My first pregnancy, with the other guy, had ended in a miscarriage—a spontaneous abortion was the official term. It was propitious. I was pregnant again, six months later, and it was Baby Sharon who came down the chute. There would be no Sharon if the first pregnancy had lasted. It makes me sad just to think of a Sharon-less world.
You knew the first pregnancy story, and I reminded you that the first trimester could be iffy.
“We shouldn’t tell anyone until after three months. Okay?”
“Okay,” you said.
It was a Sunday and we were having dinner with my mother. We walked into a house smelling of pot roast. Lace doilies on the backs and arms of every piece of upholstered furniture. With only one foot through the door, before even saying hello, you called to my mother, ”Marilyn’s pregnant!”
My mother got teary-eyed; the girls jumped around, hugging me.
“When are you due?” my mother asked.
“In about 10 months,” I told her, but the cat was out of the bag, and there was no putting it back. And I was indeed pregnant, and we got Baby Matt.
With Sharon and Cindi aged 10 and 9, I’d not been eager to add another child into the mix. The girls were at good ages, easy to care for and fun. As much as I enjoyed those earlier stages, life was easier with them half-grown. Being the quintessential late bloomer, at 33 I was in my first year of teaching, not eager to interrupt that hard-won career start. Fair was fair, though—nothing you ever tossed up to me, but what I knew in my heart. You’d generously and willingly taken on the father role, officially adopting Sharon and Cindi shortly after we married. I owed you a baby. And then there was Matt, the gift that goes on giving.
But I was talking about the morning temperature, wasn’t I? I was thinking about the small comforts that I sometimes miss. The warming of the house while I’m still in bed. The coffee ready for me when I stumble into the kitchen. The gentle laughter at eccentricities such as my sleeping attire.
Last week when I was in Walla Walla, I walked to town—all sorts of bright-leafed trees showing off in the yards of old fashioned homes. My first stop was that delightful little independent bookstore, the one you walked out of when my back was turned and we didn’t find you for over an hour. That was our last visit there together. But I’m talking about a recent trip, when no one got lost.
I must have been in there for over an hour, browsing literary fiction, the YA section (no Marilyn Reynolds books there), biographies and memoir. I felt guilty not buying, knowing that I’d gone to the dark side of ebooks on my iPad. I will be sad when that corner becomes vacant, as it surely will within the next decade or two, but, as with the greater selection/lower priced supermarkets that drove small, independent stores out of business in the ’50s, including Daddy’s market, such progress seems inevitable.
I did buy something, though. Unlike Ann Patchett’s bookstore in Tennessee that is only a bookstore, the front part of the Walla Walla store has turned into something like a variety five and dime, only higher priced, with toys and calendars, greeting cards and gadgets. I bought a “bear claw” backscratcher for $7. It has a shiny chrome, five-pronged claw-like top with a telescoping handle that allows for an extension of from one to three feet. It’s to manage that lost small comfort of your back scratching talents.
It’s only been within the last two years that I’ve been able to spend $7 on an unnecessary item without breaking into a sweat. The one silver lining to paying nearly $40,000 a year for your care is that all of our withheld income tax dollars come back in refunds—an enforced savings that provides a cushion for inevitable car repair bills and the occasional trip to Southern California or Walla Walla. Last summer I joined the rest of the family on vacation at a resort in Oregon—not cheap, but as the American Express ads say, priceless. For over 20 years I had one of those no limit American Express cards. No more. No more credit cards at all. I like that, though I know it’s a good idea to have at least one card for emergencies.
On my last Alaska Airlines trip I filled out a form for a Visa card. They were offering thousands of bonus miles plus a free round trip to anywhere in the world that they and their partner airlines fly. I expect to get the rejection in the mail any day now. It seems bankruptcy doesn’t look good on the credit reports.
