I crossed the lobby to the Alzheimer’s unit, punched in the security code on the number pad next to the door, and walked in. As usual, I felt like I had fallen through the looking glass to an alternate reality, where the people tuned in to some far-off frequency I couldn’t receive. In the unit’s main room, called the Fireside Lounge because it has a fake fireplace in one corner, Maxwell Kohn paced in circles singing “Row, row, row your boat,” while making vigorous rowing motions with his arms. Dianne Amball slumped in her wheel chair in front of the TV and stared open-mouthed at a commercial featuring Dealing Dan Your Mattress Man. Her expression remained impassive as Dan pointed his finger at his viewers and ranted on about “the deal of a lifetime.”
Flora Gypsum, always dressed as if for a party, wore a red and black paisley skirt with a purple sweater and silver high-heeled shoes. A hat with pink roses perched crookedly on her tightly curled white hair. She sat on a small blue plastic-covered couch reading the daily paper upside down.
I try hard to respect the dignity of these residents by learning their complete names, finding out a little about who they were before they came here, and having conversations with the ones who are able. It’s the way I hope other people will treat Gramma.
Hey, Flora, any good news today?” I asked.
“Same old stuff,” she replied. “My father will be very upset about the economy.”
Since I figured Flora’s father, if alive, would be at least 110, I didn’t explore this further.
“My father’s planning to buy this place, you know,” Flora went on.
“Do you think he’ll change it much?”
“Well some of the people here are pretty crazy. I think he’ll be able to bring in a better class.”
I suspected my 87-year-old grandmother Martha, whose Alzheimer’s disease is more advanced than Flora’s, was one of the crazies Flora wanted to get rid of. My grandmother is more and more confused and disoriented these days. Sometimes she thinks I am her sister, Gail, who has been dead for 20 years. In the beginning that was hard for me to deal with, but I now respond to any name she calls me. I’ve come to realize there is no use in trying to set her straight on who is who. Besides, what does it matter? She is still my Gramma, and always will be.
When I visit, I try to find ways to connect like we used to. My grandmother was quite a movie buff and sometimes when I play a video of an old movie for her, she perks up.
As I headed down the hall, I saw Tanya, one of the unit nurses, leaving Gramma’s room. Tanya’s easy to pick out from a distance. She’s short, and wide, and walks with a rolling gait like she recently got off a ship. She usually wears bright multicolor-flower-patterned scrubs that I personally think are a bit intense for the agitated residents.
“Cleo, could I talk to you a minute?” she asked frostily.
My stomach did a quick flip. The last time Tanya had a talk with me, it had been about my grandmother’s habit of collecting any stray pair of glasses she came upon and hiding them in the back of her closet.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Could we talk down at the nurse’s station?”
Another stomach flip.
“Sure.” I followed along down the hall
Tanya said nothing until we got to the nurse’s station, where she was all business as usual, standing behind the station counter. Did this woman ever smile? “Your grandmother’s not having a good day today, Cleo,” she said. “And she’s been upset all weekend. She’s been wandering at night instead of sleeping. Last night she wandered into Flora’s room and tried to climb into her bed. You can guess how that went down with Flora. She started screaming, and your Gramma burst into tears. It was a mess.”
Ouch! This was so what I didn’t want to hear. Gramma’s decline and my inability to stop it is a continual lesson in coping with having no control. That’s one of the reasons I’m studying meditation with Masuka. But I still find it hard that I can’t help her more. “I wish we could figure out what’s bothering her,” I said with a big sigh....
“I think she still misses Jenny. She asks for her.” Jenny, Gramma’s favorite nurse, had died tragically on a backpacking trip the previous fall.
“But Jenny died almost a year ago,” I said. Standing on the other side of the nurse’s station counter, I felt like a kid arguing with a teacher, but I went on. “With Gramma’s memory problems, I can’t believe she even still remembers her.”
“These Alzheimer folks can surprise you sometimes,” said Tanya.
She was too busy going through a stack of papers in front of her to even look at me. “Anyway, I’m wondering if we should talk to Dr. Ahmed about changing her medications.”
“Let’s give it a couple of weeks,” I said. “Every time she gets new meds, she loses a little more of who she is.”
Tanya kept her face down and began writing. “OK. We’ll watch her for now,” she said, dismissively. “I put on that Cleopatra movie she likes so much—maybe that will help her stay calm for a while.”
That Cleopatra movie—the mega-blockbuster starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton—was one of Gramma’s favorites. It came out a few years before I was born. My mother loved it too, which is how I got the name Cleopatra. I’m proud of my name and I take it seriously. Cleopatra VII was an amazing and inspiring woman. She was Queen of Egypt when she was only 17. She was quick-witted, fluent in nine languages, and a shrewd politician, who fought to save her county from absorption into the expanding Roman Empire. Her life gives me a lot to live up to and she was only two years older than I am now when she died. She killed herself at age 39 in order to avoid the humiliation of being marched through Rome in chains. Sometimes when I feel my life is too difficult or out of control, I remind myself of what she faced trying to save her country.
