DAY NINE
I defrosted the refrigerator and chest freezer today. Two more things crossed off my to-do list. I piled all the frozen meals and packages of ground beef and chicken in our old Coleman cooler until I could put them back, then I sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of iced tea and looked at the empty freezer, imagining the bottle of pearls sitting there untouched for all those years.
Six years. And who knows how long Dr. Edelman had had them before that. They were decades old. Even if they had no expiration date, surely their potency would have waned a long time ago. For a moment, I convinced myself that they no longer had any power. That going to the doctor for lab tests was an overreaction.
But my freckles keep fading. And the mole I’ve had on my left arm since I was a girl is gone.
* * *
I can’t go through any more photo albums. I might as well stick a knife in my eye or eat poison. And since I’ve already checked one of those off the list, I figure I’ve punished myself enough.
Three photos. That’s all that put me over the edge. I pulled them out of their plastic sleeves in the albums and lined them up on the coffee table. I can’t destroy them, even though looking at them may destroy me.
One is of Joe wearing Rose’s ladybug mask after he took her out trick-or-treating when she was six. They were sitting at the kitchen table, candy spread out in front of them. Rose took off the mask because it itched, so Joe put it on. In the photo, he’s crouched down over her chair, looking like he’s going to steal a Snickers from the table. Cricket, wearing bug-like antennae, is giving him the evil eye. And Rose is sucking on a Tootsie Pop and looking up at her dad, giggling.
The second photo is from our wedding. We kept the guest list small since Joe didn’t have any family coming. It’s a picture of Mama, Holly, Joe, and me, taken in the garden out behind the church. The wind gusted on that June day, and my veil looks like it’s about to take off and fly. Holly has Big Hair and an equally Big Bow at the waist of her tangerine dress, and Mama is looking regal in sage green. Joe has taken off his tuxedo coat and is reaching up to try to catch my veil. We’re all laughing—one of the few snapshots I kept with all the formal portraits from that day.
The third one is of Mama two days before her fall. She’s sitting on the couch with an afghan across her lap. The photo caught one of her more lucid moments, and she looks clear-eyed and focused, the way I remember her growing up. She’s surrounded by plants. A bouquet of tulips and daffodils sits on the table next to her—one of the tables she repaired and antiqued with a gray stain at the height of her business days, then decided to adopt rather than selling it. A huge hanging basket with a blooming begonia is to the right, and a Norfolk Island Pine behind her looks as if it’s growing out of her head and embracing her at the same time. I can’t imagine a more fitting image to remember her by.
* * *
We had a routine during Mama’s last months: I’d get up at five thirty, wind the clock, fix some eggs, feed the cats, do my list for the day, shower, and get dressed. Mama would wake up about eight thirty, and I’d have coffee ready for her. Sarah started her shift at eight thirty, so I’d say a quick good-bye to Mama and head out the door for work.
I came home at five thirty and said good-bye to Sarah, who started supper before she left. She usually fixed something simple—chicken with vegetables or a hamburger casserole. Mama and I sat down to eat at six. Then, if the weather cooperated, I walked with her around the yard, pointing out the flowers and trees.
“So pretty, so pretty,” she’d say over and over. That was the hardest part of her decline. She went from being one of the best conversationalists I’ve ever known—interested in other people and generous with her own stories, a rare thing to find in balance—to being trapped within her own brain.
I’ve heard people describe folks with dementia as “childlike,” but I never saw it that way. Children discover something new every day. Their vocabulary grows, and they find ways to communicate even when they don’t have the words.
With dementia, it’s a loss, not an addition. And when someone with Alzheimer’s can’t find the words, they don’t know that there is a way, so they just clam up. Or they ask the same question over and over.
“Did you take the bacon out of the freezer?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Where is Eric’s clock?”
“On the shelf, Mama.”
“Don’t forget to water the flowers.”
“I won’t, Mama.”
