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.

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.

The Help

June 1, 2015 / Erica Herd / 8 Comments

Otis Historical Archives

“Do you know where Dorothy is?” she asked me. The Woman was a petite brunette, about 5’3”, tanned, gold jewelry bedecking her neck and wrists.

“I think she’s with one of the residents,” I said. Mom and I were taking our usual “spins” (Mom’s term) around the floor.

“My mom needs her medicine, and I need to find her,” she said.

“I’ll let you know if I see her. Did you speak with the doctor?” I said, pointing to the doctor who periodically does paperwork at the nurse’s station.

“No, forget him, he’s no help,” she said.

Lucy shuffled up to the Woman. “Do you know how to get to the downstairs elevator?” she said.

“I’m not one of the staff,” she said, seemingly mortified. Then she stomped off to her mother’s room.

Lucy is a resident at the Actors Home. She is rail-thin with salt and pepper kinky hair cinched into a tight pony tail. She asks everyone, repeatedly throughout the day, where the downstairs elevator is.

I tell her, “I don’t know where it is. I only take the upstairs elevator.”

I don’t believe there even is a downstairs one, and Lucy’s not allowed to take the elevator unless escorted by a nurse or an aide. The elevator can only be accessed with a key fob.

Dorothy appeared.

“Hi, Erica, good to see you. Hi, Katherine,” she said.

“Good to see you too. A woman was looking for you. She said her mom needs her medicine.”

The Woman came out of her mother’s room.

“There you are. I can never find any of you people. Mom needs her medicine,” she said.

“Okay, give me a minute,” Dorothy said and went to attend to another resident. It was 4 o’clock, and she had just started her shift.

The Woman said to me, “I can’t believe it, how rude and disrespectful she is,” and huffed off.

I heard The Woman in her mother’s room continuing, “They disrespect me. Nobody listens in this place—nurses, aides, all the same. How dare she speak to me like that!”

Her voice was rising in pitch and agitation. I can’t imagine it’s good for her mother to listen to her rantings, especially since she has dementia. I doubt she understands what her daughter is saying.

“She seems upset,” I said to Mom, and we continued our spin.

Dorothy returned to the nurse’s station. “What’s wrong with her?” I said.

“I don’t know. I think she needs the meds, not her mom.” We exchanged a smile.

Dorothy walked into the room, and The Woman said,” You say ‘okay’ and just walk away from me? I’m tired of being disrespected. Every time I come here, I get treated like this. It is unacceptable.”

I heard Dorothy trying to calm her down.

“Somebody’s upset,” my mom said.

“It seems so.”

By the way, the nursing home where my mother resides is one of the best, if not the best in the country. I have found the nurses and aides to be uniformly exceptional—caring, hard-working, and attentive to the residents.

So what was The Woman’s problem? She acted as if Dorothy was part of her personal “staff.” Perhaps she fancies herself a Kardashian or a person of great import who feels entitled to dump on “the help.” I would have liked to see Dorothy put her in her place, but I guess that wouldn’t be following protocol. What BS.

I have used pseudonyms for the staff and residents.

Mean Girl

April 21, 2015April 21, 2015 / Erica Herd / 13 Comments

google images

It felt like high school except this girl isn’t in the A-list clique and no one roots for her bad behavior. Her name is Serena, and she’s a resident at the Actors’ Home in New Jersey. She has a shock of wild frizzy red hair, piercing green eyes and pointy nails.

It was Saturday afternoon, a gorgeous sunny day. Several residents were outside with their aides or family members enjoying the long-awaited sun. Serena stayed indoors.

She held forth, as if she were a fire and brimstone preacher, addressing the group at large or anyone who would listen. Most of the residents were gathered around the nurse’s station in chairs, wheelchairs or standing with walkers.

“You wouldn’t believe it by looking at him, but he came into my room in the middle of the night, stripped, and dumped his dirty diaper on my bed!” she said, pointing to Raymond, who was passing by.

Raymond shook his head and frowned, “No.”

“He looks so innocent, doesn’t he? Well, drop dead!” she said, looking straight at Raymond.

I scanned the other residents’ faces and saw signs of discomfort and alarm.

