Truth or Dare

February 1, 2017February 1, 2017 / Erica Herd / 13 Comments

I haven’t spoken to Mom since Christmas — bad daughter. Yes, I am. I haven’t had the energy or the desire, I suppose, and I haven’t wanted to hear her rebukes, such as, “You haven’t come to see me in so long!”

When Lorin and I lived in New Jersey, I saw her once or week or at least biweekly. Now it’s once a month. I haven’t got time for more pain, and I’m living far away.

A nurse called me from the Actors Home and asked if I could calm her down since she was ranting about being poisoned, again.

This is nothing new.

She shrieked into the phone, “”When are you going to get me out of here? I’m being poisoned.” Then, “Where have you been?” and “You only think about yourself, or dear ole Daddio.”

That pulled the trigger.

“Mom, I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“Lorin was killed in a car accident. That’s why I haven’t been calling or coming around.”

“Oh no! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to upset you, but it’s time that you know.”

She started to cry or it sounded like crying. “I’m so sorry.”

It felt good to tell her the truth. I have spared her so many truths, but I am tired of lying to her, even if she has Alzheimer’s. I have no more time for lies and obfuscations.

“And I’ve moved out of state,” I said.

“What? Why?”

“Because I can’t bear to be in New York since Lorin died.”

“But you dumped me here and now I’m alone in this God-forsaken place! Where are you?”

“I’m living in Savannah, Georgia.”

That didn’t seem to register. Her brain must now have been on overload or “tilt.”

“You have to get me out of here. Take me to Grandpa’s house . . . anywhere.”

“Mom, Grandpa is dead. You can’t go there.”

“There’s a room for me there.”

“I don’t think so, Mom.”

More crying.

“I’m coming to see you on Saturday,” I said.

“But that’s not soon enough. You have to get me out now.”

“It’s in three days. Can I bring you anything – soap?”

“Yes, please bring me the lavendar soap. They took that away from me. And someone scribbled all over my Wuthering Heights. It must have been Lorin.”

“Lorin wouldn’t scribble in your books.”

“Did you bury him?”

“He was cremated.”

“Oh. I’m so so sorry. I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you. Try to relax. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. Jack took me to confession.”

“Oh, good.”

“He prayed with me.”

“I’m glad.”

“I have so many sins. How will I ever be forgiven?”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

More crying. The phone and she sounded far away. I waited for a while, then hung up.

No more lies.

I Keep Losing Things

September 6, 2016 / Erica Herd / 7 Comments

(google)

I packed some jewelry–a necklace and two pairs of earrings–for a trip to Savannah in mid-August. Or at least I thought I did. I never wore them during the trip. I wore the same silver hoops and beaded bracelet for the duration of the trip. I never found the earrings and necklace when I got home and unpacked. Continuing searches in my bureau, suitcase and duffel bag have yielded no results.

When I visited my mom on her birthday (August 24), I noticed that her peridot-silver heart pendant and chain were lying on her night stand, and the chain was broken. I have replaced the silver chain at least three times–guess they aren’t made well. I stuffed the necklace and pendant in the front pocket of my purse and promised Mom I’d replace the chain. Both are missing. I’m not sure if they fell out of my purse, or if I took them out and put them somewhere else (don’t think so).

It’s only jewelry. Maybe it’s a sign that I am casting off the old and embracing the new? But why my mom’s necklace too?

My mind has been scattered what with the short sale of our house, our imminent move and family matters. It feels like things are running ahead of me and it’s hard to keep up.

As I said, it’s only jewelry. It could always be worse.

Yardley English Lavender

August 5, 2016August 5, 2016 / Erica Herd / 11 Comments

(google)

A bar of soap isn’t just a bar of soap.

For example, there’s Yardley English Lavender–Mom’s favorite.

Last week she said, “I meant to tell you to get me more soap.”

I went into her bathroom and saw three bars of soap–not whole, maybe two-thirds used–but nevertheless, Yardley English Lavender.

“Mom, you have soap,” I said from the bathroom.

“Really?”

“Yes, want to see?” I said.

“Okay,” she said, wheeling into the bathroom. She turned on the faucet and started to wash her face and hands.

