The most visible sign that my father had once lived there was that chain and two-by-four contraption at the front door. It was my father's creation, a foolproof security system. A long heavy chain with metal loops wrapped several times around the knobs of the front double doors. The doors never before seriously locked themselves properly. Anyone with the least insignificant amount of body weight could open them with the slightest shove. For backup, a two-by-four was anchored tightly between the door and a stair railing about six feet away. My father would tell my mother, my sisters and myself and anyone who would listen, "John Dillinger himself couldn't break into this house." My mother would always remove the chain and the two-by-four when she knew I was coming from the airport in the middle of the night for a week's visit.
But Violet performed most of her official Dementialand duties from the couch that sat in the middle of the room. The couch that originally belonged to her mother with the tiny pink flowers, green leaves and family secrets embroidered into a faded white fabric. During the day, Violet would sit on the couch and talk with the visiting birds that would be chattering on branches. Jealous leaves tapped on the windows trying to butt in and get her attention. Occasionally Violet would be pushed to look beyond the birds and the leaves to an outside world where a suspicious neighbor was doing questionable things. That will come later.
The house was actually large. Rooms legged out from a long hall like a centipede. Some legs led to more legs leading to smaller rooms. Violet could easily get lost, possibly forever, or possibly she could fall into a rabbit's hole. So she kept herself safe in one room.
[ This ends the eight hundred word description of Dementialand ] Everything was more alive in Dementialand. Everything jumped, howled and vibrated. It shook us silly and at times slapped all of us senseless until the last hinge that held all of us tightly to yesterday's yesterday, snapped. I saw my mother's stubborn pigheaded ways cower under the room's furnishings that tried desperately to reupholster time. The days often turned on us and went in and out of their calibrations. All the clocks threw their hands in the air in war-weariness and deserted their posts. The mornings goofed around with the evenings, afternoon often showed up for breakfast and the sun worked for the moon at night. Days and nights had no regard for order. My mother felt she had no choice but to keep herself dressed for all the hours.
Violet was Dementialand’s principal resident and crowned head-of-state. All fantasies bowed down to her.
* My official move into Dementialand was slow and cautious. It took a few months before I could get myself to unpack the clothes out of my duffel bag and put them on hangers. I could not get my head around those very words 'she cannot live alone'. My head was slammed shut. Every muscle and bone in my body waited for some kind of confirmation. I avoided telling myself almost the truth.
[ Gulley Jimson told me
that when you get into one of these spots, you have no choice but to think like a painter. He told me that even the worst artist that ever was, a cross-eyed mental deficient with the shakes in both hands, about to paint the first stroke, looks at the blank canvas as an adventure. This was a fresh canvas. ]
Yes. This was my fresh canvas! And I also told myself
that I needed to change my thinking before the first problem shows its devilish face. If not it could be hell for the term of my stay.
I needed to let go of everything from my past; my opinions and old scenarios. Surprisingly enough, it also meant that I needed to let go of everything I thought I was suppose to be.
I settled myself into an open room on the lower level. It was a non-room by conventional standards. No doors, just passageways. Boxed items no longer fashionably acceptable or useful were lowered to this level. The room was close enough to hear the goings-on of my mother and her travels in the night.
21.
DEMENTIALAND’S GADABOUTS [ They lived with us. Maybe there were twenty or more. At one time I counted 28. ]
It started with one airhead, a huge round blue balloon with a wide black smile. Popping out from the top of its head were two black eyes painted on transparent eye sockets. The balloon was filled with helium and held in space by a thin gift ribbon that was clipped to the magazine rack at the grocery's checkout counter. A card attached to his rubberneck read SKU 44678. I couldn't resist buying it. It looked as if it could pick you up, suck you out of yourself and carry you away; away from computers, canvases and slippery couches with unruly fallen sheets; away from mothers, mosquitoes and the dementias.
I brought SKU number 44678 home and pulled him by his long gift ribbon into the back room. He was hesitant at first and dawdled behind. I had to drag him most of the way. He eventually settled down, looked around at his new home and landed his eyes on my mother.
At first mom was a bit taken aback by the large blue helium gift. She squeezed her face together and stared at the ballooned face then quickly snubbed her head back to the window. She talked with a couple of birds that sat on an outside branch. "My daughter is a crazy person bringing into my house such silliness as if we were having a birthday party for a five year old baby child. It's not my birthday and I am no damn child."
"It's a gift for you mom. I thought it would brighten up the room a bit and make you smile."
"Why do you waste your money to buy such silly things?" My mother ignored the smiling balloon and waved her hand frivolously in the air.
"You can take him back now."
"Mom, it's a gift. I bought it for just for you. His name is... SKU...? Come on now, he's kinda cute, don't you think so? I love his color. You love blue don’t you?’
Pause.
“He talked to me when I was in the check-out line at the grocery. He said... Suzka! Suzka take me home to your mother, Mrs. Violet."
I looked directly at my mother. “True. That’s wordfor-word what he said.”
"Now you're sounding like your father."