“She’s mean,” I said to my mom.

“She’s always like this,” she said.

Serena started following Raymond in her wheelchair. “I said, ‘drop dead’! If you died, I’d be celebrating.” She cackled, self-satisfied.

Raymond said, “Don’t say that,” and shuffled away from her, down the hall.

“Hey, nurse,” she said to Rosalinda, “I need someone to change me.”

Rosalinda said, “I’ll call a CNA.”

“But it can’t wait.”

“I’ll tell Ming, she’s with another resident right now,” said Rosalinda.

“Ming’s finished with that resident. I saw her leave the room.”

“She’s still working.”

“What, am I supposed to wait all day? I’m soaking wet!”

“Calm down, Serena.”

“I won’t calm down. I see what’s happening here. She’s trying to avoid me. I don’t miss a trick.”

“Ming will be with you as soon as she can.”

“You wait all day, and no one changes you. I’m lucky if they change me morning and night. It’s appalling.”

The mood around the nurse’s station was growing more agitated—it was palpable. I wished she would shut the hell up. It had been a lovely day up until now.

“Hey, Ming, I need you. You gotta change me now,” Serena said, pointing at her and starting to look pathetic.

Ming came walking out of another resident’s room with a pile of clean disposable diapers.

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” she said with an acid face.

“You’re doing a great job,” I said to her.

“Thank you. She’s always like this. Your mother is good.”

I smiled at her.

“Hurry up, Ming. I can’t wait any longer. I’m soaking wet!”

Maybe there’s some way they can oust this woman. The Alzheimer’s Unit is for the most part peaceful, but this woman is mean. I never saw her in action before, but this was atrocious. It’s got to upset the other residents. I know about negative attention—it’s a game my mom used to play on me all the time before she was diagnosed with Alz. Maybe the only time Serena thinks she gets attention is when she is nasty and raising her voice or misbehaving. I don’t know. But on that beautiful Saturday afternoon, after Mom and I had luxuriated in the garden together under a gentle April sun, I wanted this woman to disappear.

*Pseudonyms are used for all staff and residents.

Nurse Fuzzy

April 15, 2015April 15, 2015 / Erica Herd / 12 Comments

Radamenes (left) with a patient (photo – bored.panda.com)

Who says nurses have to be conventional? There was Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, one ball-busting lady. And of course there’s Edie Falco as Showtime’s Nurse Jackie. My husband has family members in the medical profession. His grandmother was the Director of Nursing at Jamaica Hospital, and his mom is a nurse practitioner. They are both good people who excelled / excel in their fields. Lorin referred to his mom as a “rock n’ roll” nurse back in the day. That’s pretty cool.

But what about a non-human nurse, a nurse that communicates without words, heals without medicine. His name is Radamenes, and he hails from Bydgoszcz, Poland. Once at death’s door, he now tends to the sick of various species, working for room and board. He is truly paying it forward, one cuddle at a time.

Where is Bear?

April 13, 2015 / Erica Herd / 7 Comments

photo courtesy of Ridgewood Police Dept.

We heard on the news this morning that a baby black bear was on the prowl in Ridgewood–a neighboring town. He was tranquilized and captured today. I’m glad they didn’t hurt him.

Another group of animals were on the loose at my mom’s residence last week. When I spoke to her on Thursday, she said that all three of her stuffed animals had gone missing. I spoke to the night nurse Dottie who scoured her room to no avail. I called Friday morning and spoke to Nell, the morning nurse. Still no luck. Both Dottie and Nell assumed the animals went into the wash.

Nell said, “The aide said the cat was stinky.”

“Yes, it was,” I said.

I agree, Mouse was quite rank, but the others were perfectly hygienic.

The missing animals were: Mouse (a cat), Snoopy (Snoopy) and a teddy bear she calls “Bear.” Fortunately I had purchased 3 additional “Mouses” in case of such an occurrence. Mouse 1 went missing at her first nursing home, never to turn up again. Mouse 2 is the one currently at large. Friday was a busy day: Lorin’s mom was flying in for his dad’s memorial service on Saturday, and we had other errands to attend to. Still, I was determined to bring Mom a new Mouse so that she would not spend the weekend fretting and fussing.

