Amy watched through the windshield as a frail elderly lady staggered with a walker toward a waiting car, a young woman escorting her. That would be her soon. She put her forehead on the steering wheel and her tears flowed freely. I can’t do this. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what I’m doing, she thought over and over, as she cried.
There was a tap on the window. Susan peered in at her. She made the universal roll the window down signal.
Amy wiped at her eyes and tried to compose herself before powering down the window. She knew by the look on the doctor’s face that she hadn’t succeeded in hiding her tears.
“You don’t look so good,” Susan said.
Amy exhaled a long, slow, steadying breath. “I’m having a difficult time with this.”
“I can see that.”
“This is embarrassing.”
Susan said in a light tone, “I’ve seen worse. At least you weren’t banging your head on the steering wheel. Then I’d really have to intervene and suggest a psych eval.”
“I’m not there yet.”
“Come on in and I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Branson. She’s nice. You’ll like her. She’ll walk you through the hoops. You’ll see that it’s not as scary as you think,” Susan said.
“All right,” Amy said. She powered up the window and got out of the car.
Susan walked beside Amy. She said, “Did you ever used to play Mother May I? as a child?”
“I think so,” Amy replied, not understanding the point of the question.
Susan continued, “I always won that game. While all the other kids were busy trying to take giant steps to get to the finish line first, I would always do baby steps. And even though my steps were smaller, I would get to the finish line before anyone else.”
“I think I understand what you’re saying,” Amy said.
“Just baby steps, Amy. Just take little baby steps and you’ll get there.”
They reached the front of the building. There was a set of double doors and an alarm pad. Susan keyed in her code and explained, “We each have our own codes so they know who is coming in and they can log it. Mrs. Branson will assign you your own code.”
Amy wished she’d thought to bring pen and paper. Was she always this unprepared? Perhaps she needed to reevaluate how she was conducting her life and get more organized. She had a feeling that being organized would be required of her on a daily basis from here on out. The freedom her life once had was gone, now that she had a house to repair, a mother to find care for, and a rental car to return.
The door made a clicking noise, the red light on the alarm pad turned green, and the door opened into a small entry way. There was another door and another key pad. Susan repeated the process.
“They aren’t messing around here,” Amy said. “Double security.”
“Suffice it to say, we’ve got some escape artists,” Susan said.
Once inside, they were greeted by Janet, the front desk attendant. “Hello, Dr. Everett.”
Janet looked to be in her fifties, had a short bob with subtle highlights, wore very little makeup, and looked well put together in a dark blue, tailored pantsuit. She exuded competence. She introduced herself to Amy. Susan explained what Amy needed. She pulled out a medical file from her leather satchel and handed it to Janet. “Her mother, Mary Warner, needs to be admitted as soon as possible. She is currently at the hospital.”
“And Medicare wants her out,” Janet said.
“You got it,” Susan said.
“I’ll let Mrs. Branson know. If you’d like, Ms. Warner…”
“Call me Amy, please.”
“All right then, Amy. Please take a seat over there.” Janet pointed to an open area that looked more like a posh hotel lobby than a nursing home waiting room.
Amy and Susan walked over to the overstuffed chairs that were placed around a large, square, marble-topped, coffee table. There was a crystal vase filled with pink dahlias in the center. Amy wondered if the flowers were from the gardens she’d seen from the parking lot.
“I’ve got some patients to check up on. I should be around for a while if you need anything. Just ask Janet to page me. And I’ll be back at the hospital later. Will you be back this evening for visiting hours?” Susan asked.
Amy didn’t want to go back to the hospital later. She wanted to go back to Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s, have a cup of tea, and a long bath. But guilt set in. She’d go back during evening hours and see if she could get her mother to recognize her. She remembered that she should bring some knickknack of hers that might jog her mother’s memory. “Yes, I’ll go back.”
“Perhaps you should have a little rest this afternoon and something to eat. I know how stressful this all can be. You need to remember to take care of yourself.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fitzsimmons will see to that,” Amy said.
A short, stout woman wearing a herringbone dress and black shoes walked toward them. She had iron grey hair, cut fashionably short. She wore pearl earrings and a matching necklace. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Branson. You must be Amy. Janet said you requested to be called Amy.”
“Yes.” Amy shook Mrs. Branson’s plump little hand. She noticed the older woman’s nails were manicured and painted a demure coral color. This woman was put together. She, too, exuded confidence and caring.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Susan said. “I’ll see you later, Amy. Call if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Good day, Mrs. Branson,” Susan said before walking away.
“Good day, Dr. Everett,” Mrs. Branson said.
Mrs. Branson smiled kindly at Amy. “Let’s go to my office and shuffle through the paperwork and then I’ll give you the tour.”
Mrs. Branson’s office was paneled in dark wood. Her desk was neat. The chairs were burgundy and an oriental rug added to the elegance of the room. “Please take a seat. Can I get you coffee or tea, or perhaps a bottle of water?”
