After her boyfriend died, she got a little worse, withdrawing and isolating herself.1
There were one or two small smoking fires in the oven, setting off smoke alarms that she ignored because: I didn’t know what the sound was, where it was coming from or how to make it stop. She melted the radio I’d mounted under her kitchen cabinets which looked awful but still worked: so what are you complaining about it’s not a big deal. After she’d scorched the cabinet doors again because she’d pushed the candles under the wood cabinets again because, she liked them: but they were in the way; after neighbors came knocking on her door because the smoke alarm had been going off for so so long; and after I ran into those same neighbors in the hallway and they tattled on her, she gave in a little. I might be on to something when I suggested assisted living (AL).
It might be nice not to worry about cooking, cleaning or laundry, she said.
Or burning down the apartment building and everyone in it, I thought, but didn’t say aloud.
I’d already looked into every place within a 75 mile radius, funneled all the data into color-coded & sortable spreadsheets, The deal breakers narrowed it down to three possibilities.
Pets. She wasn’t going anywhere without the cats: Noodnick and Paisan;
Men. The herd thins as the demographic ages, but as she said: I like men, and men like me, that’s all there is to it. I aimed for at least 40% male residents;
An actual bedroom. One with a separate living room for entertaining (because men like me…blah, blah, blah); and
Closet space. By which we mean Big Closets, preferably Multiple Closets, preferably Multiple Big Walk-in Closets.
She moved into what seemed to be a landlocked, upscale cruise ship attached to a beautiful nature preserve. The chandeliers were the size of my bathroom, floral arrangements as big as my kitchen table, actual cloth tablecloths, and a nice collection of alte kakers,2 including a reasonable supply of attractive men.
She introduced herself to everyone she passed: “I’m Elayne. What is your name? I won’t remember, but tell me anyway.” She gave them rhyming names — Fancy Nancy and Whaddaya Know Joe — to help her remember.
I’d planned on staying for a few days, in case she was frightened or overwhelmed. I spent the first night and was dismissed early the following morning. She’d immediately made friends with the cool kids and had her eye on an older man—when really, in your 80s, I think younger men are the way to go. They’d met at the nurses station—she was getting her daily meds, he was getting his daily supply of oxygen.
She’d be fine. I was…superfluous. It was a win/win situation. She got to have friends, a social life, and her independence. And so did I.
Rollators were parked three deep outside the movie room and dining room. Smart money found a way to tell one from another by customizing—some had baskets, or fake flowers, or yarn balls. Ma’s rollator was candy apple red with leopard print slipcovers, to match her leopard print jacket, several leopard print turtenecks, blouses and of course, her fake fur leopard vest. Vanity, thy name is Ma.
I guess once I saw her settle in and freaking blossom, I didn’t do too much more thinking. I had some of my own life back and the dementia didn’t seem to be a big deal at that point, nothing the AL couldn’t accommodate.
Dementia and aging go hand in hand in one direction. The irony is the deeper she sank into dementia, the younger her mind seemed and the less she knew. Picture dementia as a Benjamin Button diagnosis, where the body ages but the mind and abilities regress. She would eventually forget how to hold a spoon or feed herself. She will lose language skills and mix words up. She’ll still be able hold a glass with two hands and some help, but like a child just growing into coordination & motor skills, she’ll struggle getting it to her mouth. Simple, intuitive acts like that will take effort as the knowing slips away. She will unlearn, one word or skill at a time, unraveling it all like row after row of knitting, it will be the unmaking of a thing. The unmaking of my Ma.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re not there yet.
We’re still in the assisted living where while she can no longer cook, she’s good with most of the activities of daily living (ADLs)3. While in the AL, she needs no help to feed & dress herself. She is still a wacky fashionista. The health aides wait outside the dining room to see what “Miss Elayne” will be wearing tonight and she loves that. She makes her way around the sitting room—with her leopard walker—royal waving to the crowd, stopping to say hello to individual residents, aides, staff, like the little ray of fucking sunshine she is. Well-dressed, color coordinated, with some funky boho earrings, an oversized artsy necklace and fully made up, she tours the sitting room, greeting the masses, prior to every meal.
As her eyesight faded, “fully made up” began to take on a different meaning. It’s macular degeneration - both wet & dry. Who knows when it started? She considered it a friend—her own personal black blob she could “make go anywhere I want. Wherever I look, it goes for me.” She played with her blobby floaters, huge now, giggling as she watched them fall through her fingers when she looked down, like so much soft black water.
I culled her makeup collection as her eyesight got worse. Always a believer in using eyebrow pencil to “highlight the eyes,” she’d begun making them thick & dark enough so that she could see them. The less she could see, the thicker and darker the eyebrows got until it is not even a little bit of an exaggeration to say there was a strong resemblance to Groucho Marx.
The old Elayne would’ve been mortified.
I couldn’t/can’t stop the progression of the dementia or macular degeneration, but what I could do was make sure her public saw her the way she would want to be seen.
Side note: Now that it’s pretty much just us (her, me & an aide), we dress her funny sometimes, but never in public, and only for our own amusement. I do it to the cats too. You gotta find the funny wherever you can.
But again, I’m getting ahead of myself. Because we’re still in the assisted living and she’s still the belle of the ball. She’s in every photo on their Facebook page, at every activity, having the time of her life. Assisted living was the right decision, the right answer, until it wasn’t. Until she broke her back.
We say she fell, because it’s quicker and easier than telling the actual ridiculous story.
to be continued…
You don’t know about the boyfriend, yet. But you will, just not today.
Yiddish for old farts. Affectionate or condescending, depending on the delivery. “This freaking alte kacker thinks I’m gonna just give up my jello, he’s got another think coming.”
Activities of Daily Living known as ADLs. The scale on which the progress of early dementia is frequently measured, they’re basic daily life skills such as bathing, dressing, feeding yourself…
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