Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand

by Suzka Collins

  “We don't allow any use of interrogating methods, no yelling, cutting, no water-boarding. If you break any of the rules, we'll rip out your imagination and you'll live out the rest of your life in excruciating blandness with no smelling capabilities. Got any questions? No. Ok, move on."

  My mother's callers were speechless. They walked up the steps, facing the ballooned guards one at a time. "Hey, hey you. What’s this? No baggage allowed. Leave all your baggage at the door."

  "And you ma’am, in case you don't remember, it's Monday, the president is Obama. Go now and be nice."

  The callers walked slowly past the parade of characters pausing by each one as if they were in a reception line at the royal palace. Their eyes absorbed the color and the flight to smaller, younger times. More than often they cracked a cautious grin questioning whether to simply nosedive into the delight of it all.

  Two Happy Face balloons were the last in the long line of floaters before anyone walked into the room where Violet was waiting. "Live in the moment, baby, live in the moment."

  As they entered the room, Violet was sitting in her wheelchair surrounded by her string holding on to a Smiley around the arm of Violet's chair. On one side was Dora and on the other side was Princess Belle. Betty Boop had her back. Cookie was the tallest of all the balloons. He supervised almost everything that was going on in the room. The balloons said barely a word that could be heard. Occasionally we heard a grunt, a squeak but for the most part they tried very hard to keep their opinions to themselves.

  We were all pulled into this surreal space, which is what made my mother and this room called Dementialand so alluring – a place where the jasmines ballooned court. The balloon was wrapped were sweeter than ever remembered. And only there, in that room, reality was reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side.

  "Do I know you?"

  25.

  A PHILIP MARLOWE INTERROGATION Philip Marlowe entered the interrogation room at 11:00 on a morning in mid-October. It was quiet. The air was stale and lay in the corners, slouched against the concrete wall like a wet street dog void of richly breeding. One huge window, stripped down of any outside light, dominated the room. Left of the window was a steel bulky intercom box. Marlowe moved his mouth closer to the mesh screened plate and pressed down on the intercom's button. He spoke into the aperture, which made his words bigger in the adjoining room. "Bring in the suspects."

  Marlowe was a man in his late forties, from the late forties, a wisecracking detective. He wore black pants, a white shirt and a thin tired tie. He had dark hair, paper clip eyes and a chin that was too long for his face. He liked liquor, women and working alone.

  As he looked through the two-way window, uniforms escorted five suspects into the florescent’ed bright adjoining room. Violet stood close to Marlowe, close enough to smell his Old Spice and the pastrami he had for lunch. Violet felt the dark around her back.

  The suspects walked in single file onto a narrow platform. When all suspects filled the platform, they made a forty-five and faced their reflection. Around their necks, thin chains held white cards with black numbers, one through five. The cards covered their breasts. The five suspects also carried small pieces of paper at their side.

  Marlowe pulled a metal chair out and offered Violet a seat. The room was black, like the inside of the Cicero Olympic Theater on Cermak Avenue during a showing of the 'The Big Sleep' with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Becall.

  Violet had a sitting height of 4 feet 2 inches on tippytoes. Her hair was snow white under a wide brimmed black hat with a bird-caged veil that partially covered her face. She wore a short-pocketed jacket, pencil skirt and a soft crape blouse with tiny pearl buttons leading up to a choir of ruffles around the opened neck. She believed Jewish people make the best doctors and the best lawyers

  - a thought that came to the front of her head suggesting she might need one.

  Marlowe was patient in asking, "Violet, I want you to look at each one of these women and tell me if any of them look familiar. Can you identify any of these suspects as your daughter? Take your time."

  Violet slowly moved her attention from one of the line-up ladies to another. "Well, they all look so cute but I’m not sure about the one on the end. She’s quite dark. Was my husband black? Do you know?”

  “I ask the questions here. Look at the girls carefully. I need your full cooperation right now. Do any of these girls look familiar? Could any one of these suspects be your daughter?"