After the coffee Steph had brought her, Amy was still running on her caffeine high. She could use some water. Not only did her lips get chapped when she was stressed but she got dehydrated as well. “Water would be great,” Amy said.
There was a small fridge on the far side of the office. Mrs. Branson pulled out a water bottle and handed it to Amy. She sat behind her desk and opened the file folder on Mary Warner.
Amy drank the water. She could feel her dehydrated cells crying out for more. By the time Mrs. Branson was through examining the paperwork from the hospital, Amy had downed half the bottle.
“Dr. Everett, as always, has completed all the necessary paperwork. Next is your part.” She pulled out a thick packet from a lower desk drawer.
Amy freaked. She was awful at paperwork. It was like her brain went foggy and she forgot everything she knew about everything, including her own name and address.
Mrs. Branson must have sensed her trepidation because she said, “We go through all this with you. I know it can be overwhelming. Dr. Everett has taken care of the referrals and the necessary order for the medications, which leaves us with Medicare forms and payment of services. We are a full-care Alzheimer’s facility. We’re set up to accommodate the various behavioral issues our patients may have. I see here your mother has a secondary insurance as well as qualifying for Medicare. I can tell you that admittance for immediate care in the case of Alzheimer’s patients is what we call here a non-problem.”
This went on for what seemed like days. Mrs. Branson noticed that Amy had finished her water and got her another. “You’ve got to take care of yourself, too,” she admonished.
Amy thanked her for the water. Mrs. Branson got her a packet of peanut butter filled crackers. Amy drank the water and ate the crackers. She hadn’t had lunch and her stomach was complaining about it.
Mrs. Branson was a great help, but Amy was still mentally exhausted by the time they were through. At least her mother was all set up for tomorrow and her big move. Amy wondered how she was going to h
andle it all.
Mrs. Branson slapped the file closed. “That’s it. We’re done for now.”
“There’s more?” Amy asked.
“There’s always more. But this is enough to get things started. Your next task will be to bring your mother’s clothing, toiletries, and any personal belongings.” She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here is a list of items that are crucial. At the bottom are some suggestions about what kinds of items will make the patients feel more at home.”
Amy studied the list. She didn’t know if she could even find any of the stuff in the mess her mother had been living in. Hopefully, Mrs. Fitzsimmons would be able to help.
“Let’s take you on the tour and show you your mother’s room.” Mrs. Branson got up and Amy followed her out of her office.
In the hallway were older people walking, some talking to themselves, some talking to each other. But as Amy overheard a couple conversing with each other, she realized they were each having their own conversation about different subjects.
“These are our more mobile patients,” Mrs. Branson said.
Amy knew that over time the patients became less and less mobile. From what little she’d read in the pamphlets Susan had given her, Alzheimer’s took away motor skills as the patients deteriorated until they could not even toilet themselves.
Mrs. Branson continued, “The patients are put in different wings according to their abilities. That way they’re always with their peers. Of course, as the disease progresses, they will be moved to the higher care wings.”
Amy didn’t want to see the wings where people were bedridden or sitting in wheelchairs no longer able to feed themselves or take care of their own personal hygiene. She knew that one day every aspect of her mother’s care would have to be attended to, but she wanted to stave off that day as long as possible.
“Your mother will be living in this wing,” Mrs. Branson pointed out. “It’s a high-functioning unit. She’ll be with her peers, eat in the dining room, and have unlimited access to the community rooms. We have arts and crafts classes, big-screen televisions, a game room, and even exercise classes to help the patients retain muscle mass and coordination.”
“That all sounds so amazing,” Amy said.
“We also have a small theater where we have plays. Research has shown that although our patients have difficulty reading books, they’re more successful at following plays. The community theater and the schools donate their time to perform. We also have choir groups that come in and perform. And we’ve started a new program where children come in and spend time with our residents. So far this has proven to be a great success.”
Mrs. Branson showed her the various rooms. The people here looked normal. They looked just like ordinary senior citizens in an assisted-living community—until Amy heard one of them ask an attendant when the soldiers were coming home from the big war. Another patient walked up to Mrs. Branson and told her that her husband hadn’t arrived yet. He always came on Tuesdays. Mrs. Branson walked the woman back to the chair she’d vacated and told her that Steve was on his way and she should wait here.
“Is her husband really coming?” Amy asked when Mrs. Branson returned to her side.
“No, her husband died thirty years ago. Her son Steve comes and he bears a great resemblance to her husband. Sometimes, she thinks he’s her husband and sometimes he’s her son.”
Amy confided, “My mother thinks I’m her sister Jean. She asked me to call me and tell me to come see her.”
“That’s a good sign, you know. She knows she has a daughter. We’ll check out your mother’s rooms and then end the tour for now. I think we’ve done enough for today. What do you say to that?”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you,” Amy said.
Her mother’s room was nice. It had a large window that looked out over the gardens. There was a twin bed, night stand, a dresser, two recliners and a small table. It looked comfortable, and with some knickknacks could even be considered quite homey.