“Smell it,” I said, handing her the bar. She sniffed it.

“Okay, thank goodness. Yes, that’s it.”

Her aide Christina* came in the room later and said, “I wanted to ask you to bring your mom more soap.”

“But she has three bars in the bathroom,” I said.

“Yes, but she tells me, ‘That’s not soap.’ She likes the big bars,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll bring some next time.”

Christina nodded and smiled.

Before I left, I said to Mom, “Remember, you have soap. There are three bars in the bathroom.”

“Okay,” she said.

I had a feeling this was not the end of the Soap Saga, so I went to CVS and bought three “real” bars of Yardley English Lavender.

Last night after work I stopped by to visit Mom.

I saw the night nurse Jared* on my way to her room and said, “I’m bringing her some soap.”

“Ah, the English soap,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, she loves it.”

It was 7:30, and Mom was already in bed.

“Do you want to watch some TV?” I asked.

“No, I’m sleepy,” she said.

“I’ll put your soap right her next to you, okay?” I placed the bars of soap on the rolling table next to her bed.

“Yes, that’ll be fine. You didn’t have to come today to bring it.”

“No, I wanted to. I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

“Thank you, dear.”

I kissed her on the forehead and said, “good night.”

“Good night, dear.”

I told Jared, “She was very sleepy, so I put the soap by her bed.”

He said, “You didn’t have to come all this way to just to bring her soap. I could have picked some up at Walgreens.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

Sometimes soap isn’t just soap.

(google)

*Pseudonyms used for staff members at Actor’s Home.

Sundowning

June 5, 2016June 6, 2016 / Erica Herd / 37 Comments

(Mom in her green polka dot dress)

“Who did your hair?” she said.

“My hair stylist,” I said.

“I don’t like it. The girls are wearing it long these days.”

I removed my headband, as if that would make a difference.

“You’ve gained so much weight,” she said, scrunching up her face.

“I’m sorry my appearance offends you,” I said.

“Oh, everything’s all wrong. Where are my clothes? The clothes in the closet don’t belong to me!” she said, hyperventilating. “What happened to Grandpa’s house?”

“What do you mean? Grandpa in Wisconsin?”

“No, when he lived with Rony.”

“Mom, Grandpa’s been dead for years,” I said.

“But what about my sister? Can’t I go there?”

“Mom, Rony is dead.”

“What?” she said, her face terrified in disbelief.

“She died several years ago. She had a heart condition.”

“I know she had a heart condition, but I didn’t know she died,” she said.

“Yes, she died.”

“Where have you been? You’ve been gone for so long!”

“Mom, I was here two weeks ago.”

“No, you weren’t!”

“Yes, I was. I brought you the bras you asked for.” I pulled them out of a tote bag.

“No, these are all wrong—they’re too big.”

“I got them too big because you said the other ones shrunk in the wash.”

“Oh, they’re all wrong.”

“Okay, Mom, I think I’ll go now. I don’t need this.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be quiet,” she said.

“You don’t have to be quiet. Just don’t yell at me.”

“But why were you gone so long?”

“I was here two weeks ago. My office moved—I get home at 7:30 at night. I can only see you on weekends.”

She made a face.

“Where have you been? I’m being poisoned here. The air, the fumes,” she said.

“Is it hot in here?” I said.

“Yes, I think so.”

I asked James the nurse if he could turn on the air conditioning in her room.

“I’m so confused. I didn’t think I’d be here forever. Where did I used to live? They’re killing me here.”

“At Schuyler House, in the Bronx.”

“Schuyler House?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember that place. I didn’t think I’d be here forever.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What will become of me? Where will I go?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Rick has the house in Elmira. You’ve seen it.”

“I know that. Stop humoring me,” she said, ramming her wheelchair into the side of her bed frame.

“Dan still lives in the house, and he lives near Greg.”

Dan is my Aunt Rony’s husband; Greg is my cousin.

“Oh, that’s good. He always took care of himself,” Mom said.

“He just turned 90, I think. He goes swimming at the YMCA every day.”

“Yes, he always took care of himself. I’m happy to hear this.”