Ramble, ramble. It’s as if I were truly talking with you, relaxed in front of the fireplace, or on one of those long drives between here and Woodacre. That’s another of the small comforts I’m missing—someone to take pleasure in my rambles. Someone to fasten the clasp on my necklace, zip up the back of my dress, check the bump on my butt that I can’t see for myself, pick me up when I take my car in for repair, change the audio book CDs when I’m driving or drive while I manage maps and CDs.
It’s time to put up Christmas lights, get a tree, drag out the wreaths and the choristers, the photo albums of Christmases past, all of those things you did with such great enthusiasm. Or to be more accurate, overdid with great enthusiasm. As you once could have predicted, without you my decorations will be minimal and there will be no special color scheme. I didn’t keep all the ornaments from the purple Christmas, or the gold Christmas, or the silver Christmas, and I won’t be buying new garlands and fresh wreaths. But even though my minimalist approach suits me, I miss your enthusiasm. The place would be decorated by now, though I can’t really imagine you in this new place. This new life. I can only still imagine you scratching my back, or picking me up from the car repair place, or fastening the clasp on a necklace. Really, though, I don’t wear necklaces anymore anyway.
It’s getting harder to write to you. The you I write to, the old you, is becoming more and more distant—our lives together slipping further away with each passing day. I will always appreciate those times and who you were, but dwelling in those times doesn’t fit with the necessary reinvention of myself. You will show up when the Christmas lights come out of the box tangled in such a way that it would be easier for two to untangle, or when I can’t reach the top of the tree to place the gaudy star up there. I did keep that gaudy star. And you’ll show up tomorrow morning, when the house is cold and the coffee’s not ready. You’ll never be forgotten. You’ll continue to show up often. But, forgive me, you don’t get to stay long.
Marilyn
IT’S NOT TIME!
May 2010
Because Sunny no longer has easy access to an outdoor area at Carmichael Oaks, she and I soon develop a habit of early morning walks. There’s still a lot that needs to be cleared out of the house and, since Mike generally sleeps until 8 or after these days, my pattern is to walk Sunny around 6 or 6:30 in the morning, then take her with me to Promontory Point for an hour or so of packing and organizing while Mike still sleeps. But on this particular morning we’ve only been at the house for a few minutes when I get a call from the front desk person saying that Mike has been standing out front waiting for someone. Maybe he’s confused about the time?
“Is he wearing a tuxedo?”
“Yes.”
“Would you please ask him to come to the phone so I can talk with him?”
When Mike picks up, he says he’s been waiting for Don, who usually picks him up for Camerata rehearsals, but Don never came.
“The concert isn’t until tomorrow,” I tell him.
“I don’t know where Don is,” he says in that angry voice that is now nearly standard.
“It isn’t time. Just go back upstairs. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll just wait here.”
“No. Go on back to the apartment. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
I lift Sunny into the car and rush back to Carmichael Oaks. Mike is standing out front, in his tuxedo, with his music folder, waiting. He gets in the car, and I drive the half-block or so to our designated parking spot.
“Aren’t you going to take me to the concert?”
“It’s not until tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay,�
�� he says, not sounding convinced.
Knowing that Mike no longer understands time, and knowing that he’s anxious not to be late to whatever is coming up—a rehearsal, dinner, any appointment—I struggle to be patient, to tamp down my irritation.
Back at the apartment I suggest he put on other, more comfortable clothes, which he does, reluctantly. Eight in the morning is a little early to do the sort of shopping I have planned for the day—a few more over-the-door hooks from Organize It, some things from Trader Joe’s for when Jeannie and Bill will join us early in the evening for drinks and appetizers. But errands seem the best defense against Mike’s desire to be picked up in his tuxedo 30 hours ahead of time. We go to the market for a red bell pepper. We drop a few things off at the cleaners. We drive to Organize It. Not open until 10. We go to Target—open at 9—to replace our topless martini shaker. On to Best Buy, where I want to look at small desktop printers. Not open until 10. We drive, very slowly, to O’Brot Café in Folsom, where we sip lattes and I count the minutes until the outlet stores will open. Once the little hand is on 10 and the big hand on 12, we enter the Bose outlet where we (I) find and purchase a much-needed upgrade to our ancient portable boom box. Back to Organize It, then to Carmichael Oaks and our apartment, where Mike immediately dons his tuxedo and wants me to take him to the concert.
