Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand

by Suzka Collins

  Violet lowered her voice and directed her attention back to me. "Where is my... ah... you know the... ah... what you do… um, you know the thing that moves you around... You know what I mean? The thing. The thing that you get into..."

  "Your car?"

  I guessed.

  "Yes the car. What ya think I was talking about. Do ya

  think I was NOT talking about the car?”

  I never ever saw my mother this confused, this disoriented.

  "Mom. You have to wait here a bit. A doctor should come by pretty soon and he'll tell us what's going on." I collected my thoughts and returned to my mother's nakedness...

  "Let me find you a blanket." "Go. Go. Go… and ask them to turn up the heat. Its damn cold in here."

  I moved a small part of the curtain a tiny bit to the side and peeked my head out into the room. The lights were burning bright. I wanted to vomit. My head tunneled my vision and focused my thought. Blanket. Blanket. Find a blanket.

  A few feet away were a stack of sheets lying on the nurses' counter. Good enough. I grabbed one and turned back quickly, Venus returned to my mother's face.

  "Here mom, let’s put this sheet around you until we find your clothes. How do you feel? This bruise looks bad. Does it hurt? It doesn't look good mom. Are you sure you're ok?”

  "Of course I'm ok." Violet never let herself get sick. She always stayed enormously healthy popping discounted vitamins and following the advice from cutout articles found in her Natural Health magazines. Campho-Phenique, vinegar, cola syrup and onion peelings took care of nearly all the semi-serious illnesses.

  Violet looked around the cubical agitated.

  "This place is filled with jackasses!"

  A nurse walked in, a doctor followed. He pulled the

  curtain back behind him covering Violet's partially naked breasts from the rest of the room.

  "Hello Violet. How are you feeling?"

  "Just fine." she answered in a fake full-dressed voice.

  Violet sat up straight and looked at the white-cloaked man directly in his eyes.

  "We are ready to go. My daughter is here to take me home." "Well, Mrs. Violet, you're pretty sick. We're going to keep you here for a few more days."

  "Listen Doctor, my daughter is standing right there. See that girl?” She released one finger that gripped the straps of her purse and pointed it at me.

  “That’s my daughter. She flew here all the way from California and she's gonna take care of me to my home. Now if you can find my clothes, I'd be grateful then I can get out of here."

  Violet moved her attention toward me. "Give him some of those candies and let's go home." "Are you Violet's daughter?"

  "Yes."

  "Your mom is very sick. We ran a number of tests

  and did a spinal tap, which is why she is so irritated... and naked. We gave her a gown. The nurses helped her put it on but I am not sure what happened to it. I’ll ask the nurse to bring in another gown.”

  The doctor continued in more seriousness. "Your mother has meningitis-encephalitis." I felt the heavy weight of those words without really

  knowing what was behind them.

  "It is the inflammatory disease of the membranes that surround the brain as well as the spinal cord. In your mother's case, she probably had the infection for months. The infection has caused a rapid onset of dementia."

  I couldn't find any words. I dropped my head and studied my mother over my eyeglasses. There was no sign of a question in her eyes.

  The doctor said, "We'll keep her here for now." His words felt like hands that covered my ears. He kept talking... it didn't seem to make any difference. My ears stopped all words coming through its canal.

  "Has she traveled abroad in the last six months? Has she been around anyone who's been sick, has herpes, anyone with the mumps, or HIV?"

  Oh my god... where is this going? Does this woman in front of him look like she’s a world traveler? Does she look like she would go to some foreign drug infested country on vacation? Does she look like a smuggler, a mule? For Christ sake, what in the hell is he talking about?

  Images flashed quickly of my mother sharing needles with other church ladies after mass. You never really know a person.

  "Has she been outside near water, near mosquitoes?"

  “The fourth of July picnic.” The half naked woman spoke.

  Violet participated in the conversation only when it had some pleasant interest to her. "We had over seventy-five people come to our Fourth of July family reunion. Tell him Suzka. It was the biggest crowd we ever had. Some people came from as far as Texas.”