Mouse 1 (photo by E. Herd)

Enter Mouse 3.

When Mom saw her, she said, “She’s so clean!”

Mom held her in her lap while we drank coffee and ate cookies.

Several minutes later, her aide Angela and Nell stood in the doorway holding “old” Mouse and Snoopy. Angela looked giddy.

I said, “Look mom, it’s Snoopy.”

Mom turned around in her wheelchair and smiled. I thanked Angela and Nell and handed Snoopy to Mom, placing Mouse 2 on her bed so as not to cause greater confusion.

“I missed him so much,” she said, looking at Snoopy. She kept Mouse 3 and Snoopy on her lap for the rest of our visit.

After a while she said, “I wonder where Bear is.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he needed a vacation.” Mom laughed.

Now that there was some semblance of order, it seemed fitting that we continue watching ER–we’re on episode 11 or 12 of season 2. As I mentioned in an earlier post, two of her favorite characters are Dr. Mark Greene and Dr. John Carter. I asked Mom if she could remember the last name of the character named Mark.

She scrunched up her face, “Mark . . . ”

“It begins with the letter ‘G’.”

I pointed to my green shirt and said, “What color is this?”

No response.

Then I pointed to the leaves of her plant. “What color are these?”

She stared at me. I’m not sure if the question didn’t register, the word “color” or something else. I finally told her the name. Greene.

Then she blurted, “Noel Wyle.”

“Yes, Noah Wyle. That’s the actor who plays John Carter. Let’s write it down.”

I took the index card spiral notebook out of her drawer–the one she used to use for grocery lists, phone numbers, doctors’ appointments and other information. I wrote in block letters, ” JOHN CARTER = NOAH WYLE.” On the next line, I wrote, “MARK GREENE.”

We repeated the names together, “Noah Wyle, John Carter, Mark Greene.”

“I wonder where Bear went,” Mom said.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon. We’ll keep looking for him.”

*Pseudonyms have been used for staff members at the nursing home.

Mom and the Magical Cat

February 17, 2015February 18, 2015 / Erica Herd / 7 Comments

Matthew Hillier

Mom once had a sweet gray and white cat named Mouse. Mouse had lost a ton of weight, and Mom had become too ill to take care of her, so Lorin and I brought Mouse to the vet. A mass was found on her belly—the vet believed it was cancer–and we opted against surgery, as Mouse was quite old. We thought it kinder to have her put to sleep. That was in March 2011. They kept Mouse frozen in the veterinary hospital morgue until Mom could pay her respects. They cleaned her up and brought her out in a shoe box with a towel wrapped around her.

Mom stroked Mouse and said to the vet, “She’s so clean and healthy-looking. Thank you for taking such good care of her.” I believed she had found closure.

Shortly after Mouse’s passing, I bought Mom a stuffed animal cat at the Hallmark Store. She looked remarkably like the original Mouse. Mom was thrilled with her and placed her on her dining room table. She said, “This is just how Mouse used to lay on the table, and these are her markings.”

Mouse I – photo by E. Herd

(Note: pseudonyms are used for the nurses)

Fast forward to 2015. Mom still has the stuffed animal Mouse, actually Mouse II—the original disappeared at her first nursing home. Mouse II sits on the bed in her room along with Snoopy and a teddy bear, but she doesn’t call her “Mouse” anymore. She calls her “Sheepy” and other names.

The real Mouse is on the loose, a wild thing, like Cathy and Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.

Over the past couple months, Mom has asked if I’ve seen Mouse, and said she went missing for days and returned with had a gash in her leg.

One night when I called, Deidre the nurse said, “Who’s Mouse?”

I told her the story of Mouse.

Deidre said, “Okay. One night I found your mom crawling around on the floor in her room calling ‘Mouse, Mouse.’ Now I understand.”

Mom told me last week, “Mouse went away for three days during the blizzard, then she came to the window. I needed tuna for her, but I didn’t have any.”

I said, “Ask the nurse for tuna, she’ll feed her.”

“Okay, I will.”

“She’ll be okay, Mom. She’s gone away before—she’s resourceful.”