Chapter Five
Amy collapsed wearily into a chair at the kitchen table. Mrs. Fitzsimmons set a mug of chamomile tea in front of her. She sat down across from Amy and said, “I made a pot roast for dinner. I figured you needed some good ol’ comfort food.”
Amy could smell the roast and the loaf of freshly-made bread that sat cooling on the counter. She remembered days when her mother had made Sunday dinners with pot roast, potatoes, and carrots. The whole house was enveloped in the smell as her father and Amy played backgammon. She hadn’t played backgammon in years. Her backgammon board, with its smooth white and brown checkers, was nestled inside a fake leather suitcase. That suitcase was probably buried somewhere in her mother’s house. Not that she’d be able to find it anytime soon.
Amy savored the aromatic flavors. “Smells delicious. My mouth is literally watering. I only had peanut butter crackers for lunch.”
“You need to eat, Amy. You’re skinny enough as it is. Now, I know those New York people are all skinny and wear a lot of black, but that seems like a very bad idea for one’s mental and physical health. Mark my words, it’ll catch up to them,” Mrs. Fitzsimmons said. She got up, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a package of shortbread cookies. She put the cookies in the center of the table and sat down again. “Have a cookie. Raise your blood sugar.”
Amy took a cookie just to appease Mrs. Fitzsimmons. “This is a medicinal cookie, right?”
“Don’t be one of those silly calorie counters. Everything in moderation, that’s my motto.”
Amy sipped her tea, noticing Mrs. Fitzsimmons wasn’t having any. “Don’t you want tea?”
“Hate the nasty stuff. I just keep it around for guests. It seems these days people need a cup of chamomile tea. I’m the go-to lady when one of my gal pals is having trouble around the house.”
Amy smiled at the use of the words “gal pal.”
Mrs. Fitzsimmons added, “I’ve lost a lot of my friends. It’s part of the cycle of life. Other friends have moved away. Gone to stay with their children. Or were put into homes. Speaking of which, how’d you like Brookside?”
“It seems nice. No complaints so far.”
“Drink some more tea. It’ll calm your nerves.”
Amy took another sip. The taste was growing on her. She’d never been much for tea, but she did feel her jangled nerves smoothing out.
Mrs. Fitzsimmons nibbled at a cookie. “You know, your mother wasn’t always such a hoarder. I think your father kept stuff straightened out, but after he died and you went away, the downward spiral began.”
“I shouldn’t have left when she needed me the most,” Amy said.
“You know what they say about hindsight. Memory is a funny thing—sometimes good, sometimes bad. Your mother was not good to you after your father died. We both know that. I think your blossoming sexuality was too much for her. She’d imagined you having a family and children, filling the hole your father’s death had left behind. She loved him very much and his getting taken so quickly was a blow she never recovered from. You received the brunt of her anger.”
“I know. I would’ve given her what she needed if I could have.”
The timer on the oven went off.
“But you wouldn’t have been true to yourself.” Mrs. Fitzsimmons pulled the roast beef with red potatoes and carrots out of the oven and put it on a trivet on the counter.
Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s kitchen had changed very little since Amy was a child. The curtains had been replaced from the 1970s sunflower-and-mushroom motif to a more sedate blue and white gingham. The countertops were still the same yellow Formica, with brown rings and circles—a roadmap of past pots and pans. Mrs. Fitzsimmons had lived in this same house longer than Amy had been alive. It was as crammed with memories as Amy’s mother’s house was with junk.
“I want to thank you again for putting me up, Mrs. Fitzsimmons.”
“You should really call me Millie now that you’re all grown up.”
/> “Millie?”
“I bet you never knew my first name,” Millie chuckled.
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s really Mildred, but I go by Millie. Even as a child I hated my name. My mother called me Mildred up until the day she died. Everyone else called me Millie.”
“Now that I think about it, you look like a Millie.”
To say Millie had aged well was an understatement. She wore her white hair styled short. She dressed in elastic waist Capri pants and colorful blouses. Today she wore a bright yellow top. She was a petite woman, but not the shrinking kind like some elderly women. It must be her eating habits. Millie wasn’t going to waste away anytime soon— at least Amy hoped not.
Amy set the table with napkins and silverware while Millie carved the roast and loaded their plates.
The silverware bore the same elaborate scrolled pattern as Amy remembered. She found the continuity of Millie’s things comforting. Maybe that’s how her mother felt being surrounded by all her things—perhaps each thing held onto a memory that she didn’t want to lose. The hoarding was a way to combat what she must’ve sensed was happening.
The roast was delicious, so tender it easily succumbed to the fork. Amy hadn’t had a home cooked meal in what seemed like forever. “This is fabulous.”
“Well, it certainly is nice to have you here to help me eat it. I’m always having a quandary over what to do with leftovers. I used to take them over to your mother. I don’t know if she ate them, but we both pretended she did.”
“If I keep this up I’ll be fat. I walked a lot in New York. I’ll have to start doing that here.”
Heart to Heart Page 5