I can only assume that every time she asked the same question, it was new to her. And every time I answered, that was new to her, too.
One day she woke up from a nap, came out to the kitchen in her robe and slippers, her long hair falling over her shoulders the way it did in the old photos of her as a girl. Mama’s skin glowed, soft and unblemished, even after all those years in the sun.
“Is he home yet?” she asked. I assumed she was talking about Daddy but wasn’t sure.
“Who do you mean, Mama?”
“Well, Ralph, of course,” she said, a little peeved.
“Ralph?” I said, searching my memory bank. Did we have a relative named Ralph? Was he one of her customers? Then I remembered years before when we’d met Mama’s former best friend and her husband, who had been Mama’s fiancé.
“Ralph Evans?” I said, startled.
“Of course. Ralph,” she said. “Where is he?”
“No, Mama,” I said. “He’s not back yet. Soon. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
Placated, she went back to her room and crawled into bed.
I put my breakfast dishes in the sink, a little shaken by her question. I figured she’d confused Mr. Evans with Daddy. It was understandable that in a mind affected by Alzheimer’s, romance might take on other names and shapes, the loves of her life melding together into one memory instead of many.
* * *
Joe always cared a bit too much about organization, in my view, although he didn’t cross the line into obsessiveness. And he never called me out for being messy, a trait my to-do lists never got under control. He always respected my needs, even when I stopped meeting his.
When we were first married and moved into our house down the road from Mama’s, I carried bundles of clothes into the closets and hung them up until I ran out of room. It didn’t matter to me if the shirts and skirts intermingled or my strappy sandals sat side by side with my winter boots. I just wanted to get the clothes in the house; then I’d sort them out someday.
Meanwhile Joe organized our books, CDs, and canned goods alphabetically. He kept them that way until the day he left.
Some nights while we watched TV, he spread out newspapers on the coffee table to keep it from getting scratched, then he dumped out his latest collection of miscellaneous screws and nuts, grouped them by size, and put them in recycled jars so they’d be easy to find.
He equipped his workbench with every kind of peanut butter and mayonnaise jar imaginable. Whenever we scraped out the last bit of strawberry jam or ate the last pickle, he soaked the jar in water, peeled off the label, dried it, and added it to his stash.
He had boxes of them in the garage, all on standby to hold machine parts, lightning bugs, coins, miniature gardens, spices, candles, and craft projects that he came up with for Rose. Her favorite was a snowman made from three jars of slightly different sizes. She and Joe filled them with cotton balls, stacked them, and glued them together, then painted a face on the top one and added a hat made from pipe cleaners and black felt. Rose kept that snowman on her dresser for years, replacing the cotton balls whenever the supply got low.
It’s not that Joe was cheap. Far from it. He just liked the challenge of finding a new purpose for something that other people might throw away.
He also liked to prepare for eventualities. He paid the bills before they were due, kept several hundred dollars for emergencies in a pot Rose made in third grade, and winterized the house every fall.
Someho
w the memory of all this made me think of one thing I hadn’t yet prepared: my final wishes for a funeral.
I sat at the kitchen table with the laptop and started a folder called Meg’s Last Wishes. I pulled my Living Will document into the folder, then wrote my instructions for a funeral.
If it were up to me, I started, no one would wear black to my funeral. Children would release balloons, the more colorful, the better. And the only Bible passage would be the story of Jonah and the whale or Noah’s ark. Not the 23rd Psalm.
Please keep music light, a celebration. Nothing pious or maudlin. It’s okay to play “I’ll Never Find Another You,” since we played it at Rose’s and Mama’s funerals. Flowers from Nancy’s would be wonderful. And please direct any memorial contributions to the children’s hospital foundation. Finally, I want to be cremated. Please scatter my ashes in the hills behind Mama’s house, where I played as a girl with Holly, my sister and friend for life.
I printed it out, dated and signed it, and put a copy of it with my Living Will in the desk drawer so it would be easy to find.
