, no where near this many and you sure as shit wouldn’t need a place as big as a football field like this one-probably something more along the size of a doctor’s waiting room.

Anyway, I pulled “Roger” (the roll-a-ter) out of the backseat for her and she rolled herself into the First Baptist Church. I asked if she really needed “Roger” because she’d been walking so well with her cane and she said that “Roger” was there so she’s have a place to sit if all the seats were taken inside. Good for you, I thought as I drove away to find a parking space somewhere in the same zip code as the church. If I had a chauffeur’s cap I would tip it.

This n' that

I’ve noticed that Miss Cathy has pretty much plateau-ed “behavior wise”. Don’t get me wrong, she’s come a long way since the summer; taking care of herself without any help, being responsible for taking her meds and even making her bed every morning.

But, she still gets overwhelmed when we’re out grocery shopping, and if we’re getting more than a few items the experience seems to just tire her out. She’s very quick to anger and she hasn’t made much progress with her walking.

I’ve been lax in my “no cooking when I’m out of the house” rule but in her defense there hasn’t been a problem for a very long time. Unfortunately that’s not always the case when I am here at the apartment. Just the other day she burned two sweet potato pies that she’d baked because she was on the phone in the living room with her sister.

I don’t know, other than telling her that I thought the pies smelled like they were burning I didn’t say anything to her. I was surprised (and a little annoyed when she said,” Oh they’re fine” and then she ate a big piece of one of them (just to prove the point I guess).
The pies sat on the island in the kitchen looking like two swollen, blackened, upside down Frisbees. Without saying anything they were gone the next day.

It’s funny, but the two people told about the burned pies both said the same thing, “Didn’t she set the timer?” I guess it’s a legitimate question but not the “take away” from the point I was trying to make that things like this wouldn’t happen of she’d just make her peace with the fact that things are different now and that she needs to change her behavior.

The timer is beside the point (it wasn’t set, by the by), I just wish she’d see that she has to “do something different” now that she’s different, but, that’s not happening-not yet anyway. I think the whole thing could be avoided if she’d just sit in the kitchen while she’s on the phone OR set the timer, or focus on kitchen activities only while she’s cooking.

Linens and things

I couldn’t take it anymore and I needed help, so I went to Miss Cathy in the living room and asked what she was doing. She said she was about to take a nap but would lie down later if there was something that I needed. I said “great” because there was something I needed, I needed help……….help cleaning out the linen closet.

I’ve been here for months now and it has been bugging the hell out of me, more and more. You have to understand that this is no ordinary closet, it’s beyond a mess and was really starting to offend my sense of balance and order. You could never just open the doors, get what you wanted and boogie on your way. No, when you open the set of bi-fold doors you’re not greeted by crisply folded sheets and blankets, all fresh and clean, ready to help transport you to nocturnal wonders-oh no. Wrestling the doors apart you feel as if the linens were on the other side ganging up, the sheets and the blankets, working together, desperately trying to refuse you entry.

Once open, you’re bombarded with piles of fabric, haphazardly rolled, shoved onto any shelf and into any space available, looking less like bed linens and more like fabrics left on a clearance rack in a dollar store after a 100% off sale-what’s left on the shelves are what remains after all the “good” stuff is long gone.

You have to be careful less something may fall on your head, a-la-Dagwood Bumstead’s hall closet from the old “Blondie” comics if I may be so bold (or old, or both) as to reach that far back for a visual.

I’d looked at and wrestled with this mess of a closet for years. I’ve even “gone in” (alone) and straightened it out a few times when I’d come here to visit but it never lasted long. I’d have it all orderly and looking good in the summer but when I’d return for the holidays and go to the closet for some linen what greeted me was not a gift of anything that I particularly wanted.

So, on this particular day, for whatever reason I’d had enough. Maybe I was bored, maybe I was just looking to take control over something external instead of doing any work internally-I don’t know. Maybe the closet was a metaphor, maybe it’s come to represent how I felt about being here-“necessary but all over the place”. If I could get control over the linen then maybe my life here would follow suit-makes sense in a Martha Stewart kinda way, “fold it and IT will come”.

Anyway, I’d learned my lesson about cleaning out anything in this place without Miss Cathy’s co-operation. I didn’t want to hear any more of her asides or mumbled displeasure at what I’d done (to her things) so I made sure to include her this time.

