The simple truth was, there hasn't been much to write about. Whenever I visited May, she would greet me with a huge smile and we would walk around the grounds for a while. Staff people would pass us and say, "There's that smile" and they would smile in return. It was a smile-fest. That's basically how it was when I visited last Saturday and again on Monday. But yesterday, Friday, it was not like that at all.
She was seated at her place in the dining room, waiting for lunch that was still 20 minutes away from being served. There was no smile when she saw me. She made a move to get up, but seemed to struggle. I walked her out into the hallway and she was heavy and sluggish in her movements, and bent forward at the waist. She whispered, "These people don't like me." As we walked the central corridor, she mumbled that she didn't "know what to do." And then, "No one can help me." She started to cry. A few steps later, she stopped walking, put her head down, and let the tears flow. A staff person came along and asked what was wrong. "Where's my mom," she asked. The food cart passed us by, so I walked her back to the dining room. Nicole, who runs May's wing, looked at her and said "What are those tears?" May answered, "Where's my grandma?"
The words were coming out differently--slower, flatter, barely audible. Her posture was different--pitched forward, no swivel to her head, as if she could not look to either side. The mood was desperate.
A few weeks ago, while cleaning out all the hats and gloves that had piled up over time on the shelves by the back door, I came across a cap that stopped me in my tracks. She used to hold it up and say, "I just love this cap." Yesterday was the day I finally remembered to take it to her. I asked if she remembered it and she said, "Yes." She put it on her head and I asked if it still fit and she said, "Yes." There was almost a smile, but not quite.
I went back again this morning to see if yesterday was an outlier or the beginning of something. She didn't cry, but her condition was only marginally better. We walked outside, and then I took her back in for lunch. She seemed confused about where she was, but she sat down when I asked her to. At this point, she usually says, "When will I see you again?" Today she just stared at my face in silence.
On the way out, I buttonholed Max, the activities director. "How long has his been going on," I asked. "It started this week," he said. "She still comes to every activity, but I can't get her to engage. There's no energy in her voice or her body language. That forward lean is new. Mentally, it's like she's trying to figure something out, she can't get an answer, and it frustrates her."
For me, it was if Max knew the answer, and didn't want to tell me.
When I first started going there last November, a woman named Arlene used to walk the halls saying "Where's my mother?" A few months later she would lurch along saying, "Food ... food ... I need food." Now I don't see her anymore.
I gave my leave to Max and turned toward the door to the lobby.
"The cap," he said, "where'd the cap come from? She won't take it off."
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