An Excerpt from The Long Hello
CATHIE BORRIE
Every day I sit with my mother and watch the sea.
There’s a row of birds perched on an errant log—cormorant, cormorant, seagull, heron. Crow.
“Cathie, sometimes I drift off for ten minutes and I don’t know where I’ve gone.”
“Does that bother you, Mum?”
“No, it doesn’t. Are you my daughter?”
We watch frantic wing-flitting at her bird feeder. Chickadees, starlings, sparrows. A house finch, brown-striped.
“Cath, I think it’s a finch, it’s only . . . oh—a finch a finch a finch! Are they trying to tell you they aren’t in there? What are they trying to say?”
“To say . . . ? I don’t know.”
“I think there’s something, they’re trying to get something across, aren’t they, love?”
* * *
I tell people I’m still working and making money but I’m not. Try to ignore the tightness in my chest from having to move so slowly when I like moving fast, and the creeping sense of captivity that sits heavy in my gut.
My mother sits on her couch with her eyes closed.
“Would you like to have a little rest?”
“Okay, dear. But where are you going to sit? And then you’re going to go away with Dad, aren’t you, and I’ll be all alone.”
“I never go away with Dad.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“You seem so tired . . . are you giving up?”
“No, I don’t give up. I don’t know how to do it.”
“Neither do I.”
I draw the curtains.
“How was your day?”
“It’s very hard for me to tell you because when you say, ‘How have you been today, Mum?’ I try to think, and I can’t think of anything. I don’t know what I did this morning, I have no idea.”
“Oh. Maybe a better question would be—how are you right now?”
“Well, I’m fine, just fine. Yes, it’s a good, a better question to come for me.”
“You look like a little porcelain doll lying there.”
“Does it, does it look just like china?”
“Yes, just perfect.”
“Well, that’s good. Somebody’s got to be perfect.”
* * *
As soon as I’m home I call to say good night.
“Hi Mum, it’s Cath. What are you doing?”
“I’m waiting for you. . . . I’m just here waiting for you.”
“But I just got home. I was just over there.”
“Over here?”
“Yes . . . never mind. I’ll call first thing in the morning, okay?”
“Where are you? I couldn’t find you.”
“I’m home, I’m at my home. I’m fine.”
“I thought I’d left you in the living room, all alone.”
I drink two glasses of my favorite red wine, eat two bars of dark chocolate, swallow one and a half sleeping pills, and sink down into nothing. I crawl into bed in my clothes, pull the radio up beside me, and tune in my favorite all-night talk show. Tonight’s program features government conspiracies, CIA subterfuge, contrail theory, alien abductions. The window is wide open, my bedroom is freezing. I wrap the sheet around my face, a shroud. As far as my mind can see there is nothing.
Everywhere.
My new favorite thing.
* * *
When my mother can’t get in and out of the bath anymore, I wear a green garbage bag over my clothes and help her in the shower. We’re both embarrassed.
“I don’t mind, Mum. You gave me lots of baths when I was a baby.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
I can’t get the room warm enough, the water temperature right. She shivers, her thin, dry skin flaking off on the towel. I feel sick.
“Love, do be careful. Don’t let me fall!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
When we can’t manage showers anymore she goes to the Seniors’ Day Centre for her weekly bath and hair wash in a bright, heated room. There’s a towel warmer, lavender-scented suds, kind staff, a yellow rubber duck.
Once a month we visit her doctor for advice, prescriptions, and for the kind words she makes sure my mother hears during every visit.
“You’re doing so well.”
“I know, I’m much better.”
“Yes, you are. I just want to listen to your chest today.”
“Oh yeah, you and all the other boys.”
“Good one! I know you had some trouble with that pill I gave you and I’d like to try another one.”
“I just can’t remember things. My mind, it’s all mixed up.”
“Mrs. B., Parkinson’s does that in some people, so I’m hoping this drug will help with that. I’m really very impressed with how you’re doing.”
My mother beams and for the rest of the day she goes over and over what the doctor has told her.
“Did you hear what she said? She thinks I’m doing really well and I am, you know. I’m better every day.”
“She’s really pleased with you.”
“Do you really think so? Oh my.”
When she no longer remembers the visits, I tell her what the doctor has said.
“She said she was really pleased with you and that you are doing a really good job.”
“And then what did I say?”
“You told her that you were trying very hard.”
“I did? Well, that sounds silly.”
“Um, oh, and then you thanked her for her kindness and for being such a good doctor.”
“Oh, that’s better. Yes, I like that better.”
When we get home, I put on the kettle.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“How happy?”
“I’m very happy.”
“Because?”
“Because I have no faith in anyone.”
I start to close the blinds.
“Leave the curtains open so I can see the birds.”
“How does one look after a bird?”
“Unless it’s very tame, you can’t. You know, I’m twice bitten and three times shy and I can’t remember. Listen—a bird!”
“What are the birds saying?”
“They’re chirping.”
“In a language?”
“In their language. In an upside-down language.”
* * *
Love? How do I get home or when I get home how do I get home?”
“Mum, you are home, see all your things around you?”
“These are my things? How did they get here? I think that girl, she was the one I found most interesting but sometimes I think she employed too much use of the wind.”