My father always used those same words when he brought home stray dogs. According to my father, homeless dogs, particularly the dogs in pounds, would jump on the cage doors and ask my father to take them home. All the pets we had at one time talked but never spoke a word after my father brought them home and they became part of our family.
"Don't tell me that goofy balloon talked to you. You are a crazy child. And what kind of a name is SKU?"
She looked at me and shifted her eyes closer to the wide smile on the balloon. “You wasted your money. Take him back.”
"You talk to birds and you got the birds talkin' back to you.”
"Birds are God's living creatures. Anyone can hear their speaking. They have little mouths with little voices inside.” She sunk her head into her shoulders and added tiny gestures to her reasoning. “I see them talkin' right in front of my ears. They talk in chirps and tweets and I talk back to'em in whistle and words too sometimes. We understand each other. I don't know why I'm even talking to you about such things."
"Mom, give the poor guy a chance. I think he's one of those Muppet characters. He looks like the Cookie Monster."
I moved SKU 44639, aka the Cookie Monster balloon, at the end of the couch in full view for my mother and any visitor to see. A long string attached to a metal weight in the shape of a heart kept him grounded.
The funny-faced balloon settled in the air and looked directly at Violet. "You must be Miz Violet. Hello, let me introduce myself, I'm Cookie."
After receiving no response whatsoever, the room's air drifted the ballooned head toward me, "She dahn't talk much, dahhz she?"
Something changed when Cookie was around. He brought a lightness into the room, a soft feather dancing in the cloudy fog. This funny-faced balloon began to make his presence in the room. As we walked around throughout the day his popped-up eyes seemed to have followed us. I started to like the little character. He made me smile. He made everyone smile. My mother kept her distance and talked to the birds about Cookie.
Pretty soon balloon bore more balloons until they formed their own comm
unity. After Cookie came Hello Kitty, Dora, Betty Boop and Princess Belle. Then I brought in a couple of Elmos, Tweety Bird and a few Happy Faces; butterflies, stars and hearts visited on holidays. They were all large in size, their heads measuring as much as three feet in diameter. Ribboned legs determined their height as well as their position.
They moved left to right, turning around and rubbing against each other on invisible drafts. Their flight was engorged by helium. Weights in their shoes kept them somewhat grounded but did not prevent them from scooting closer to Violet, dragging their heart-shaped anchors behind them. Such queer heads lived with us.
The ballooned airheads were the first squatters that moved into Dementialand. They comfortably scattered themselves about everywhere.
Balloons are funny creatures. I learned to love and appreciate their queer ways. They are able to float and skate above everything hard. Only a soft gift ribbon attached to heart-shaped weights, keeps them from running away. But if they wanted to, they could escape and take you with them to a place where everyone is in love and flowers pick themselves.
B A L L O O N S T A T I S T I C S [ A 34” latex balloons filled with helium will generally last between 3 to 5 days. and possibly an extra day when treated with Hi-Float. Foil balloons - 5 to 7 days. In Dementialand, balloons were regularly replaced with their likenesses when needed. ]
* Window blinds once closed, opened their eye slats letting the outside in. Neighbors lined up watching. They turned their faces towards the parade of new residents moving into Violet's house. Some they recognized from standing in lines at the Jewel Grocery; funny looking characters tied to the displays by thin gift ribbons. Women recognized some of the characters from Saints’ medallions hanging down at their throats.
Men shook their heads and turned their eyes away in puzzlement.
"I heard Violet’s daughter from California moved in with her."
"Isn’t she one of those artist types?”
“I saw her once... a funny looking girl.”
"Ohhhhh."
“I hope Violet will be ok.”
“We can only pray.”
“That’s all we can do.”
22.
RE-ENFORCEMENTS Those words: “Your mother cannot live alone…rapid dementia… watch your mother 24 hours…do you understand?” I wasn’t sure what I said at that moment. I vaguely remember hearing something said at the hospital. “Do you fully understand the seriousness of your situation? Your mother will soon need care 24-7. You cannot do this by yourself… you need to hire a caregiver to help you.”
* I walked into the back room with the tall windows where the little grasshopper (my mother) sat in her wheelchair.
"Mom, this is Sovina." The sky had gone to scarlet behind my mother. Slowly she scratched her head not sure who this strange Sovina woman was in front of her and what she might have had up her sleeve. Violet nonchalantly returned her arm to a fold and slyly hand searched for the reassurance that her purse was at her side. Her eyes darted straight ahead at my intentions.
Before she had a chance to speak, I presented my case.
"Mom, you know how crazy busy it has been around here, what with all we both have to do. Well, I have given this much thought. You're an independent woman. I think what you really need is your own secretary, a kinda’ secretarial day planning helper but also with caregiving skills."
She prepared her face, a wooden fixed smile, which expressed nothing perfectly.
"And what are you gonna do all day, missy? Are you planning on leaving me?
"Oh no, no. I am definitely not leaving.” That was when she abruptly changed the direction of her thought and stared me down. She took what was left in her head and notably asked me, “Who are you?" It was only on an occasion, not very often, when the dementias messed with her head and nagged her to ask questions like ‘Who are you?’