  She turned her full attention toward me for some sort of clarification. “Remember Suzka? Tell him. There were seventy-five... tell him there were seventy-five."

  The doctor added, "She must have had this virus for months. She appears to be showing signs of being in the moderate stages of dementia. But unfortunately with this virus you will soon see a quick progression in both her memory loss and communication. We can treat the meningitis-encephalitis but there is nothing we can do for the dementia. Does she live alone?"

  "Yes." My response was slow, the 'yyye...' extended in the air as if it were standing on a bridge's ledge; the remaining 'sss' jumped to its death.

  "Do you live near your mother?"

  "No. I... I live in California."

  "Well, she cannot live alone anymore."

  The words 'she cannot live alone' piled up on top of

  each other and stuck in my head. I could not breathe. I felt faint and damp. I blinked fast as not to cry. "For now we'll start her on antibiotics that we will give to her through an IV for about ten days. This procedure we can start today in the hospital."

  Meningitis is an inflammation of the membranes (called meninges) that surround the brain and spinal cord and is caused by bacterial or viral infections.

  Encephalitis is inflammation of the brain. The leading cause of severe encephalitis is the herpes simplex virus. Other causes include enterovirus infections or mosquitoborne viruses. The diagnosis is usually made by performing a lumbar puncture (spinal tap). Encephalitis with meningitis is known as meningoencephalitis. This viral infection that affects the central nervous system can cause rapidly progressive dementia.

  Dementia is not a specific disease. It's an overall term that describes a wide range of symptoms associated with the decline in memory or other thinking skills severe enough to reduce a person's ability to perform everyday activities.

  People with dementia may have problems with shortterm memory, keeping track of a purse or wallet, paying bills, planning and preparing meals, remembering appointments or traveling out of the neighborhood. While symptoms of dementia can vary greatly, at least two of the following core mental functions must be significantly impaired to be considered dementia: memory, communication and language, ability to focus and pay attention, reasoning and judgment and visual perception.

  Many dementias are progressive, meaning symptoms start out slowly and gradually get worse.

  Alzheimer’s disease accounts for 50 to 70 percent of cases. Other common types include vascular dementia (25%), which occurs after a stroke, Lewy body dementia (15%), which refers to both Parkinson’s disease dementia and dementia with Lewy bodies deposits that disrupt the brain's changes the way muscles work.

  – abnormal protein normal functioning

  Violet’s dementia was caused from MeningitisEncephalitis. [ That summer, before my mother's illness two things happened: Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast causing severe damage and Harry Potter returned to Hogwarts fighting dragons.

  "If your name is chosen, there is no turning back. As from this moment, the Triwizard Tournament has begun." – Albus Dumbledore ] 7.

  THE TRANSFER

  A nurse led me to a small room about the size of a broom closet. The space was barren and beige with no windows and only one framed print on the wall of what looked like the Niagara Falls. It was god-awful ugly, flat, no life, no passion
. I know for sure Picasso and Gulley Jimson would have hated it.

  Under the ‘Falls’ was a table longer in its length than its width. Two chairs sat on opposite side at the table's length.

  "There will be someone here shortly to help you with your mother's transfer."

  Transfer? What is she talking about?

  Before I got a chance to put my words together the door closed any opening for questions and the walls sealed themselves around me. Did she say transfer? Something instinctively made me stare up to the ceiling's corners expecting to find one of those tiny cameras they use in interrogating rooms at police stations.

  In a short amount a time, the hospital's discharge nurse walked into the room and closed the door behind her - a slim young lady in her late twenties with pointy cone breasts. She was very pretty but if you needed to identify her to the authorities as a missing person, her breasts would be her most distinguishing feature, in addition to a scribbled tattoo on her neck that slid under her cardigan.

  She smiled at me modestly - a cute little smile, just enough to uncover the tip of one tooth. She brought in with her a clipboard and laid it on the table in front of me. Its metal gums bit down on a number of hospital forms and notepapers.

