Memory Care?

I journaled my way through Scotland- this lovely little notebook with a crushed velvet cover, filled with silly observations, bad poems, sketches, and a long list of all the lit I read while I was there. My little book made an excellent companion when I was ever so lonely in that slightly foreign land. Given the similarities to my current setting, I attempted to start a new paper journal in January. It didn't work out so well. Part of the blog therapy is in the typing and erasing. On paper, there are scribbles and strike-throughs that look ugly and betray me, a constant reminder that my indecision knows no bounds... With typing, I can write a whole novel and erase it, leaving perfect white/empty space with one key stroke. And that is comfort, as if it never happened. With whatever I publish, I give the false illusion that the perfect words always come to me at the perfect moment, a finished product before it leaves my fingertips, sounding just the way I want the first time around, rather than the 25th.

All of this is a roundabout way of explaining my return after such a lengthy hiatus. I missed writing, and I missed the occasional insights that sporadically result from my ramblings.  Be patient as I get back into the swing.
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They moved Nana to the third floor this past weekend. I was home during the transition phase, when she was only spending days upstairs. The upper level is a safety precaution masked as a kindness- they have more sunshine, a rooftop patio where they sit in 85 degree weather, bundled up in sweaters and long pants. It is an uncomfortable environment. During our first visit, I immediately honed in on several women giving Nana the evil eye. I'm overly sensitive to female bullying- the undercurrents; subtle ousting from the inner circle; deliberate/catty comments and gestures... By kindergarten, girls have mastered this art, and it becomes more refined and vicious with age. When we walk her over for lunch, one woman actively shakes her head "no" as Nana sits down at her table. Luckily, Nana is oblivious (although I'm quite certain once she feels more comfortable, she'll be engaged in ostracizing other newcomers- she has a knack for picking out flaws and disliking people based solely on appearance).
Hank, the Sunrise mascot, an old, overweight lab mix, rides the elevator until someone punches in the code to get off on the third floor. He is a scavenger, and his odds of finding treasure are much higher amongst the forgetful. There are always random bits dropped on the floor, and sometimes he gets truly lucky when a resident sacrifices their whole plate for the valiant cause of maintaining his growing belly.

On the second day, Eden accompanied us. Every woman on the floor crowded around. The first to approach commented "I never thought I would see you again, my beautiful girl!" She beamed, the brightest smile you can imagine, and asked for a hug. Eden was immediately compliant, but the woman would not let her go, I could see fear creep into Eden's eyes, so I held her hand and gently pried her away. Eden refused to leave my side until the visiting middle school volunteers invited her to join their bingo game. One of the staff members (my favorite, thus far) sang and danced to Golden Oldies blaring from a small portable radio. As she watered the flowers on the patio, she stopped to check on each resident, kissing them on the head, complimenting their choice of outfits, checking about current pain levels and overall comfort.

This is the most painful part of the whole ordeal. Nana's timeline is not intact- the dates and events are confused. They ebb and flow, no longer carrying any semblance of linearity. Since Christmas, she relives Papa's death on a near daily basis. She frets about funeral arrangements and questions what made him get sick so quickly. After she works herself up into a frenzy, crying forever-fresh tears of grief, she realizes that Papa has been gone for awhile, but she is never quite sure how long. Last week, last year? We have long past the five year mark...  Selfishly, I don't want this process to go more quickly, because we don't know when we lose her recognition of us, but it is beyond cruel for her to suffer in this way. How many times can you lose a husband? How many times can you be torn away from your house and the red dirt community that is all you've ever known?

On top of the time travel, Nana's delusions continue to become more unusual. During mother's day brunch, her mouth was burning. She asked over an over why I put pepper sauce in the fruit salad, and she did not approve of jalapeno-flavored chocolate peanut butter cups. She slept in her chair the night before because there were bugs crawling in her bed. She couldn't understand why the little cats and dogs in her room refused to eat the snacks she left out for them. This is how our brains, our anatomy betray us. 

She did not say much during our visits. She held my hand, staring into the distance, asking me occasionally if I had found a husband yet (as if this status was likely to change overnight- a visit would be incomplete without a few reminders of my profound failure in all feminine duties). Her silence speaks volumes- the confusion and frustration bottled up, likely to explode later when only Deb-Deb is around to pick up the pieces.

I want more than anything to take her pain away, to pick a happy moment for her to focus and fixate on. I don't know what her choice would be, so I will remember her from photos laughing on a cruise ship with Papa by her side or square dancing in one of her ridiculously fluffy skirts. I will remember her creating masterpieces behind her easel with paint brushes and photographs strewn across the room; shelling bushels of black eyed peas from the garden; happily telling us stories of Deb-Deb and Steve when they were little... I will remember all of us gathered around the kitchen island in her impecably decorated house, eating watermelon (sprinkled with salt) with giant spoons. If I remember hard enough, maybe my memories will find their way back to her.