"I’m your daughter, mom.” I regretted saying that so quickly, the daughter part.
She looked at me bewildered. She continued staring as if she no longer recognized my face. It was as if she kept hearing over and over again, my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, until ‘daughter’ had no meaning and became just a vibrating sound in her head. It was of little importance really, daughter, mother, sister, brother. They were just words. And in all seriousness, I don’t think my mother nor I gave much thought to our connection. I had disembodied that motherdaughterness months ago.
M O M
[ Mom – the sound.
A sound involving little more than pressing your lips together, holding them that way for a second and then resonating out a puff of air. A cosmic sound or a mystical syllable or simply an affirmation to something divine as in ‘om’ – acknowledging our connection to all living beings, nature and the universe… mom ] That is when the music from the boombox in the
other room started. I must have set the timer earlier in the day. Violet came back from her leave. Her head corrected herself and returned her eyes to that of an eagle. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m not staring.”
“Hello Mrs. Violet. I am Sovina.”
I tried to return comfortably to where I left my thoughts. “I'll be working over there on the dining room table. See my computer and those stacks of papers?" The table had piles of my mother’s past due bills, bank statements, titles and policies and various papers of importance that I had found in overstuffed boxes tucked in her life’s corners.
The room paused while the word secretary passed through Violet's head. I played with my ear and bounced my earring around with my thumb, a nervous habit of mine.
"… but we don't need anybody if you’re staying." Her words moved slow and wandered out into the room looking for a place to set while avoiding Sovina’s presence.
Everything told me to wait a second and just hold on. Acceptance was around the corner… it was just a matter of time.
Her face softened as if she were calculating the sound of... a woman with a private secretary.
I thought myself to be quite clever at that moment. Resistance was weakening.
She raised her eyes with a look of surrender. Slowly, Violet spoke with authoritative importance and humble understanding. "Ben MetLife has a sec-terry."
“Matlock, mom... Yes, Ben Matlock also has a secretary
Breath. "Ok now." I placed my hands together and sealed the deal with responding, "Well this feels right. Indeed. Amen indeed."
My mother looked acceptingly serious at Sovina. "You're not into voodoo or anything like that, are you?"
We had other caregivers in the past months. Their memories although not remembered in any detail, if they are remembered at all by my mother, remained in the room, stuck to the walls like old cigar smoke.
Previous Caregiver: Fiona. Fiona was barely 5 feet tall, 40ish, single, Scandinavian, stout with a double chinned midriff and thin suffering blond hair tied with a red rubber band into a pitiful ponytail. Her eyes matched her hair. She had an ageless face and little whiskers on her chin that made her look like a goat, a young goat.
JOB DESCRIPTION: Support in the daily activities for a kind woman with dementia. Assistance with bathing, grooming, dressing and eating; basic companionship and interactive communication required. Caregiver must look out for the physical safety of the patient. No restrictions on food. No need to give medications. Flexible hours. Car needed. Willing to stay with patient on occasion throughout the night. Live-In preferred.
> REASON FOR DISMISSAL: Energy Hovering. Fiona stood over my mother in the middle of one night and nearly scared her to the death. I heard the screaming from downstairs.
"She's trying to kill me! She's trying to kill me!" I ran up the stairs so quickly I dropped my legs twice. When I walked in I saw Fiona leaning over my mother while circling her full arms above my mother's body like helicopters hovering over a hostage confrontation below. She was wearing a new white bathrobe that I gave my mother for Christmas in 1982. Around her waist she had tied a rope,
a heavy rope she must have found in the garage.
Violet was hysterical. "This devil woman wants to kill me. She's a little black scorpion ringed with hellfire! Thank God and all the Saints you're here. She's evil. She would have killed me for sure if you hadn’t come in to save me!"
I pushed Fiona aside. "What in the hell are you doing?" She was so damn calm it confused the hell out of me. "It's ok. Everything is fine. Trust me. I was following the energy in the room when I noticed something above your mother was stuck. I was trying to release the blocked entities and invite the flow of positive forces to move again more freely."
Violet scooted to the railed edge of her bed clutching the covers to her chin. "Don’t leave me here... When are we going home?"
Fiona.
Previous Caregiver: Eszter. Eszter was a full 5 foot 10 inches, 50+, a widowed woman. Her body type was similar to Ernest Borgnine. She had shoe-polish-like raven hair that fell to her chin. She had Picasso eyes.
JOB DESCRIPTION: Support in the daily activities for a kind woman with dementia. Assistance with bathing, grooming, dressing and eating; basic companionship and interactive communication required. look out for the physical safety of restrictions on food. No need to give medications. Flexible hours. Car needed. Willing to stay with patient on occasion throughout the night. Live-In preferred. No goats. No energy jugglers.
Caregiver must the patient. No
> REASON FOR DISMISSAL: A Missing Rhinestone Hair Clip. Eszter arrived with two suitcases and went home every third day for two days. Something about this woman made me uneasy. I noticed things like jewelry, lipstick and my rhinestone hairclip missing. And some of the monies from the food jar kept in a kitchen cupboard behind the Cheerios box was missing.
Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand Page 14