* * *
Sometimes I look at the hills behind this house and am overcome by their beauty. Even in this scorching heat and without rain for the past seven weeks, the trees are green and lush when you look at the banks of them on the hillsides. Holly and I used to spend time wandering in those hills. We’d sit and wait for deer, and we learned to make a low huffing noise like the deer make. We could almost call them to us.
I loved this more than Holly did. She preferred Barbie dolls and makeup. But I could spend entire days outdoors wandering, climbing trees.
Rose took after me that way, but her connection to animals surpassed mine by far. You could see it in Romeo after her accident. He hung his head low, remorseful, as though he knew he’d played a role in her death. Rose asked me about him before she died. “Tell Romeo I don’t blame him,” she said to me. “He needs to know that.”
This morning when I got up, humidity hung in the valley before the sun got bright enough to burn it off. It looked like clouds of steam, mystical, a shroud between two worlds. I wonder sometimes if the veil is truly that thin. If death is like stepping through that cloud of fog and seeing a shining hill on the other side.
* * *
I loaded up the car to take all the old clothes and housewares to Goodwill since I could hardly get past the stacks by the back door. And besides, it felt good to get them out of the house before leaving to see Holly. Fourteen bags and boxes altogether, stuffed with items that mattered once upon a time. But now that they’re gone, I can’t recall most of the contents of those bags. Funny how much meaning we give to things that will go away in the end.
On the way to Goodwill, I passed the church, of course. Since it’s on the outskirts of town, I pass it every time I go anywhere. Most of the time I block it out, like the old stuff in the trash bags. But today the words on the sign caught my eye.
HURTING? WE’RE HERE FOR YOU, it said.
It reminded me of a church sign I saw once on the Internet: WE LOVE HURTING PEOPLE.
The memory made me laugh out loud. Sometimes what makes things funny is the truth embedded in them.
When I got home, I checked the mail, hoping the lab results would be there. I figured if they showed any abnormalities, I could still cancel my trip and go in for more tests. But they weren’t there. Nothing but a credit card offer and two catalogs for clothes I won’t be buying. So, a few more days. Surely the results will be here by the time I get back from Holly’s. It may be too late, but very likely it’s too late already.
I called Miriam and asked if she’d come feed the cats and water the gardens while I’m in Seattle. The timing worked out well, since she’s planning to spend a couple of days with her kids, shopping for the rest of the stuff they need at school. But she’s not leaving until Sunday, the day I get back.
“Don’t stress about the gardens,” I said. “No matter how much water I give them, they still look parched and tired at the end of the day.”
The only thing keeping them alive is their deep roots, and their ability to get what they need from moisture far underground. The water I give them is nowhere near what they need. In a typical year, with a steady supply of rain, those roots would always have access to damp soil. Now, with their stores depleted, they have to work harder for every drop of nourishment. They plumb the depths, guided by a life force beyond our understanding. I think sometimes about the secret subterranean world that keeps them alive and give thanks for the nourishment we cannot see.
I need to see growing things. And I need to see my sister.
I asked Miriam to do one more thing. “I know it’s kind of silly,” I said. “But would you mind winding the mantel clock for me once each day? It belonged to Daddy, and I just like to keep it running.”
* * *
All I remember of Rose’s funeral is sitting. I felt as if my body couldn’t support itself, and I’d already started to lean away from Joe rather than toward him. He brought me a chair so I could sit in the receiving line, hearing person after person struggle to find something comforting or meaningful to say. Most of the time, it came out wrong.
“At least she’s with her grandpa now.”
“You were wonderful parents. You can take comfort in that.”
“Even though we don’t understand, it must be God’s will.”
It seemed that people were speaking to me from underwater. Why wasn’t anyone screaming at the top of their lungs? Why wasn’t anyone shaking their fist at God? Why were we in a church, of all places?
