Mom’s Roommate Is Dead

May 22, 2016May 22, 2016 / Erica Herd / 16 Comments

The mattress was gone and all her belongings except for a Town and Country magazine laying across the metal rungs of the bed frame. Mom and Florence* had been roommates since Mom moved into the Actors Home in September 2014. I met one of Florence’s daughters and her son. Her daughter said she had had a stroke which had affected her speech and motor ability. She was a thin African-American with close-cropped salt and pepper hair; when she spoke, her voice wavered, but she had very expressive eyes.

Mom said she died two Saturdays ago, the last time I visited, when we watched The Hustler on TCM. It was also the day Mom told me she had been proposed to.

“We were watching The Day the Earth Stood Still and All About Eve. I was laughing at something, but I didn’t know she was dead,” Mom said. “I feel bad. I miss her.”

She went on, “I saw her mouth open and she looked like she was having trouble breathing. I didn’t know she had died.”

“She was young,” I said.

“Yes, she was.”

“Her daughter told me she had a stroke,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t know that. She had arthritis, like me,” Mom said.

Mom said, “The two guys came to my room and we talked and had a good time, Florence too.”

“Was one of the guys the one who proposed to you?” I said.

“Yes,” she said, giggling like a love-stricken teenager.

It sounded like quite the party.

“Do the guys live here?” I said.

“No, they work here.”

“Oh, are they cleaners or nurses?”

“I don’t think so. They help us out here.”

“So they’re aides?” I said.

“They might be.”

“Maybe it was a blessing,” Mom said.

“Yes, maybe,” I said.

“We were watching The Day the Earth Stood Still and All About Eve. It was a good night.”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Mom said. “She was with me all the time.”

“I know.”

“Then they did something at the window with the thing. They couldn’t get the window open. And she was dead.”

“Did they tell you that night?”

“Yes, the nurse came in and told me,” she said.

“That must have been hard.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go for a spin?” I said.

“Yes, let’s go.”

In memory of Florence:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

–John Donne

*Pseudonym.

Days We Have to Remember

May 5, 2015May 5, 2015 / Erica Herd / 7 Comments

ER (google images)

“Oh no, not her,” Mom said when Jessie was wheeled to the table for dinner.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“I can’t stand her,” she said, twisting her face.

Miss D, who was assisting Jessie with her meal, said, “But she likes you, Kathy.”

Jessie smiled at me, then at Mom. We sat a square 4-person table. Jessie and I sat on opposite sides, and Mom to her left.

Jessie, Mom and Gisele have shared a table since Mom moved into the Actors Home in September, 2014. They always seemed to get along. I haven’t seen Gisele in a while—maybe she was moved to another ward or went to another home. Gisele said Mom was her best friend. Mom fawned over Gisele, frail and gentle, and told her, “You have to eat something,” one time at lunch when she was fussing with her food.

Gisele said to me, “Tell me what to do.”

I helped cut her food and spoon it into her mouth, but she spit it out. She did that with everything on her plate. She only ate the chocolate pudding, juice and milk.

She’d eat a few bites, spit them out, and again say, “Tell me what to do.”

Maybe Mom missed Gisele.

Jessie smiled at Mom.

“Oh, you pest! I hate your simpy smile, you simp,” Mom said.

“Mom, don’t look at her.”

“But she won’t stop looking at me.”

“You don’t have to look at her. Look at the wall, or at me.”

Mom made a face like a little kid at Jessie, still smiling at her.

“Mom, enough.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Mom said.

Miss D frowned.

Mom put down her utensils.

“Have you had enough to eat?”

“Yes, I want to go now.”

“But you didn’t eat your soup or your brownie.”

“I don’t like brownies,” she said.

“But I might want it. We’ll take your coffee too.”

“I want to watch TV in the room,” she said.

“ER?”

“Yes,” and her face instantly brightened.

I had arrived late and it threw off our routine, which included watching an episode or two of ER on DVD. We were on season 2, disk 4.

I turned on the DVD and inserted the disk. She looked calmer already; it seemed to ground her.

“We’re on season 2, disk 4, Mom.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling.

At the end of the episode, she said, “But what about the credits?”

“They showed the credits at the beginning of the program, Mom.”

“They did?”

Then I brought her the mini spiral notebook she keeps at her bedside table.

I pointed to the names, “MARK GREENE, NOAH WYLE.”

We said them in unison, “MARK GREENE, NOAH WYLE.”

“Noah Wyle plays John Carter,” I said.

“Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry, I’m anxious today. I forgot Rick’s birthday.”

Rick is my brother who lives upstate.

“His birthday is October 9, I always remember it. He’s so upset with me.”

“He’s not upset, Mom. He understands.”

“These are important days, days we have to remember. I always remembered.”

(Mom hasn’t remembered my birthday for the past 4-5 years.)

“I know, Mom, and he’s not mad at you.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked him; he’s fine.” (I never asked him.)

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Her face was still scrunched up with upset.

“We all make mistakes, Mom. It’s okay.”

Pseudonyms used for residents and staff at the Actors Home.