But when you grow up with a name like Cleopatra, you develop a thick skin for jokes and insults. I’ve heard all the “Where’s Anthony?” comments you can think up, and don’t even get me started on barges.
When I walked into her room, Gramma greeted me with her usual questions. “What time is it? Where’s James? I haven’t seen him all day.” This is a hard one for me. At first, I used to gently explain to her that Grampa had died, but she would refuse to believe me and I didn’t feel comfortable arguing the point with her. So now I just say, “He went to a conference in Boston,” or “He had to give a paper in San Francisco.” She remembers him doing those things, so she accepts the explanation.
I diverted her attention to the video, and sat with her for about half an hour watching it. When it came to the part where Julius Caesar was murdered, Gramma lost interest and dozed off. I had an appointment at my office downtown, so I turned off the video, gave Gramma a quick kiss and headed down the hall toward the front door.
When I let myself out of the Alzheimer’s unit into the main hall, I saw Sharon absorbed in conversation with a muscular, dark-haired thirty-something guy. He wore royal blue gym pants and a matching sleeveless sport top—the fancy micro-fiber kind with the black side panels. I could barely take my eyes off his bulging muscles long enough to look at Sharon. It took her a minute to notice me as well.
“Cleo, I was just telling Erik about your project. This is Erik Vaughn. He’s a fitness trainer and nutritionist. He comes over here twice a week to work in our Wellness Center with some of the residents of our Senior Apartments. Erik was one of Adam’s best friends, and he’s been helping me and Nathan out a lot since Adam died. I don’t know what we would have done without him. He’s the one who gave Nathan the plants that had the unfortunate accident the other night.” Sharon gave Erik a big smile.
“Good to meet you, Cleo.” Erik shot out his hand for a handshake, which I have to admit left me sort of tingly. His eyes and hair were brown, nothing spectacular, but somehow I felt myself drawn to his straightforward gaze.
“I think that’s a great idea for Nathan to have those plants to grow,” I said. It probably helps him to have a positive focus like that.”
&nb
sp; “Maybe that helps,” Sharon broke in, “but I think it’s mainly the money Nathan is thinking about with those seeds.”
“It’s actually a business,” Erik said. “I’m working with the Natural Herbal Remedies Company to find people willing to grow herbs at home, dry the medicinal parts and sell them back. Right now we’re getting people to grow valerian plants. The home growers invest $500 for the seeds, and stuff like containers, peat pellets, and a greenhouse dome. They’re slow-growing, but eventually you can make about $5000 selling back the roots. I gave Nathan a set a couple of months ago, and he’s really excited about the whole thing.”
“Interesting. What is valerian used for?” I asked. Boulder being a center for natural foods, supplements, herbal remedies and so forth, I figured I was showing my ignorance by not already knowing about valerian.
“Some people call it an herbal valium,” Erik said, “because it’s relaxing and sleep inducing, relieves spasms, calms the digestion, and lowers blood pressure. It’s especially useful for severe insomnia because it can bring on a restful sleep without morning sleepiness or other side effects.”
“Sounds like an unusual business,” I said, “growing medicinal herbs at home.”
“Your business sounds more unusual,” Erik replied. “Talking to people who have ‘crossed over,’ or whatever. It would take some convincing to get me into that.”
“I’m thinking about trying it,” Sharon said.
“Hmm…” Erik said. “Good meeting you, Cleo. I have to get over to the gym. Let me know if you’re interested in getting in on the herb-growing business. See you later, Sharon.” He loped off toward the Wellness Center.
Turning to me, Sharon asked, “Do you remember Jenny, the nurse who worked here and died last fall? She was Erik’s wife. It was so tragic what happened to her.”
“I certainly remember Jenny. She was my grandmother’s favorite nurse. Didn’t she die of an asthma attack on a backpacking trip?”
“Yes, she forgot her inhaler. Erik hiked out as fast as he could to get help, but by the time he got back Jenny was dead. It was awful. Erik has had a tough time, feeling guilty and all. I told him that maybe he could look into your Contact Project to try to reach Jenny. I’m sure she’d forgive him for not being able to get help fast enough. And he’d probably feel more at peace with the whole thing. But Erik has pretty much the same take on it as my dad does.”
“Never mind. I’m more concerned about you right now,” I said.
“Me too. Do you have a couple more minutes to talk about it?” she asked.
“I have an appointment downtown in about 15 minutes. Could we set up a time for you to come to my office and talk? We can talk about the Contact Project and see if it’s a good fit with what you’re
looking for.”
“OK. When can we do it?
“Could you come after work today? I’m free anytime after 5:15.”
I don’t usually provide appointments on such short notice, but Tyler’s warning was still bothering me.
“I could be there by 5:30.”
“Sounds good. I’m at 736 Pearl. Unfortunately I don’t have a parking lot, so you’ll have to find parking on the street.”
As I rushed out to meet my client, I found myself thinking about Erik. I was curious as to whether his herbal remedies might be able to help Gramma calm down and get some sleep at night. I also wondered whether Adam had told him anything about what he’d been so worried about.
