Short Stories From 10 Years Ago – April 20, 2004
Mary 4
Short Stories From 10 Years Ago – April 20, 2004 – My next trip to Owen Sound in the fall of 1986 was to help my father move Mary back to the hospital. She was in fine form when I got to her room. People who suffer from Alzheimer’s Disease lose their inhibitions as the disease progresses.
Consequently they do and say whatever they want to in the moment. They no longer edit their speech or their actions. Gone also is any concern for what others think of them. When she moved into the nursing home, we brought a lot of her own things with her, so she had a sense of being connected to her personal possessions. For some reason Mary felt that if one dress was good – two were better. A sweater was always a good choice and what could be better than her fringed, dusty shawl rose on top of everything else? A floppy, wide brimmed hat was often askew on her head and her shoes hardly ever matched.
Mary was sitting on a chair beside her bed – suitcase at her feet. We were uprooting her again from a familiar routine, and my heart ached for her. As always we had to get past her queries about coming home. She promised to try and do a better job of cooking meals and looking after the house, if we would only give her a chance. Having to tell her no, wasn’t as bad as the look in her eyes when she realized that she was being moved back to the hospital. My father finished speaking with the staff personnel and we left the nursing home for the last time. We stopped on the way to the hospital for a cup of tea, but Mary sat listlessly and hardly touched her mug. I think her heart must have been breaking as we sat there.
Back at the hospital we had to go through an intake assessment with the ward nurse. It was obvious that Mary was tired and she sat slumped against the office desk. The woman had a file folder with her and she opened it and took out a questionnaire. Mary gazed at her with a look that would have made a strong man shudder. The nurse glanced at my mother over the top of her glasses and said, “Do you know who you are?” Mary replied “Of course I do”. The nurse said, “Well can you tell me your name”. Mary said, “Yes”. The nurse said, “Please tell me your name”. My mother told her.
Next the nurse said, “Do you know what day it is”. Mary said, “Yes, it’s Tuesday”. Nurse says, “What time is it?” Mary said, “I don’t know – you’re the one with the watch”. The nurse said, “Do you have any idea what month it is?” Mary replied, “It’s September and why are you asking me all these questions?”. The nurse said she needed to understand how well Mary could function in the real world, and did Mary know what year it was?” Mary pulled herself up straight in her chair, rolled her eyes heavenward and said, “This is the real world you nitwit and it’s 1945”. I felt as if I had inadvertently wandered into a Pink Panther movie.
Thus ended the interrogation. We took my mother down the hall to her room to get settled. Unlike the nursing home, she had a room of her own, and she seemed to get some measure of comfort and relief from this. We unpacked her bag and put her clothes away. We’d brought a radio in for her and some family pictures for her night table, and we set these up so she could see them from her bed.
She seemed disoriented and wanted to lie down for a rest. My father and I went out for lunch and then came back to say good-bye. Mary appeared to be resigned to her new home. For the first time she didn’t ask when she could come home. I can’t imagine asking and always being told that you had to stay behind.
Over the next year the disease progressed steadily and Mary’s health and personality went through a number of changes. The violent outbursts, physical bullying and cursing gradually receded and she became docile and more resigned to her life. Moments of true clarity were rare. I went to see her one day and when I walked through the door she said, “Hello Rosemary dear, I’m so glad to see you”. It was the first time she’d recognized me in months.
My usual moniker of Suzie Soup, momentarily forgotten. She gave me a big hug and said, “I have such good news. I had breakfast with Mike this morning and he asked me to give you his love”. Mike, being my brother who died in 1971. I thought about this for a moment and decided if Alzheimer’s had one gift to bestow it might be this one. If Mary got to believe she was spending time with her beloved son, one of the most painful losses of her life, then perhaps the advanced stages of this beastly affliction would be tolerable for her.
During that particular visit, Mary was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed. Her long hair was wound up in a top-knot and she had stuck a pencil through it. Her ever-present fringed shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. Her bed was strewn with papers mostly covered with scribbles, and she was tapping a pen against her thigh. She kept looking at her watch which was upside down, and then at the door. I asked her if she had somewhere to go and she said,
“Yes I do Suzie Soup, I have a meeting with Brian at two o’clock, and since my recent appointment, my schedule is extremely busy, so I won’t be able to sit here and chat with you much longer”. Foolishly I asked her who Brian was and what appointment she was speaking about. She gave me a look that would have withered a king and said, “Brian Mulroney, of course, and I’ve been appointed as the Canadian High Commissioner To China”.
God bless Mary, she’d always loved politics, although she was a die-hard Liberal, but if she was tearing around Asia in her mind, at Brian Mulroney’s behest what possible harm could it do? This was probably the least destructive period of her disease. She had mellowed incredibly and had lost most of her anger and frustration. She’d settled into a routine at the hospital. My father visited her twice a day. They had tea and cookies together and sometimes watched a little television. Most of the time she had no idea who her family was, other times she talked about departed friends and family as if they were still alive.
For us it was painful, because we were losing the person she had once been, and adjusting to the person she had become. Loving Mary wasn’t difficult, but letting go of the past was hard. To this day, all these years after her death, I would still give a lot just to be able to sit with my mother for an afternoon, drink tea and talk. There is truth to the realization, that after your mother is gone, no one will ever love you again the way that she did. In addition to her presence, her sense of fairness and her grit, I miss her unconditional love and acceptance deeply and profoundly!