  Violet stayed calm. Her hands were comfortable, folding on to each other and holding on tightly to her purse. They were not going anywhere. Under the weight of her broken, wounded memory was a bright, strong woman and she knew it. "Well… hmmm, I do like Number One."

  Marlowe moved back to the intercom box and spoke into the voice box. "Number One step forward and read what's on the paper in your hand." Suspect number one, a slim redhead spoke with volume-forced enunciation as if she were auditioning for a part on Broadway. "Hi mom. I'm starrrrving. WHAT...do you have to eat?"

  Violet began to feel more confident. Her memory loss was out of her hands and now a police matter. Her head accepted being an integral part of the investigation, working side-by-side with Marlowe. "That one, maybe. She's so pretty. I like what she's wearing. Such a cute dress."

  Marlowe’s seriousness tore into Violet's eyes. "Are you sure?"

  Violet’s eyes grew weaker behind her glasses. They were working far beyond her continued attempts to sort through the faded pictures of her past.

  Marlowe stared at the little woman, looking for some affirming reaction. He had been in the interrogation business for a long time. He knows what to look for. "Violet, I need you to concentrate. Look carefully."

  "Well… number three looks familiar. Maybe it's the shoes. I think I have a pair just like those."

  "Number Three step forward and read what's on the card."

  Suspect number three, a skinny woman wearing turquoise Sergio Rossi heels, a simple cropped top and a god-awful sequined short skirt that slapped the lights’ reflection when she moved forward, read... "Hi, mom. I'm hungry... I mean starving." She dropped the paper to her thigh and looked out into the defeated reflection of herself in the two-way mirrored window. She awning'd her hand out from her forehead... "Can I start all over again? I know I can do better.” Her outfit or her Sergio Rossi gave her little confidence.

  Marlowe rests one hand on Violet's chair and the other on the table. He continued the interrogation.

  "It's..." Violet squeezed her eyes for a closer look at all the suspects, waiting for a spark, a flash, a match. Violet was trying so hard to make out if she knew anything. She would have to rely on her charm and inspiration of the moment. "Number Three... I strongly believe I think it's number one."

  "Yes. No. Or not sure?" Marlowe presses again, pinched with agitation.

  "Well, if I have to take a daughter, I'll take the Number Three. She looks like she'd be a very nice one." Violet pauses as if she was thinking. "She must be my daughter; she's wearing my shoes. Ok, I'll take Number Three. Are we done? Can I go home now?"

  Violet's head floated above her. It was there, all alone. Waiting for a bus, a train, a balloon to take her away to the next thought, to take her away from Marlowe. Violet's head whispered to her… We're done here! She got up from her chair, rearranging the grip on her purse.

  "Not so fast, missy." Marlowe was not about to let Violet walk away.

  "I don't like your manners, Mr. Marlowe."

  "And I'm not crazy about yours. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. I don't like them myself. I grieve over them on long winter nights."

  Violet sat back down in her chair and changed the direction of the conversation. She traveled to a place where she was comfortable, in control and safe. She silently stared into the windowed suspects and confidently looked back at Marlowe.

  "I'd like to buy a vowel?" D E M E N T I A’ S H I D D E N G I F T [ This woman had no idea who I was. She has no idea I
was once a smoker,

  was thrown out of school twice and a certified rebel with strong opinions, not remotely shared. To her, I was new, flawless - immaculate to the bone. This was all strangely wonderful.]

  * I called the house phone with my cell from another room. Sovina answered and I asked to speak with my mother. My mother talked with her rebellious middle child, living in a converted warehouse 2000 miles away. The living room wall was all that separated our conversation.

  “Hi Mom. It’s Suzka. How are you doing?” “SUZKA! Why haven’t you called or come to see me? You know your sisters call me everyday and ask how I’m doing. Every day. Did you know Lil’Vi has a baby?”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” My sister’s son, my nephew was twelve.

  “Did you see him? He lives real close to you, someplace there in California. You must go see him. She sent me pictures.”