“Not yet,” I tell him.
“I’m going!”
“It’s not time.”
He takes his jacket off, throws it on the floor, and stomps into the bedroom. I call out after him, “Grow up!” Not helpful, I know. After a few minutes I suggest that Mike dress more casually for lunch. He puts on shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. We go downstairs to lunch, come back, and Mike puts on his tuxedo.
To quote Kurt Vonnegut, so it goes.
DAILY LIFE AT CARMICHAEL OAKS
June 2010
A month into our stay at Carmichael Oaks, all of the dining room waitstaff knew us by name, and knew what we were likely to order. As seems to be the custom in these places, we soon learned to sit at the same table for every meal.
At the giant aquarium places, residents in independent living have their own separate dining room, away from the walkers and wheelchairs of those in assisted living. Here at our 6-foot-by-5-foot aquarium place, the only separate dining area was in memory care, a “secure” section. There were times when Mike would watch an aide wheel someone in from assisted living, push him or her—usually her—up close to the table, secure a bib, then, when food arrived, feed her, small spoonful by small spoonful. He would scan the room, focusing particularly on the most frail of the diners, then loudly announce, “I don’t want to stay in this convalescent home!” Other times he would be oblivious to all but the food on the plate in front of him.
There were fresh linen tablecloths every day in the giant aquarium places. Here at C.O., the white linen tablecloths were protected by clear glass table tops and changed once a week. The only problem with that was that residents sometimes found it convenient to wipe their hands on the unprotected segment of tablecloth that hung near their laps. But this was a minor flea bite of a problem compared to the now simmering-just-below-a-boil water in the soup pot.
On this particular morning, our favorite waiter, Ernesto, has recommended the blueberry pancakes to us. I’m more of a poached-egg-on-toast person, but Mike loves pancakes and Ernesto learned that early on. Mike soaks the pancakes with syrup, slathers them with whipped cream, finishes them off in a flash, and stands to leave.
Back in No. 324, I get him set up with a movie on the classics channel. I tell him I have to drop some materials off to Kathy—someone he knows I’ve been working with, or at least did know that a while back. I tell him I’ll be back by 11. In reality I’m wanting to get a much-needed hour or so of work done back at the house, but the less said to Mike about the house the better.
About 15 minutes into packing leftover items from the guest room, Mike calls. “I don’t know where you are!”
“I’m taking some things to Kathy. I should be back by 11.”
“Well, okay. I just don’t know what’s happening.”
I repeat what I’ve just said, trying to be as reassuring as possible. Ten minutes later there’s another phone call—same thing. I talk with Mike four times in less than an hour, each time a near verbatim copy of the time before. I’m upstairs gathering things for the Goodwill when Mike’s fifth phone call comes in. I don’t rush to pick up the phone, knowing I’ll be back at the apartment within a few minutes anyway.
In the car I listen to Mike’s message from his unanswered call.
“Marilyn. I don’t know where you are! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”
I call back. “I just picked up your message. You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“Okay! OKAY!! FORGET IT!”
On my way back, a few blocks from Carmichael Oaks, there’s Mike, walking/stomping along busy Fair Oaks Boulevard at a rapid pace, Sunny, unleashed, following close behind. I make a U-turn, pull to the side of the road, get out, call to Sunny and get her in the car, then open the door wide on the passenger side. Mike gets in and slams the door with all his might. He jerks at the seatbelt, which makes it impossible to secure. He repeats that motion several times before he finally slows down enough to actually get the belt fastened.
“Where were you going?”
“Home! I’m going home!”
“We can’t do that yet.”
“I want a divorce!”
“Okay,” I tell him, allowing myself a moment in which to fantasize about a longed-for freedom.