She wasn’t too keen on the idea but she was a trooper. Instead of taking her nap she sat on the sofa while I brought the piles of linens to her, like a queen on her throne waiting for the slave to come pay homage with gifts of exotic treasures. I would hold up the sheet(s) or blankets so she could decide what stayed and what was to be donated to Goodwill. This process took longer than it should have (in my mind) because more often than not she’s stop “deciding” to tell me “a little story” about this or that blanket or quilt. As we went through the bedding together I was surprised as how much she agreed to get rid of, but as time went on I started to get frustrated by how much she insisted on keeping.

I guess my thought was that we’d (she’d) give away everything that didn’t have a match and just keep the full sets of sheets. Of course I would have thrown out everything that was a poly blend-which would have constituted all of her sheets except the ones I gave her BUT I had to remind my self that this was HER stuff for HER bedroom so I should just fold, arrange and keep my mouth shut.

Of course I couldn’t, several times I would ask, “Are you sure you want to keep THAT?” holding up the offending sheet as if it were road-kill. “This feels awful!” I’d say, barely able to contain my contempt,” do you really want to lay down on THIS?”

“I don’t care what it feels like, I’m keeping it,” she’d declare, defiant in her contentment to stay ignorant of Egyptian cotton and the knowledge of what it feels like to lay down on bedding with a high thread count.

I don’t know why but I started to take it personally when she would opt to keep a sad, threadbare, poly-blend sheet and pair it with a fitted sheet that was just as ugly and add two pillowcases and call it a “set”.

After waaay too much time (on both our parts) we finally had everything sorted out. In the end there were five large bags and one box to donate to Goodwill. I re-folded all that was to go back into the linen closet and did my best to group “sets” on the shelves according to color, pattern and season, blankets and quilts were up top, so that everything was organized, streamlined, uncluttered and has purpose. It wasn’t what I had envisioned but after all was said and done it was a successful collaboration with Miss Cathy, and there was harmony and order.

I closed the linen closet doors content. It was a struggle but it was worth it. Now, if only I could get “my” doors to open.

Thanksgiving

Miss Cathy didn’t want to go over to my brother’s for turkey day this year. It’s a shame because with only a few exceptions it’s been the only holiday that our little family has all been together since Pop died twelve years ago, our only “family tradition”. I know that her aversion to being at Tony’s is directly related to the fact that she’s had to stay over there so many times this year already. Her reaction is kinda like Pavlov’s dog-she hears that she’s gotta go to Tony’s and she instantly thinks about loss of freedom and control, my brother’s house (unfortunately) represents all that is “sickness and dying” and the vulnerability that entails.

Knowing that, I didn’t make a big deal out of it or try to make a case for going to my brothers’. We just stayed here and had a perfectly lovely day-no turkey but a nice meal. We talked a lot during the day and spent time together in the living room, me fussing over the plants and she doing something with the food she was prepping for dinner.

On Friday she went with Adele to see a friend in the hospital. When she came home she was visibly upset, her friend was told he has six months to live. She took the news pretty hard; I didn’t realize that she was as close to him as she was. Listening to her talk about her friend and others that were sick or dying made me think that a lot has changed in one generation.

It used to be that death and dying were for our parents and “their” generation, definitely the old-not the young. “We” were spared having to think about death so it was a just something else that separated us from our parents, widening the gap. Unfortunately, I (and others of my generation) came of age and maturity with the dawn of the AIDS epidemic in the 1980’s and although it took a little time for it to affect me personally I too started to lose people in my life and I became very familiar with death and dying.

So, although my twenties were as they should have been-a time of wonder, discovery and possibility there was also a layer of fear, hospitals smells, funerals and shock at learning that yet another friend, acquaintance, lover, club kid or business associate was sick or dying. Remember, this was a time before the cocktails and once or twice a day pills. No one was thinking that HIV was a “manageable”, chronic illness. No, in the 80’s a diagnosis meant only one thing-you were going to die, it was just a matter of when.

My generation quickly became adept at speaking a new language, and performing at a level that shouldn’t be required for thirty or forty years but here we were at an age when we were buying our first homes and/or entered into our first long term relationships and we were picking out coffins for friends and loved ones as well.

So, as my mother talked to me about her friend and expressed her concerns and explained sickness and death to me as if it were a foreign land I’d yet to visit I just nodded, a silent passenger, fully aware and well traveled.

I saw no point in “one up-ping” her or saying to her “been there, done that”, I’d told her my experiencing before but she’s either forgotten or just focused on her own mortality as it’s reflected back to her through those around her.

