Thanksgiving at the movies

Who goes to movies at noon on Thanksgiving Day, you may be wondering. Dads with kids with instructions to stay out of the house until the cooking is done. College-age cousins trying to delay the inevitable. Pairs of women without families who planned to meet here because, well, you know... But only one dementia couple, if our experience was statistically valid.

She thought the parking lot was "spooky." She recoiled just inside the doors, because the entrance was too cavernous. She was hungry so I bought the large bag of popcorn, but then she didn't eat any. When I asked her why, she said she forgot and took a handful. But then she forgot again.

She slept through 20 minutes of commercials and coming attractions, and when they ended she woke up and said, "Let's go home!" I told her the movie hadn't started yet and she said, "Oh." When it did start, she gave it about 10 minutes and then whispered, "I don't like this movie." So we walked out. I asked her if she needed to go to the bathroom and she said yes. I escorted her to the door of the women's room and watched her disappear through it. Then I worried that there might be another way out on the other side, so I walked into the men's room and saw that it was a small facility with only one way in or out. Even so, over on her side, she was unsure of what to do. I heard a toilet flush and then her voice saying, "Bill?" I answered her and was heading in, but she walked toward the sound of my voice and met me halfway.

The only other thing open was McDonald's, so we went there. I bought two McFlurries. Hers made her shiver, even though she was wearing two sweaters and a heavy coat. I bought her some coffee to warm her up, but she only took a sip or two. She asked to change tables, away from the cold window. I found a spot across from the fake fireplace. We sat down and I continued with my McFlurry, but she wasn't drinking her coffee. She said, "Let's go home."

In the car I explained that we weren't going home; we were going back to her room where she was staying now. She said okay. We drove on in silence. I took her in, punched in the security code, walked her to her room, took off her coat, hung it up, and got ready to tell her goodbye. She said, "Will you come see me sometime?" I'd heard those very same words, spoken in exactly the same way, from three-year-old Kevin, 36 years ago, the first time we left him with a babysitter -- he thought his mother and I were never coming back.

I told her I DO come back, every other day. "I was here Friday, and Sunday, and Tuesday, and today is Thursday, and I'll be back on Saturday." "You do?" she said. I left her with a staff person and walked with a steady gait down the long corridor. At the end I turned and looked back. She was standing where I left her, looking. I waved and she waved. I'll be back tomorrow.

Holiday plans

Tomorrow it will be four weeks since I took May to live in the residential living alternative for individuals with Alzheimer's disease and other types of memory impairments. It will also be Thanksgiving Day. I am going to pick her up at the residential living alternative and take her to a movie. It can't be a noisy film, or a violent one, or a chaotic one, or a jarringly visual one, or one in which there's a terminal illness. Ice cream at the snack bar would be a good thing. A friendly ticket-taker with no exaggerated mannerisms. A row of seats all to ourselves. A restroom with only one way in and out. The less said about the holiday, the better. Thankful is not where she's at right now.