We all went back to Mama’s house and sat around the kitchen table, stunned and quiet. There were flowers everywhere. Memorial wreaths, bouquets, pots of schefflera and peace lilies. Their colors of hope seemed garish against the black we all wore.
Holly’s boys were showing their fatigue. Mark went in the living room to watch a movie, and Brent, who was three, climbed into Holly’s lap.
“Is baby sleeping?” he said, putting his hand on Holly’s stomach.
I set down my iced tea and stared at Holly. “Baby?” I said. I saw Mama and Phil exchange concerned glances.
Holly’s face went white. “We weren’t going to tell you for a few more weeks. Until things settle down,” she said.
I felt another blow to my stomach, as though I could feel her child kicking within me. And then I felt confused, disoriented, emotions all rising together into one volcanic cloud. I reached out for my sister’s hand, too dizzy to get up and hug her.
“I’m happy for you, sis. I really am. That’s wonderful news.”
She squeezed my hand and said the one thing people in all their clumsiness and discomfort had been trying to tell me all day. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
Joe stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders, and I felt his strength. Just a few days before, it meant everything to me. Now I could feel myself shrinking under his touch. Without Rose, everything was empty. My soul, my marriage—even the possibility of new life.
* * *
I leave for Seattle tomorrow. I’m excited and panicked at the same time. What will these days with Holly and her family bring? Then I’ll come back and see Joe. Find out what my blood work shows. Part of me thinks I should cancel my trip and plant myself next to the mailbox until the lab results arrive. And then what? Regret missing my chance to see Holly? I can’t win either way.
I took down my suitcase from the closet shelf, relieved to be leaving this heat behind for a few days. I packed sweaters and jeans, a shawl and a raincoat. A raincoat. Just think of that. And then I packed the photo of Holly and me, along with some keepsakes for the kids. But what will I say to her? I am determined to be joyful and honest. And yet there is this one piece of me, of my story, that I don’t know if I’m ready to share.
What would be easiest for her? To know my decision ahead of time? To worry about what I’ve done? Or to believe that I peacefully passed in my sleep? To think, At least we had
these last few days together. If I’m going to be in eternal peace, I want her to be, too.
DAY TEN
When I headed to the airport this morning, I had that same strange sensation I’ve been experiencing more and more each day. It’s a little like when I got glasses in fifth grade. There I was, age ten, riding home from the appointment with the ophthalmologist. I sat in the backseat and looked at the trees going by and marveled that I could see each individual leaf. Before, they’d been one big blur and I hadn’t even known it.
It was a wondrous thing, seeing each leaf outlined as its own entity, understanding the shape and form of things around me, appreciating their uniqueness and beauty. Everything that had been one mishmash suddenly appeared distinctly formed, and I felt in awe of it, as if I’d been transported into a world that had been there all along and escaped my notice. How could I have not seen clearly? How could definition make color brighter?
I’d been worried about how I would look in the glasses, how others would see me (and let’s face it, the new look wasn’t pretty with those black pointy frames with silver stars in the corners). I hadn’t anticipated that I would see everything around me so differently. Temporarily, at least, I forgot to be self-conscious about my looks.
That’s what seems to be happening now. A few days ago, driving by dried-up fields and trees drooping with fatigue, I would have been overwhelmed with melancholy. Today I saw the same thing as lovely. Obviously the view hasn’t changed. But something in me has. I’m seeing things in a new way, and I’m not sure why. If it’s due to the pearls, it’s a side effect Dr. Edelman never mentioned.
It was most profound on the landing in Seattle. I’ve visited many times over the years, but this morning, flying in around eleven a.m., the sun dazzled me. We circled over Puget Sound, decreasing in altitude with each loop as though we were descending into a vortex of light. The sun sparkled on the water, almost blinding me. I’ve visited at times in rainy, gray weather. But today I felt like the plane gently lowered me into a cavern of diamonds. That’s how brilliant and beautiful it was.
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