  "Hello, my name is Lucy." "Hello." The word came out of my mouth like a prisoner walking to his execution.

  "We started your mother on intravenous antibiotics in the ER but we are unable to keep her here at the hospital for the full ten day treatment. We need to move her to another facility, probably by the end of this day. Right now we're checking with all our affiliate rehabilitation centers. When a bed is available, we will transfer her by ambulance."

  "Move her... why can't she stay here?"

  "She really doesn't need the full hospital care and your insurance would never cover it."

  "But she's sick. Very sick from what the ER doctor told me. Go ask him. Really."

  "I can assure you the rehab center we are waiting to hear from is well-equipped to care for your mother. I hate when they shorten serious words - 'rehab' for rehabilitation as if it's a playful nickname, and in this case 'rehabilitation center' meant nursing home. This was bad. This was going to be very bad.

  "But... " I felt the bones of her tiny hand reach across the table and pat my arm. "Everything will be fine. They will continue the series of IV medications for ten days and then you can take your mother home. This gives you enough time to prepare for her return."

  Her hand returned to the clipboard. Her eyes looked down into her readers. "It is written here that you will be staying with your mother and that you will also be hiring an additional care giver to help you. Is that correct?"

  "Well..." She could have been speaking Swahili. "You fully understand that your mother will need around the clock care, don't you?” A pause.

  “You will need help.”

  A longer pause.

  “You will not be able to take care of her by yourself." The slim young bearer of bad news waited for some response.

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I didn't really listen to what she was saying but somehow I soaked it all up - the look, the tone in her voice, the smell air makes when it scrubs itself clean and the buzzing sound of the fluorescent lights. I was like a sponge. If anyone dared to squeeze me, everything would squish out and I would be just a puddle on the floor.

  "Your mother’s ten day stay at the rehab will give you enough time to get everything in order. But first we need to take care of the hospital's discharge paperwork and go over a few things."

  There was a weighted knock at the door. In the crack of its’ opening a head popped through. I was saved from continuing.

  "Oh how wonderful. You came just in time. Suzka, this is Miss Blanchard. She works at the Aged Oaks Pavilion, the rehab center affiliated with our hospital. She's here with good news I hope."

  Miss Blanchard shook my hand. Her fingers were like fat sausages and sweaty.

  "Hello my dear... Suzka? Your name is Suzka?"

  "Yes."

  "What an interesting name. Is that Russian?" "Thank you and no, it's Slovakian."

  I could have said Chinese and her reaction would

  have been the same. She moved her attention and words toward Lucy. "Yes, I have very good news and I brought all the paperwork with me to get things moving quickly."

  Miss Blanchard was a stout, handsome woman with maroon hair pinned up in a pompadour hairstyle that looked old, as if the hairs had not moved or changed their direction since she was a young girl. She carried herself as the official ambassador for the Aged Oaks and smelled of a mixture of Jean Nate bath splash and Lysol disinfectant.

  Lucy went out of the room to get another chair. "I am so sorry to hear about your mother's illness." She lifted her hands and held them close to her breast with the tips of her fingers pressed together as if they were in prayer.

  "You need not worry. We have a bed available and we will be able to transfer your mother this afternoon. I can assure you that everyone at The Aged Oaks Pavilion will do everything they can to make her stay comfortable."

  Lucy returned with a cushioned chair and placed it at the table's edge. Miss Blanchard kept on talking and sat down with no thought as to where her butt bottom would land.

  "I brought the necessary papers with me for you to sign before we can admit your mother."

  She made herself quite comfortable and pulled out a stack of papers from a folder with gold embossed lettering on its cover. In a matter of seconds the table was filled on both sides with notes, post-its and medical forms that I needed to read and sign.

  "Tell me a little bit about your mother. You are her daughter right?"

  "Yes." "How lucky your mother is to have you. Is your father, Violet's husband, alive?"