“Who? Who was that?”
“Who? You’re a regular customer and I’m the one that rushes in, all eyes. This is my home? Do I own it?”
“Yes, you own it and you’ll always be able to stay here.”
“Good, because I never want to leave here. Getting them unscrambled is an important thing—you go seven, eight, nine, which means you’re pretty strong which is a good thing. And the birds, that’s what they were screaming about, these little ones this morning.”
“What were they saying?”
“They said, ‘Stay little one, stay.’ And I said, ‘Okay, okay.’”
“That should settle it.”
I make tea.
“Tea is a more pleasant drink. It just seems to sort of go down and settle things.”
“You’re my favorite person in the world.”
“Favorite amongst the constipated you mean.”
“How was your day?”
“Today I was down at the horse barn. It came with lots of blessings.”
“Oh my . . . I love listening to you talk.”
“You love what?”
“Listening to you talk.”
“Oh. I thought I heard you say, I love looki
ng into your voice.”
“I love that, too.”
WHAT HAPPENED TO BRAD?
An Excerpt from Minding Our Elders: Caregivers Share Their Personal Stories
CAROL BRADLEY BURSACK
Dad was agitated. I could tell by his jerky movements, his flushed skin. He was perched on the edge of his lift chair, shuffling though a pile of papers on his knees, some of which were spilling onto the floor. A table on his left was covered with sticky folders and curled, spotted business papers. Three overstuffed briefcases and a file gaped open; more papers crouched under the sink and huddled under his chair. Juice-soaked business cards stuck to the wheeled table on his right, joined by his candy basket, call-light, tissues, and boom box. He looked up hopefully as I walked into his room.
“Good. There you are,” he said. “I need you to . . . to . . . take some, uh, some, dic . . . oh . . . oh . . . some dictation.”
I caught a sigh before it escaped and replaced it with a smile and breezy attitude, as I kissed him hello.
“Sure. I can do that anytime. How are you?”
His eyes were red and unfocused, the look of his very delusional phase—as opposed to his somewhat delusional phase. My mission was to tame the tigers in his brain, so he can relax for a time.
“What I need is a list. The city commissioners. A list of them because of the elephants. I need you to write a . . . oh, a . . . a . . . you know what I need, just write a . . . a . . . pro . . . pro—”
“A proposal?” I ask. “Sure, I can write a proposal. You want the commissioners to get an elephant for the city?”
“We’ve been working on it,” he answered. “But no! Not the . . . not the commissioners, but I’ve been working on . . . I’ve been asked . . . they’ve asked me to get an elephant and be a part . . .”
My brain searched for answers as it tried to separate the scrambled images Dad was relating. I got out the yellow legal pad he keeps by his chair and began taking dictation. His fingers are numb, and his eyes, ears, and brain are marginal, but tools for his work he must have.
“We are getting a new zoo, which is no longer a city project, but there is a zoo board. I’ll bet you’re working with them to bring in an elephant,” I said. I was beginning to feel the effect of endorphins, a feeling that I could go the distance this time. I wrote: elephant.
But then.
“And that Catholic prayer . . . the one that repeats . . . repeats . . . Mary . . . something, bring me that. I need that.”
Considering our Presbyterian heritage, that was an unusual request, but, after six years of this, I am rarely surprised.
“Oh, you mean the Hail Mary?” I ask. “Hail Mary, full of grace? The one they say for the rosary?”
“Yes! Yes!” he answered, looking at me as if I truly had lost my mind this time. “Yes, why do you ask?” he said.
“Sure,” I said, grateful for the Catholic friends of my childhood, and my dear Catholic friend Jane, who taught me that prayer. Dad had raised exotic ants between the windows, kept bees (who wintered in our garage), dug for fossils, and scoped out the planets. In context, his need to bring an elephant to Fargo, or to have the words to a Catholic prayer, were mundane.
I wrote: Hail Mary.
“And the names of the commissioners, and their phone numbers and the addresses and where to put the elephant,” he said.
I wrote: list commissioners.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have the zoo board contact you about the elephant, type up the Hail Mary, and get a list of commissioners. Will that do it?”
“I think so. Yes, good. Yes, that should be good,” he said.
His color improved, the agitation slowly drained away. My jaw relaxed, and I breathed more easily as I realized that today I’d won. Just for today, I had quieted the chaos.
How to proceed in filling his needs for tomorrow? The Hail Mary, no problem, I know it and can type it out. The commissioners, no problem. In fact, I’ll get him the meeting notes off the Internet.
But the elephant and the zoo. A little challenge. I’ll have to write a letter from the zoo to Dad, thanking him for his interest, and inviting him to help them in the future when they are ready to bring in the elephant. Shouldn’t be too bad. Easier than the letter from the military thanking him for wanting to be an officer, or any of several letters from our mayor. I really should let Mr. Furness know about the letters he’s written Dad. Some other time.