“Make sure you tell him about my performances at the Actors Home. I want them to know where I am.”

“Which performances?”

“I’m doing Anastasia,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll tell him.”

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

“Yes,” she said, hyperventilating.

“Do you want something to calm you down?”

“Yes, I have some valium somewhere.”

“In the medicine cabinet?” I said.

“Yes, I think so.”

“You can take some after dinner,” I said.

“Okay.”

I told the nurse James* that Mom was having a hard time.

“Can Mom get a sedative?” I asked.

“It’s sundowning,” James said. “It happens around this time.”

It was about 4:30 p.m.

“Let’s go into the garden,” James said. “Come on, Katherine.”

Mom laughed.

I wheeled her out into the garden, James opening the door to the outside world.

“Mom, do you want your coffee?” I said.

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll bring it,” James said.

“And can you bring me a glass of water?” I said.

“Sure,” he said.

“It was about time I had a nervous breakdown,” Mom said, laughing. “Why don’t they show Lust for Life? They keep having it up on the bill.”

“I don’t know, Mom.”

“Would you lay out some clothes for me for tomorrow? I can’t find the polka dot dress I love so much.”

“What color was it?” I said.

“Green polka dots and white background.”

“I’ll try to find it or I’ll get you another,” I said.

I’m watching Terms of Endearment. I never liked it when I was younger, but I do now. I never appreciated the relationship between the mother (Shirley MacLaine) and daughter (Debra Winger), the closeness between them.

I guess I didn’t have that type of relationship with my mom, but it was still a relationship. So much of the time I felt like I was her mother, her nurse, her therapist. Sometimes I think she resented me for it. But it’s who I was schooled to be—the caretaker.

I know I can’t fix Mom. I can’t make her not have Alzheimer’s. I can’t make her remember her sister died or she no longer has a house to live in. I do what I can.

*Note: pseudonym used.

Are You in the House?

April 10, 2016April 10, 2016 / Erica Herd / 16 Comments

(Mom and me on East 27th Street, New York City)

Are you in the house?

That’s what Mom asked me yesterday when we spoke on the phone. I haven’t seen her since Easter Saturday, and was calling to let her know I wouldn’t be visiting this weekend. I’m feeling under the weather.

“Are you in the house?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m in the house,” I said.

“How are you feeling, Mom?”

“I’m alright.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of things in the house,” she said.

I was wondering which house she meant. Did she think we were living in the same house now? Was it the house where she grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin? Was it the fifth floor walkup apartment in New York City where I was born, or the apartment building on Junction Boulevard that was converted into a Jack in the Box and made the Lunney family, with their 10 kids, homeless? Was it the house we rented in Jackson Heights–the last house we lived together as a family? Was it the apartment she lived in in the Bronx before Lorin and I packed up her things and moved her into the nursing home?

What is a house, after all, but a place to lay one’s head. Or was it home Mom was speaking of? A place where family gathers, and hopefully, love makes its presence known.

It’s often hard to know what she means. That’s part of the Alzheimer’s. I interpret what she’s saying much of the time or try not to question at all, to let it be.

“How are the tulips?” I asked.

“They died, dear,” she said.

Why did I even ask? Of course they were dead after two weeks.

“What about the lilacs?” she said.

“They’re not out yet. They come out in May. I’ll bring you some then.”

“Okay. (pause) Where are you? Why aren’t you here?” she said.

“I’m at home. I’m not feeling well and didn’t want to get you sick,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I’ll see you next week, Mom.”

“Oh, okay.”

She sounded deflated. I felt I had let her down. But I can’t be there all the time.

“I’ll see you soon,” I said.

“Okay. See you soon.”

What does house / home mean to you?

Skelly Comes Home

April 6, 2016April 6, 2016 / Erica Herd / 5 Comments

I was inspired to post this after reading Rebecca Lemke’s story in The Neighborhood.
(Mom and me, 1966)

When Skelly comes home
she’s all skin and bone
Mom screams when she hugs her,
“Are you trying to be a eunuch?”
No, I can’t say that
was my intent.

Mom let’s go, fast.