On Saturday morning I heard her familiar, “Heyyyyy!” as I came into the kitchen for my coffee. I peeked into the living room to acknowledge her (remember this is the new and improved “engaging” Ty in the morning, no longer the Ty that would ignore the greeting and scurry back to his lair).

She said, “Can you come here for a minute?”

I walked closer and asked what she wanted. “I want you to sit down, here, next to me.”

“Okay”, I thought as I planted myself opposite her on the sofa, “I can already tell this is gonna be a doozy, glad I’ve got some coffee at least.”

“I just wanted to tell you that I love you and give you a hug,” she said. “I just wanted you and your brother, although I’ll tell him another time, how much I appreciate all that you have done and continue to do for me.” “ It just means the world to me to know that all the hard work and the sacrifices that I made for you guys when you were growing up were worth it because of the men that you turned out to be.” "You just don't know how much that means to me.I’m getting a little emotional now but I just wanted to say, “I love you” and give you a hug-like I told Mark and Brian when I met them, “Hug-sies!”

I hugged her close and held her tight. I told her that I love her, too. We continued to talk and she said that she didn’t know why she was getting so emotional. I suggested that she was probably still emotional after just seeing her friend and learning his fate. It was only natural I told her to think about life and to be grateful for what you have when someone else has so little or so little time left.

She agreed and we sat there for a moment, reflective, in a state of “Thanksgiving”.

Company III

It had to be almost midnight on Monday after my evening out with friends when I heard Miss Cathy come into the living room where I was just about to watch some TV. I thought she was in bed sleeping after we “discussed” the food that she’d prepared earlier in the evening for Mark and Brian (actually she talked obsessively about it and I tried to talk her “in” off the ledge).

Before she was even in the room I could hear her ask, “Do you think we have containers that we can give them for the food?”

“It’s okay mom”, I said as soothingly as I could, trying to keep any annoyance out of my voice,” you don’t have to worry about it now, we’ll get it all sorted out in the morning.”

Standing in the hallway leading to the living room wearing nothing but her nightgown she asked, “What time are they coming in the morning?” I was annoyed and filled with compassion at the same time because I knew this was a “real” concern for her but I couldn’t NOT acknowledge how trivial it all was-to myself anyway.

”Who cares what time they’re coming over for Christ sake!” I wanted to scream,” It’s just food and it’s not even food they fucking asked for so go to bed and stop bothering me with this shit!” I thought all of this to myself but would never say any of it out loud and felt instantly guilty for thinking it.

“I don’t know mom, they didn’t say but we’ll work it all out.” I tried to be kind and not patronizing but I can’t be sure how it came out. I could see that she was “all wound up” and she’d probably be up all night thinking about it and I felt helpless to do anything other than try to reassure her and insist that she got to bed to get some sleep.

I don’t know…….I do know that a part of this (the obsessive ness, the constant worry over what would seem to most to be trivial matters) is because of her condition but it’s also part of who she is, too. She’s always been a nervous, anxious person. Maybe the Alzheimer’s is just “heightening” those traits in her.

First thing in the morning I made a point to let Miss Cathy know that I’d contacted Brian and I gave her an idea of what time they would be stopping by to visit. I also told her what containers I’d be using (not the Tupperware though-heaven help me if I gave away some of Miss Cathy’s “good” Tupperware). I could see that she was in good spirits and eager to see my friends again. She then told me that Adele was stopping by as well so we were going to have a house full.

Later that morning Miss Cathy was outside talking to Adele when Mark and Brian pulled up so they had a “reunion” of sorts out in front of the building. I took advantage of a moment alone with Brian after he and Mark came inside to ask him what he thought about mom’s behavior.

Brian is not only one of my best friends; he’s a Psychologist, too. I try to not ask him for clinical advice but sometimes the lines blur because I’m asking my friend, who is smart and insightful for his observations AND he just happens to be talking about things that are in his field of expertise.

I told him my concerns about her “obsessing” over things like time, tasks and dates. He said something interesting to me, he said, quite simply, ”She’s losing the concept of time.” “ Which means that she’s not able to mentally calibrate what “happens” next.”

He used the example of what was going on, he said that in her mind she’s baking the chicken, then she’s focused on the fact that (they) are coming to get the chicken, so she has to get the chicken ready for them but she can’t organize herself or her thoughts around the issue.

“Time,” Brian said, “is intrinsically linked to memory.”