Chapter 6
Pearl Street has become the place to be in Boulder. Maybe you’re wondering how I could afford an office there, and how I could offer Sharon free participation in my project. Am I rich or do I owe my soul to Visa and MasterCard? Well, here’s the deal—to my amazement, the Contact Project is an actual funded project. I have an endowment from a man who was able to contact a family member and wanted to help other people do the same. His first name is Bruce. I can’t tell you his last name because, even though he’s very high on the project, he doesn’t want to be publicly connected to it. Go figure.
Anyway, a friend referred Bruce to me for grief therapy not long after I first set up the apparition chamber. His daughter had died from a drug overdose. He was devastated because his relationship with her had been stormy for several years before she died. I’m not sure he knew how much he loved her until she was gone.
The first time Bruce came to see me, he cried, which I’ve since learned is way more open than he usually is. He sat in my counseling room with tears running down his face and said, “I wake up every morning with this horrible feeling that something is wrong. Then I remember my daughter is dead and I’ll never be able to make it right with her. How can I live with that?”
It only took a couple of sessions with him for me to realize that although he’s brilliant, his feelings are mostly unspoken and generally unknown to him. He’s the kind of guy who’s probably never even told his wife he loves her. But when his daughter died, it was like he rammed full force into a stone wall. At a very deep level he got that she was gone for good, and he’d never be able to make peace with her. He’s not used to problems he can’t solve and he hates unfinished business, and there he was in a situation where he felt like there was nothing he could do. He was desperate enough to come for grief counseling, even though he doubted it could help him.
By our third session, I realized he would be a good candidate for the contact process, so I screwed up my courage and asked him if he wanted to try. Once he got over thinking it was spooky, he was enthusiastic. He was able to reach his daughter. It was only once—but he felt immensely better afterward. He told me they had each acknowledged their mistakes, forgiven each other and made up. He was able to say goodbye to her and feel okay about that. He was almost floating around the room when he told me about it—like he’d gotten free from a heavy chain that had been weighing him down.
Bruce’s contact with his daughter changed him. He went from feeling isolated and alone with his bottled-up grief, to being able to remember and talk about the good parts of his relationship with his daughter and the love he felt for her. He wanted other people to have the opportunity to benefit from the process the way he did. So he decided to use some of the fortune he’d made in high-tech businesses to fund the Contact Project. There are some conditions as to who qualifies and what kind of records I keep, but basically it’s my show to run. Which, I admit, is mind-boggling—and a lot of fun.
I moved into the Pearl Street office last year, after a Buddhist bookstore vacated the property in Boulder’s pricey west end to move to a more harmonious location. Aside from the lack of parking, I love everything about the place. It’s a pinkish flat-roofed stucco building that was once a house, but later converted to retail use. An earlier owner enclosed the front porch, making it two front rooms with large rectangular windows on either side of the front door. The building is finished with brown wood trim, and has masses of ivy growing up one side. A gigantic maple tree provides summer shade and fall color.
Inside I have four rooms and a bathroom. I use one of the front rooms as a waiting room, and one as my office. In the back, I have a counseling room, and a smaller room, which I use as an apparition chamber. My funding covers the steep rent and stretched to pay for new furnishings as well. I decorated the rooms with a southwestern look, using shades of burnt sienna, gold, cream and dark turquoise. I bought a wool hand-woven Mexican rug down the street at Marisol Imports for my waiting room floor and stuck a fat cactus next to the window. I have three of Gramma’s colorful paintings on the walls in the counseling room, which makes my insurance company nervous because they’re so valuable. But I enjoy the artwork every day so it’s worth the risk to me.
At 5:30, Benita, a client whose brother had disappeared while hiking in the national forest was on her way out of my office.
“He’s likely to show up at my door tomorrow and ask me why I’ve been seeing a grief counselor,” she said.
“That’s certainly a possibility. How do you feel
about that?”
“My brother always drove me crazy and he’s still doing it is how I feel. Why couldn’t he either die or not die? That sounds like a simple request, but not for Darren. He always finds a way to make everything my problem.”
“Maybe you could focus on what he added to your life and what you miss about him.” I suggested.
“Well, maybe. I’ll think about it.” Benita said as she headed out into the waiting room.
“See you then.” As I waved goodbye to Benita, I saw Sharon hurrying along the sidewalk toward my office.
“Parking in this town is impossible,” Sharon said as she dashed through my front door, wiping sweat from her forehead.
“Sorry you had to rush,” I said, beckoning her inside. “The sun is wicked at this time of day. Would you like some water or iced tea?”
“Tea would be great, thanks,” Sharon said as she plopped onto the chocolate-brown sofa in the counseling room. “Before we get started, I want to apologize again for my father’s rude behavior the other night. Sometimes I think he deliberately tries to embarrass me.”
“You and your father do seem to have some disagreements,” I reached for the pitcher of sun tea in the under-counter refrigerator on the back wall. I grabbed two tall glasses from the cabinet above, added ice cubes from my tiny freezer compartment and filled the glasses with tea. I handed Sharon a glass and sat across from her in a tan leather armchair.
“Thanks,” she said. “Maybe I’m too hard on Dad. I have to admit I’m grateful to him for the help and support he gave me in the weeks and months after Adam died.”
Too Near the Edge Page 4