  "No. Not really." At this point, I didn’t know what I was saying.

  [ Both ladies asked me a series of questions. I felt absurdly close to tears. After what seemed like hours of questioning, I broke. I squealed like a baby

  and told them everything. ]

  8.

  VIOLET’S STATS

  My mother was the oldest of four children. Two girls came first and then two boys born twelve and thirteen years later. The first boy had been According to my mother and my midwife had to use two gallons of lubricating oil. The boy baby, my uncle, the first son did not slide out like a pound cake from its pan, fresh out of the oven. The birth had left my grandmother ill nervous condition that had diagnosed nor discussed. The older and wiser women in the neighborhood as well as the card-readers and fortunetellers told my grandmother that her suffering would be a 'cross she would have to bear'. A year later, another brother came into the world without the oil. My mother somewhat raised her two brothers.

  My mother's father was a strong prominent figure in his family and a Godfather to many extended Slovak families in Chicago's west side. He had found jobs and offered his home to many in trouble when times were hard. He was a statuesque man with a wide smile. I always believed he came from a long line of prominent gypsies in Europe. When I would ask about his people in Bratislava, my grandmother would tell me, "Hush now, don't talk such foolishness." and press one finger on her lips.

  My grandmother didn't like gypsies. She believed they were thieves with slippery fingers. They were too wild, too filled with dance. Their glitter and gold she said a difficult birth.

  grandmother, a with an un-reparable never been actually would burn black holes in children's eyes. I believed my grandmother felt her husband put a spell on her that she could not break. All the saints in heaven could not protect her or break his power over her. She adored her husband, quietly.

  The mystery, the gypsy colors of gold, the foolishness and his wide smile were the qualities I loved the most about my grandfather. Everyone loved him. After his death, Violet became the matriarch of the family.

  In my mother's time, in Cicero, if a girl was not married by the age of seventeen, the family would enroll her in secretarial school to learn ho
w to type and use a comptometer. They didn't go to art school, even if they were awarded a scholarship to the prestigious Chicago Art Institute. My mother loved art and loved to sketch. She learned how to use a comptometer and married at 22.

  Violet had met her husband (my father) at a New Years Eve dance. He was a tall man, over six feet. His legs were long and smoothly covered the dance floor to any music played. He was light on his feet and could spin and turn-around any girl of any size and catch her in his arms. Violet, only five feet in her height would dance breathlessly with her handsome partner. Her feet barely touched the floor.

  He had a chiseled face with deep-set eyes and perfect teeth. She called him Pavel. In six weeks, he would bring a box of candy to his 'soon to be' mother-in-law and solidify their engagement with the approval and blessing from his sweetheart's father.

  It would be the first wedding for the Slovakian Godfather, a wedding for his first child, his oldest daughter. A wedding that would be celebrated in the grandest building in Cicero - The Hawthorn Pavilion.

  The Pavilion was an old two-story frame building with two ballrooms. Each ballroom had an extraordinary large slick wood dance floor and a long open bar that extended the full width of the room. The carved mahogany bar was set back in an arched alcove. It was the largest building in Cicero that could accommodate huge family celebrations.

  It had been an August wedding and it was hot, Chicago hot, Billie Holiday’s ‘Summertime’ hot. The air outside was thick. The sun had left slowly, exhausted from the humidity. Lazy fireflies had lowered the sky and talked a bit with the stars. The large windows in the Pavilion were as open as they could be, begging the outside air to come inside and dance with the music. Trees close by just watched - they had no rhythm.

  There had been mountains of food, an unending flow of whisky and beer and loud music inside. The first floor had been decorated with white crepe paper streamers, strings of glass beads and tall vased calla lilies. At the far end of the room, a full band with cimbaloms, fujaras, violins and accordions played Slovak songs. Members from the band had taken turns singing garbled words into the microphone. Ladies in black dresses with sausage legs and disappearing husbands, sat on metal folding chairs near the band music, fanning themselves and singing only with the words they could remember.