This is true. Mouse was an adventurer. When Mom was living on Holland Avenue in the Bronx in the late 90s, Mouse slipped out via the fire escape one Memorial Day and didn’t return till the 4^th of July. She was spotted in the courtyard by Mom’s friend and neighbor, Carmen, and brought back home.

When Mom told me she had seen Mouse at the window, I thought of the ghost of Cathy in Wuthering Heights, rattling at the window, haunting her lover Heathcliff. Mom’s happiest memory of the trip to Europe she took with my dad was visiting Brontë country, the Yorkshire moors. She brought back a sprig of heather and placed it under the glass cover of our antique coffee table, which is now in my home.

Mom owned a magnificent illustrated version of Wuthering Heights from the 1940s, which was severely water-damaged when our house flooded after Hurricane Irene. She had inscribed the inside of the book with this passage from Emily Brontë’s poem, “The Old Stoic,”

In life and death a chainless soul, with courage to endure.

When I visited Mom yesterday, James, another nurse. told me about Selena, a resident who makes sounds like a cat.

He said, “When Selena makes the cat sounds, your mom turns around and asks for Mouse. I tell her, ‘I’m giving her some tuna,’ and all is well.”

And so it goes. The circle of life continues. Mouse’s intrepid spirit endures.

I Could Use a Cigarette

October 26, 2014October 27, 2014 / Erica Herd / 8 Comments

“Is tonight a full moon?” That’s what I asked the nurse yesterday when I was visiting Mom.

She said, “Every day is a full moon here.”

Betty, one of the residents, asked me if I was smoking, and I said, “No, but I could use one right about now.”

“Do you smoke?” I asked her.

“No, never did,” she said.

The highlights of my visit with Mom are as follows:

Mom: You don’t care about me anymore.

Me: That’s not true.

Mom: Where have you been? (accusingly)

Me: I work full-time and can only come on weekends.

Last weekend I didn’t visit, which might have set her off.

Mom: You spend plenty of time with Lorin.

Me: Well, we live together, but we both work full-time, so we don’t see each other as much as you think.

P.S. Why do I have to defend myself? Am I not allowed to spend time with my husband?

Mom: I hate it here.

No response from me, I keep wheeling her around the floor, hoping she’ll shut up.

Mom: Why did I ever move here?

Me: I don’t know.

Mom: Am I going to die here?

No response from me.

Mom: Look at all those old fogies lined up.

She was referring to her fellow residents seated in a row in front of the nurse’s station. She does not consider herself to be one of them, it seems.

Mom: It’s stuffy in here, isn’t it?

Me: No, it’s not. The windows are open.

Mom: They never wash my hair. It’s a mess.

Me: I put you on the list for the hair salon. You’ll get it cut and colored.

I told her this over and over but she kept complaining about the awful state of her hair. They do, in fact, wash her hair twice a week.

I was tempted to leave more than once, but stayed on, after she apologized. We watched ER and drank coffee.

Another resident named John came into Mom’s room and said to me, “I have some business to discuss with you.”

“Can we go outside to discuss it?” I said.

“Okay,” he said as I led him out and told the nurse he had “business” to discuss.

“But I need to discuss it with you,” he said, as the nurse led him away.

Another resident was screaming at the top of her lungs in her room, “Where is my mommy?! I want my mommy!”

I have seen her in this state before, and she is inconsolable. It takes her about an hour to calm down.

I don’t know how the aides and nurses keep going when I observe the goings-on. They deserve to be paid more than our fabulously wealthy Wall Street bankers and CEOs. Where’s the equity?

* * *

I am trying hard not to take Mom’s words to heart, but when you have spent years helping someone out, and they are so hurtful, it can be difficult to take. It was as if she had returned to her pre-Alzheimer’s mean, manipulative self. It brought up a lot of old issues for me.

Today was a much better day. I baked banana bread, watched the Tony Bennett / Lady Gaga concert on PBS and took a hot bath. Lady Gaga is awesome, by the way, and Tony Bennett still looks great. I put our standing scarecrow outside on the top step, taping him with duct tape to the railing so he doesn’t blow away in the harsh wind. Trying to stay positive.