It’s not about you (for once),
Mother.
It’s all about me
needing control
finding it the only way
I can
sculpting my body—
you have no part in that

Running and starving
takes discipline—
it’s not for the faint of body
or heart

Don’t touch me
I bruise easily

“You must eat some casserole,”
Mom says.

Skelly heads to her room,
suitcase in hand
“I’m going for a run.”

“Why? You’re so thin.”

It’s has nothing to do with that.

Raymond Sleeps Around

December 23, 2015 / Erica Herd / 6 Comments

(photo: glasseyes view)

Raymond looked different than the last time I saw him: hair shaved close to the scalp, different glasses, belt cinched tighter around his waist. He looked paler somehow.

I saw Mom in the day room. She said, “It’s been a long time. Where have you been?”

“I wasn’t feeling well one weekend, and last weekend I had a lot to do,” I said.

“Oh. Let’s go to the room,” she said.

I wheeled her to her room.

I was nervous about seeing her on Saturday. Our last visit had been on Thanksgiving, and she was in good spirits. I wanted to hold onto that, thinking it might go away.

“I brought you coffee and cookies and Christmas presents,” I said.

“Oh, and to think we missed Christmas,” she said, frowning.

“We didn’t miss it. It’s next week. I’ll come by on Wednesday after work and bring you the chocolate chip cookies.”

“That would be great,” she said.

“Do you want to open your presents?”

“Not right now,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

We took a spin around the floor, passing Raymond, as we usually do. He’s an avid walker of the halls.

“Hi,” he said to me.

“Hi, Raymond.”

After our spin, we returned to Mom’s room. I did some channel surfing and stopped on AMC. They were running a Christmas movie marathon; the original Miracle on 34^th Street was on.

“I always liked this one,” I said.

“Me too. But I haven’t seen any Christmas movies.”

“What about Christmas in Connecticut? That was on last week.”

“Oh, yes, I saw that,” she said, smiling.

“I liked that one.”

“Me too.”

Raymond shuffled into Mom’s room.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, Raymond.”

“He’s always coming into my room. I don’t want him in here,” Mom said.

“He doesn’t mean anything by it. I don’t think he knows where he’s going.”

“I don’t care. I don’t like it,” she said.

“Raymond, let’s go this way,” I said, leading him out of her room towards the nurses’ station.

Mom and I went for another spin.

We returned to her room and drank coffee together. A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott was on.

“I never saw this one,” she said.

“Me neither, but I heard it was good.”

“You know what I really need?” she said.

“What?”

“A bra. The ones they gave me are too big and I hate them. I need a Lasserette.”

“A what?”

“Oh, let me think.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Raymond.

“Vassarette!” she says. “Size 36B, with some padding.”

I never heard of Vassarette bras.

Raymond doesn’t say anything and heads straight to Hannah’s bed. Hannah is Mom’s roommate; she has the bed closer to the door.

“Vassarette? What color?” I said.

“Beige.”

“Okay, I’ll look for one.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Raymond lies down on his side, eyes closed, and hands tucked under his head in prayer position on Hannah’s bed.

“Mom,” I said, gesturing to Raymond.

“What is he doing? Get him out of here.”

I go out to the nurses’ station to speak to Deirdre, the second shift nurse on duty.

“Deirdre, you’ve got to see this,” I said.

“What?” she says, smiling.

“It’s Raymond.”

“Oh, no,” she said, looking at him on the bed.

She nudged him gently. “Raymond, you have to get up. This isn’t your room.”

“Huh?” he said, like a toddler being woken from a nap.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Oh,” he said.

Deirdre led him out gently by one arm.

Mom and I went around the floor one more time. When we returned, guess who was lying on the bed?

I told Deirdre.

She said, smiling, “He’s like George Washington. He sleeps in everyone’s bed.”

*Pseudonyms have been used for staff and residents at the Actors Home.

Mom’s Books

August 24, 2015August 24, 2015 / Erica Herd / 13 Comments

Two weeks ago at the start of our visit Mom said, “Where are all my books?”

I told her they were in her apartment (of course, a lie, we let her apartment go in 2011 after she moved into the nursing home).

“But what happened to them?”

“They’re still there, Mom. I didn’t bring them all because you’re always saying it’s too cluttered in your room.”