My Own Grey Gardens

December 22, 2014December 24, 2014 / Erica Herd / 9 Comments

Actors Home party (photo by E. Herd)
Pseudonyms are used for Actors Home staff.

I took last Friday off from work to go to a holiday party at the Actors Home where my mother resides. I had other things to do, like renew my driver’s license, return a pair of slippers at Kohl’s. and pick up a final Christmas gift, but the main reason I took the day off was to go to the party.

My husband Lorin and I arrived a little before 4:00 to escort Mom from her unit to the party on the main floor.

“Mom, there’s a party on the first floor. Wanna go?”

“Not really. I don’t feel so good,” she said.

That should have clued me in, but I was persistent. Let’s be honest, I wanted to go to the party. I was looking forward to a couple glasses of wine, a hot meal and the entertainment. The mood was festive: red and white tablecloths, decorations, a pianist playing Christmas carols. What could go wrong?

When we entered the party room, Mom said, “I’m not dressed for this.”

“Do you want to change upstairs?” I said.

“No.”

The activities coordinator, Mira, said, “I’m dressed casually; I’ve been working all day.”

I said, “I’m casual too, Mom.” I was wearing jeans, and my striped Christmas sweater and black hiking boots.

She said in an acid voice, “Well, you’re always casual. At least you’re comfortable.”

No use arguing with the boss. Guess I’m a bum.

Servers came around with platters of hors d’oeuvres like shrimp and spring rolls.

“Mom, you like shrimp. You want some?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Well, we’ll get you some anyway.”

The server handed her a small plate of shrimp with a spoonful of cocktail sauce and a wedge of lemon.

“Do you want lemon on the shrimp?” I asked.

“No.” I handed her a shrimp dipped in cocktail sauce, and she ate it reluctantly.

Lorin sipped a glass of coke, I had white wine and Mom had a Sprite.

Lorin said, “Mom is in a brown study.”

I had to ask him what that meant.

“Do you want a glass of white wine?” I asked her.

“No, this is fine.”

She used to like Chardonnay.

The pianist continued playing Christmas carols, and I sang along, hoping Mom would pipe in.

“This isn’t Christmas anymore. I miss Rick. There’s no family, not the way it used to be,” she said.

Rick is my brother who lives in upstate New York.

“I know, Mom. Do you want me to call Rick? We can speak to him now.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“These clothes don’t fit. Why don’t you give me clothes that fit?” She tugged at the rolled up sleeves of her pink sweater.

“I didn’t buy you that sweater, Mom. They got it for you at the old place.”

I sang along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and said, “You always liked this one.”

“Yes.”

“It’s from Easter Parade*,” I said.

“I’m not dressed for a party,” she said, scrunching up her face.

Lorin and I made an executive decision to return her to her room, sensing that her discontent was escalating. When a social worker asked why we were leaving, I said that Mom was “cranky,” and we thought it best to bring her back to her room.

“Come back and enjoy the party,” she said, smiling.

I told Russ, the nurse in her unit, that she wasn’t having a good time and asked if she could have dinner with the group.

“Sure,” he said.

I wheeled her to a table with two other ladies and said, “I’m putting your cookies and soap in your room.”

“Okay, at least that’s something to look forward to,” she said.

Lorin stayed with her while I was out of the room.

When I returned, I said, “Okay, so you’ll eat dinner here.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, petulantly.

“You need to eat something.”

Her face contorted into a sneer and she said to Lorin, “You shit!”

I exchanged looks with Lorin.

“Okay, Mom, we’re going now,” I said.

“You’re not staying with me for dinner?”

“No.”

Lorin said, “Have a good dinner. Good night, Katherine.”

“Enjoy!” she burst out, almost hissing at him.

One of the ladies at her table looked at Lorin and said, “She’s a liar.”

From the mouths of babes, or old people with Alzheimer’s—kind of the same thing.

Lorin and I returned to the party and enjoyed the buffet dinner and entertainment.

Broadway dancers and singers performed, including Christine Ebersole, who closed with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

I wish Mom could have enjoyed the party with us, but it was not in the stars, I suppose. Somehow it’s easier for me to tolerate her abuse of me—she could be very cutting and hurtful towards me before her Alzheimer’s diagnosis and still is from time to time. What I cannot tolerate, however, is her abuse of Lorin. That is unacceptable.

Perhaps I’ve become inured to her verbal and psychological cruelty, but something snapped on Friday. I felt like Little Edie in Grey Gardens, the ever-present caretaker who spent her life living with and taking care of her mother. No, I don’t live with Mom, but sometimes it feels like she lives inside my head.

I spent Saturday being angry at her for her cruelty, and at myself for spending so many years taking care of her when she has expressed so little love for me. I don’t think she’s ever really loved me. I’m not saying this for sympathy, but because I believe it to be true. There are many wasted years I’ll never get back. Liking myself and loosening her grip on me takes daily work; it may be a life-long effort. I don’t want to live in Grey Gardens.

*The song is actually from Meet Me in St. Louis, not Easter Parade.