  “Well mom, actually it’s a bit of a drive. She lives over 400 miles from where I live.”

  “That’s nothing. I started driving when I was twelve and I drove everywhere. You gotta go and see her. And go see Mira too. She lives out there somewhere. She called me this morning.”

  After a short breath she continued. “She teaches all day long. I don’t know how she does it… You know, both your sisters came to see me last week. Did I talk to you since then? We had a wonderful time.”

  [ Never happened ] “And where were you?” She asked. “Uh…”

  “Did I tell you that two women are living with me

  now? Did you know that? I don’t know how they got here. One is from Europe. She can talk a little Slovak. The other can’t talk any European words to save her life the poor thing. She’s nice… the other one. She paints on her cloths. She’s a strange girl.”

  The voice changed with serious undertones. A mumbling sound crawled through the phone’s receiver. Her words were lowered and felt as if they were cupped into the mouthpiece fearing its intention might be overheard.

  “They don’t feed me. They don’t feed me nothing. I am all skin and bones. Thank God I have my Ensure or I’d be a dead person talking to you right now.”

  * Rain was slapping against the window. It was hot and stuffy in the room, too hot for October. I unbuttoned the silk covered buttons from my mother’s pink bed jacket. Lightness moved through her like white birds. I thought I could never paint such a face – a face like fine china porcelain; skin like alabaster. The thin coverings over her eyes were tinged with blue. Around her neck hung golden chains strung with crucifixes, medallions of the Sacred Heart and silver metals of the Virgin and other folks. All were Pope-proofed in blessings. Her boned fingers tightly gripped a red gift ribbon that went to the sky lifting her above the dementias. A ballooned happy face at the top smiled at the accomplishment. All the suns and stars kept her grounded in her mystery. Her feet kept quiet and proper.

  My mother was asleep somewhere under her skin. This night, the outside failed to sabotage her dreams and destroy her sleep. I watched without a sound in my head. She was close to everything true and simple. There were no pictures sitting on her lap.

  [ Forgetting involved a series of self-cancelation and profound awareness.]

  * < UNITED AIRLINES > FLIGHT: #499 Wed Apr 5 DEPART: Chicago at 10:42 AM ARRIVE: California at 3:47 AM CANCELED

  Rebook return flight.

  [ My mother could un-see what she had already seen and un-hear what she had already heard. I could do that sometimes, but I had to work at it. ]

  26.

  DELUSIONS

  Illusions, Delusions, Hallucinations and Paranoia

  Illusions are essentially seeing (most common), hearing, tasting, feeling, or smelling something that is there but perceiving or interpreting it incorrectly. Optical illusions are a perfect example. Illusions are what entertain us at magic shows.

  Hallucinations can be understood as a sensory experience that is imagined. In other words, it’s something a person sees, smells, hears, tastes, or feels (or any combination of those). When someone with Dementia has a hallucination it often involves visions of the past and the sense of reliving old experiences.

  Delusions are not the same thing as hallucinations. The primary distinction is delusion involves a contradictory information. A person with dementia suffering a delusion may be overwhelmingly suspicious of the people around them, believing that family members or caretakers are trying to trick them and steal their possessions, or that the government or police are following them, or any number of highly paranoid scenarios.

  that, unlike a hallucination, a set of false beliefs despite

  Paranoia is an unrealistic, blaming belief. A person with paranoia will not accept explanations of the unreality of their beliefs. Paranoia can result from damage to the part of the brain that makes judgments & separates fact from fiction. This paranoia is common in people with dementia. Confused people with dementia often misinterpret their circumstances due to a diminished state of awareness and a reduced ability to understand what is happening to them.

  [“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?” —Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows] 27.

  THE GYPSY SUNDOWNERS

  In the later parts of the night, after dinner, after the day’s articles were washed and put away and everyone was asleep, the air quietly began to push aside all the remaining thoughts of order.