“But I need my books.”

Her once deep brown eyes were filled with fear and anxiety. They have turned a lighter, more watered-down brown over the past several years.

“Okay, I can bring them. Which ones do you want?”

“Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Vivien Leigh.”

“A biography of Vivien Leigh?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it called?”

“Vivien Leigh.”

“Okay.” That biography was written in the 1970s and the jacket cover is a photo of Vivien Leigh in 1890s dress and a parasol. Thank goodness, I remembered it and purchased a used copy from amazon.

(google images)

“Are you sure they’re not lost?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Please bring them right away.”

“I’ll bring them next week.”

I looked into her bedside dresser and found a paperback copy of Wuthering Heights.

“Here it is!” I said.

She leafed through it, momentarily calmer.

“That’s not it. It doesn’t have the pictures.”

She wanted the 1943 version of Wuthering Heights with wood engravings by Fritz Eichenberg. That book, along with Jane Eyre, also with wood engravings by Eichenberg, was severely water-damaged during Hurricane Irene. Most of Mom’s belongings had been stored in our basement and most had been damaged beyond repair when our basement flooded. She doesn’t know that we had all her belongings, nor does she know about the flood. I hope it stays that way.

(google images – cover of 1943 edition of Wuthering Heights)

“Okay, Mom, I know which one you want. I’ll bring it next time.”

This past Saturday, I presented her with a copy of Vivien Leigh, along with cookies, a birthday card and a bouquet of flowers: today is her birthday.

“What about Wuthering Heights?” she said.

“I have it in a box in the basement, but haven’t had time to dig it out,” I said.

Another lie. I ordered a set of the vintage Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, but they haven’t arrived yet.

“Oh, you’ve been very busy, haven’t you?” she said.

“Yes, I have. At least you have Vivien Leigh. You can start re-reading it and look at the photographs.”

The truth is she doesn’t read anymore and hasn’t in some time, but she enjoys looking at photographs and illustrations.

“You’re sure nobody took it?”

“Yes, Mom. No one stole your books.”

“Oh, thank God. I was so worried. I need them with me.”

“I told the florist your favorite colors were pink and lavender, and he put together a wonderful bouquet. Smell them.”

I brought the vase of flowers close to her nose.

“Yes, lovely.”

We brought our Dunkin Donuts coffees to the Secret Garden and sat outside.

“The air is heavy,” she said, “so quiet.”

“Yes. I suppose people are on vacation.”

“I suppose so.”

The books were not spoken of for the remainder of our visit. Ahhh.

Raymond

June 29, 2015June 29, 2015 / Erica Herd / 5 Comments

photo by Martin Brigden

He walks alongside us up and down the halls. His belt is tightly cinched around his narrow waist, his flannel shirt tucked in.

Raymond says, “Where are we going?”

“This way,” I say, pointing down the corridor in the direction of the sun room.

“I forgot my money,” he says.

“Do you need to buy something?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Maybe it’s in your room,” I say.

“Yes.”

We walk in silence for a bit, then he says, “Christ!” He seems exasperated, but only momentarily.

I wheel Mom to the elevator when it’s time for me to leave.

Dottie, the second shift nurse, and Connie, a CNA, and Raymond are gathered around. Dottie swipes her ID card above the elevator button. This is a “locked” unit.

While we wait for the elevator, Dottie says, “Your mom used to stay up late-till around 10 or so—but now she’s usually in bed between 7:30 and 8. Right, Katherine?” Dottie giggles.

“Yes, I get tired,” Mom says.

“Is she eating well?” I ask.

“Yes, for the most part. Sometimes there are things on her tray that she doesn’t like.”

I stroke the back of Mom’s head. She seems to like that.

The elevator door opens, and I kiss her on the forehead.

“You’re leaving now?” she says.

“Yes, Mom. See you next week.”

Raymond moves toward the open elevator.

“I’ve got to go,” he says.

Dottie holds him by his right arm, and Connie, by his left.

“Not now, Raymond,” Dottie says, giggling. Dottie’s a giggler. I think it’s a nervous thing.

“But I have to go,” he says, lurching forward.