Dad’s given name was Clarence, but he was always known as Brad. He was a retired city employee, growing old, a bit confused, but still Brad. Fluid had begun to build up in the scar tissue left behind from a closed head injury sustained during maneuvers in World War II. Dad, the skinny, fair fellow whose ancestors thrived in cloudy England, collapsed while training in the Mojave Desert, smacking his head against desert rock. He was in a coma for weeks, then spent months in rehabilitation, learning to walk and talk. He fought through hell to lead a normal life, working, fathering two more children, earning a college degree, holding the position of supervising sanitarian for the city of Fargo.
But as he grew older the injury began to haunt him. His waterlogged thinking would grow worse if he didn’t have a shunt put in his brain to channel off the fluid. Specialists recommended the operation.
Surgery day. As they wheeled him away, Dad forced a smile, thumb and forefinger creating a circle signaling “okay.”
Hours later, we faced a sleepy man. We were filled with hope.
Days later we came to realize Brad had gone to sleep on that operating table and Clarence had awakened, with a voice firmly implanted in his head, a voice we came to call Herman. My dad, as I knew him, was dead. We were filled with despair.
Our family has soldiered on. Since that time, I’ve created the degrees he thinks he’s earned, designed the awards he thinks he’s received, written the letters he thinks are coming. One morning, blood pressure and pulse barely there, he’s Rip Van Winkle. Another morning, bright-eyed and mischievous, he’s Dennis the Menace. He can be a great musician, a military officer, a doctor, lawyer, or president of the United States. A few loyal friends still struggle to visit him, but the visits can be so distressing that most stay away. Clarence is a bit frightening, and they want to remember Brad.
Dad was born prematurely in 1917; he’s been hospitalized for pneumonia twice, and nearly died from a penicillin reaction. He survived a closed head injury to claim the life God promised him. So, what are a few elephants? I’ll see what I can do.
FEAR AND LAUGHING
LISA FRIEDMAN
Our worst fear has recently come to pass: the dementia ward of the veterans’ home where my father had been living transferred him to a psychiatric hospital. But when I met my mother there on the day they brought him over, I wasn’t really surprised to see her waving from across the hall with a big smile on her face, about to laugh. We’re a family of laughers. We laugh when we’re happy, when we’re angry, and, most of all, when we’re frightened.
“That’s him,” she said, chortling and pointing to the ambulance in the bay. “He just arrived, and he’s mad as a wet hen. But the ambulance driver said he didn’t slug anyone, so that’s an improvement.”
They wheeled my father up. “Hi, Dad.” I touched his hand, which was locked down under a thick restraining belt. His sweat pants were stained with food; the socks on his feet twisted and wrong. He looked at me through the blue eyes I’ve been looking into for forty-nine years. I smiled at him and winked. He winked back. He is seventy-five and in perfect health if you don’t count his brain. He’s had dementia for a few years, but things got worse after an adverse drug reaction.
They pulled the gurney away. “We’ll meet you inside!” I yelled. My father craned his neck and answered: “Two. Four. Seventeen!”
My mother and I followed someone into the admitting office to do the paperwork. “We brought his medical records,” I told the nurse, reaching across the desk to where my mother sat, stalwart. I wiggled my fingers for the papers, but my
mother only glared at me.
“Mom. Pass me the records.”
She shook her head.
The nurse moved away, ostensibly to retrieve a form. I leaned toward my mother. “What are you doing?”
My mother gripped her purse with two hands. “I don’t want them to have a bad impression of your father,” she said. I reached for her purse. She held tight. I pulled.
“We probably shouldn’t have an altercation,” I said, pausing. “It might look bad.”
My mother smiled. Look bad? We were in a mental hospital. Who cared? We both began to laugh, gently at first, and then with increasing gusto. By the time the nurse returned, it took all of our shared strength to stop.
The nurse handed us an information sheet. “This is the number of the telephone on the ward,” she said, pointing with her pencil. “Call this number anytime and ask to speak with your husband,” she explained, looking kindly at my mother.
Later we sat with my father on the ward, trying not to cry. For months, professionals had been saying that he’d probably need to go to the psychiatric hospital. But we’d closed our minds to that possibility. My mother declared she would not survive it. And now here we were.
We sat on either side of him, distracting ourselves with his food tray. I cut up the chicken and put the loaded fork into my father’s hand. My leg bounced off his—something was there. “There’s something in Dad’s pocket,” I informed my mother. “Put your hand in there and pull it out, will you?”
She crossed her eyes. “I’m not doing it. You do it.”
I held my breath and reached in—and then extracted a brightly colored, stuffed bowling pin. I held it up and met my mother’s disbelieving stare. That did it; we collapsed into gales of wrenching laughter again, hiding behind our hands and lowering our heads into our collars.
“Stop,” my mother begged with her eyes flooding tears. “Stop, or they won’t let us out!”
I got up and walked away, wiping my eyes. I imagined I looked like every other visitor, splotchy with emotion and bereavement. When I regained my composure, I returned to the table. My mother had stepped into the bathroom; my father was eating his napkin.
Soon it was time to leave him there. As we waited to be escorted through the double-locked doors, the hall phone began to ring. A woman appeared wearing a long purple sweater and opera-length pearls. She picked up the phone and began to speak gibberish with a Slavic accent. She chattered, listened, and then hung up. As she walked away, we saw that she was naked from the waist down.
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