  The blinds were pulled up and the windows opened wide. A breeze would blow the curtains in closer, maybe to get a better look. The room fell downward from its surface clearing the way for the strange band of sundowners. And it was in those nights, when I often heard my mother mumble gibberish into her pillow so loudly that she would often scare herself. It sounded like all her thoughts were arguing inside her, trying to kick their way out for they were finished remembering and wanted to leave.

  The night's replacement carried with them bags of game changing spells; ‘gypsy sundowners’ I called them. They were memory robbers in the day but at night they were the moon's storytellers bringing tales from the past, fanciful recollections and confessions too. Stories not constrained or limited to any points of views. The gypsies knew that the greatest stories and truths ever told, needed the freedom to breathe on their own.

  sundowning verb. sun’doun-ing

  – disorientation, confusion and agitation;

  – changes in the brain of someone with dementia affecting their inner ‘body clock’;

  – trouble separating dreams from reality *

  The air inhaled its staleness and the smell of jasmine filled in the empty space. A sound of trombones traveled through the night. The magical sounds heard only in grand parades, sounds of blessings sprinkling themselves with holy waters. Belly laughs escaped their constraints and flew effortlessly like feathers in the wind. The sundowners paraded in with bells on its feet. Bells not heard by sleeping daughters.

  The marching sounds woke Violet. She sat up from her bed and looked around the room. She thought she saw in that moment a light flickering through the dim atmosphere. Not quite sure, she grabbed on to the siderails of her hospital bed and held on tightly with all her senses. A bouquet of color, rich colors of crimsons, scarlets, lemons and yellows and emeralds burst into the room. Uproariously and without direction, the colors took form.

  Violet looked down at Suzka who was asleep on the couch. Maybe this was something she shouldn't share, Violet thought. Maybe this was one of those secrets she would keep to herself. So much was going on in front of her that she didn't recognize nor understand.

  Colors spread apart and bloomed into women adorned in rich fabrics of silks and glazed cottons. The women cackled and laughed with each other. With intriguing quandary Violet leaned closer into her vision.

  The women were not linked to faces Violet could remember. But she kept her eyes on the visitors and they had their eyes on her too - that's what made them so believable. The women were most vivid and compelling. They looked like they were some kind of p
erformers, maybe dancers. Why are they here? Are they here for a party, perhaps a wedding that I forgot to remember? – she might have thought.

  Violet was very quiet with her thoughts and careful in trusting the outlandish possibility that the ladies might have come to take her back to her own wedding. Time had its’ own mind. She knew to remain quiet and wait in uncertain endings.

  Violet locked her body in place. Her eyes did all the moving around the room. The troupe was not large, about eight women - gypsy women with thick hair, brown and red with purple highlights - hair that curled down their backs to their waist. Their skin was olive in color their lips were ruby red. They had enormous green eyes surrounded by thick lashes. The shape was almond making them look most beautiful and exotic.

  They wore large hooped earrings and charm bracelets with hanging silver and gold amulets, polished stone jewels and coins. Their skirts were long, full and flared out whenever they twirled around - borderless skirts with runaway colors. Some wore boots that came up to their knees. Others walked and danced on only bare leathered feet. Their blouses were strawberry red and ruffled along the top stretching from shoulder to shoulder. Their ruffles lowered themselves seductively showing ample cleavages. The visiting women carried brocade and moleskin bags filled with the sounds that gold and crimson would make if they could.

  The gypsy women were proud, independent and selfwilled women, multi-layered and complex which was their fascination. They were free whimsical women ahead of their time, eternal outsiders to conformity.

  It was a bright night. The moon demanded all the attention of the sky and its stars as a conductor would, standing before his orchestra. The night abided and broke apart into specs of crystal flooring where the gypsy women would start their dance.

  At first they moved slowly, swinging their hips to the music, moving their arms so freely that their bodies looked like one long wave of maiden-like movement. The copper clapping of their arm jewelry filled the space around them. They created a current of liquid colors the air followed them and danced in circles. Inside the window’s reflection, more dancers were brought into the room.