When we return to the apartment, we each hover in our separate corners. Around noon I suggest that Mike go downstairs for a bite to eat.
“No, I’ll wait for you,” he says.
“We’re getting a divorce,” I tell him. “I won’t be sharing meals with you.”
He waits around for a few minutes, then goes downstairs to the dining room. I pretty much lay low until the sing-along, where Mike exudes warmth, and charm.
I wish I only had to see him in public.
NOT QUITE KEEPING TRACK OF MIKE
July through December 2010
By July, we were in something of a routine at Carmichael Oaks—breakfast at 7:30, lunch at noon, dinner at 5. We didn’t have to eat at those times. The dining room was open for a span of three hours for each meal. But Mike had fallen into a pattern, and any deviation from a pattern was troublesome to him.
The details of everyday life were definitely easier at C.O. The freedom from providing three meals a day for us was welcome. It meant fewer trips to the grocery store, where Mike would sometimes grab strange items to deposit in our shopping cart. Or worse yet, where he would wander away. The small kitchen with just a refrigerator and microwave was infinitely more manageable than the fully stocked Gold River kitchen with countertop stove, oven, and a myriad of small appliances on the center island, available for whatever task Mike might conjure. If there were times when the C.O. dining room food bordered on boring, it was worth a bit of boredom not to have to be on the three-meals-a-day job, or to be monitoring Mike’s kitchen activities. And really, as far as the food went, their cooks were at least as good as I was, often better.
No longer able to leave Mike on his own long enough to participate in my local writing group, I started a new group at C.O. We met once a week in the “library,” which was directly across from our apartment. I’d get Mike set up with a movie, then walk across the hall to meet with fellow writers. Sooner or later, usually sooner, Mike would come looking for me. As soon as our apartment door opened, I could call to him. He might come in and sit with us for a moment, or go on downstairs to the area where doughnuts were always available. Better still, he might go to the downstairs living room and play the piano for a while. He was always restless, but his level of anxiety was lower when I was on the premises than if I were elsewhere.
There were six of us in the writing group. I was the younge
st at 74. The others ranged in age from 85 to 96. Each meeting, I brought in a writing prompt, which they (me, too) would respond to during the week. We’d bring what we’d written to the next meeting. Each person read his/her work to the group, and we responded to what we liked in the reading. The 96-year-old had severe vision problems. She wrote with the help of various magnifying devices, then, because the actual writing too small to read, I read her work aloud for her.
The writers regularly expressed their appreciation for our group. To a person each said it was the highlight of his/her week. Truly, though, the group was a gift to me—moments of sanity in the midst of disorder and instability.
Although Mike and I left Carmichael Oaks in January 2011, I continued meeting with the C.O. writing group on a biweekly basis for five more years. Ica Ingraham, the oldest member of the group, died in November 2015 at the age of 102. Her niece now has volumes of Ica’s tales of her life growing up on a farm in Iowa, hilarious stories of camping mishaps with her husband and friends, and stories of sweet and tender times. All of the writers were aging courageously, and I was lucky to know them on a deeper level than the hellos and goodbyes in the dining room setting.
One of the noticeable changes in Mike’s behaviors was that he visited the bathroom much more frequently than in previous years, and he rushed in with apparent great urgency. In the car he would ask that I stop so he could pee. If there wasn’t a filling station immediately available, he would demand that I let him out so he could pee at the side of the road. Surface street. Freeway. It didn’t matter. He demanded that I stop the car “right now!” to let him out. Thank the Goddess for child safety locks on car doors. There was no apparent physical reason for this increased frequency. He didn’t have a urinary tract infection or other urological problems. It was likely related to FTD, and perhaps a precursor to incontinence.
In September we flew to Walla Walla to visit Matt, Leesa and Mika. Mike was up and down several times on the flight to Seattle, going back to the restrooms, then immediately returning to his seat. “There was a line,” he said at one point. Then he was up again. And back again.
'til Death or Dementia Do Us Part Page 19