One Saturday afternoon, Dad announced we were all going for a ride on Sunday morning. He had a long history of packing us in the car to go for a ride. With no particular route in mind, he’d just drive. We only went along because one we had no choice in the matter and two, the ride always ended at the Dairy Queen for ice cream.
I hated these rides as he called them, mainly because as the youngest I got stuck in the middle on the bench seat in the front between him and Mom. He loved to smoke his cigar during these random trips around town causing me to throw up which grossed everybody out. Mom learned to come prepared with a paper bag and a bottle of Dramamine no matter how long or short the trip.
To this day I always need to know where I’m going when I get in a car. No surprises. I no longer have to come equipped with Dramamine but I can think of plenty of other more interesting things to do with my time than to drive mindlessly around looking at a new house being built, autumn leaves or some over the top Christmas light display. If I know I’m going to see those things, I’m all in but don’t spring it on me after I’ve sat in the car for an hour going nowhere in particular. It’s difficult to find a Dairy Queen these days.
“It’s a surprise,” Dad told us. “But you have to be ready early, by seven. We have reservations for breakfast at 8:30.”
Steve and I figured we were going out for breakfast, which would be a real treat, but breakfast was somewhere very far away. Dad didn’t usually start smoking a cigar until somewhere between lunch and dinner. I hoped I was safe from barfing in the back of his new Cadillac, because I’m sure no one filled June in on the Dramamine.
Steve and I were up, dressed and had the red sofa bed, which had been bought and squeezed into the tiny guest bedroom just for our visit, put away long before our departure time. We got the back seat of the Cadillac all to ourselves, Dad driving and June in the front passenger seat. We made our way out of the city and into the mountains and forest greenery full of tall, towering trees growing only inches apart. The road twisted and turned, curved and carved through the forest. I watched in amazement as the gorgeous scenery passed by.
“We’re getting close,” Dad would say periodically as we drove. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes!” we shouted out in unison.
The car pulled into the parking lot of the Snoqualmie Falls Lodge, a large log cabin like building nestled in the trees. I was intrigued. A cool breeze rustled the leaves and the smell of fresh pine reminded me of Christmas.
Dad parked the car and Steve and I ran to the entrance. Our shoes made a loud clumping noise on the wooden steps leading to the front porch crowded with rocking chairs. Inside, the mouth-watering aroma of bread baking, eggs frying and sausage sizzling filled my senses. My stomach rumbled loudly enough to be heard over the din of the crowded restaurant.
Once seated in the dining room, a young, cheerful waitress greeted us.
“You two have to order the pancakes! They’re the best,” she exaggerated for our benefit.
The only thing my mother knew how to make well was a blueberry pancake. I happen to come from a long line of women who don’t know how to cook; it’s in the genes. Mom made her famous pancakes every Sunday for lunch after church never using a recipe, all from memory. A cup of flour here, a pinch of salt there, sugar and an egg or two. They were to die for. No one twisted my arm to order pancakes if they were going to be even half as good as Mom’s.
That’s where Mom’s culinary expertise ended, with pancakes. June however, loved to try new recipes she found in magazines while satisfying Dad’s Midwest palate. She roasted a mean chicken, and osso bucco was often a Sunday treat. All her meals were served with lima beans, succotash or yellow wax beans that Dad loved. Steve and I hid those yucky vegetables under the bones so no one would notice we didn’t eat them. June always served some kind of dessert, a store bought cake or pie, which we never got at home, or Dad took us out for ice cream.
I ordered the pancakes, sausage and orange juice. Steve ordered pancakes, bacon and apple juice because he had to be different. The happy waitress promptly delivered a huge stack of thick, golden brown pancakes. My mouth fell open at the sheer size of the plate now sitting in front of me.
Before I lifted my fork, the cheery server asked, “Would you like some syrup?” She held a gravy boat I guessed was full of some kind of local, sweet maple syrup.
“Yes, please.” Who could eat pancakes without syrup?
With a small ladle, about the size of a quarter, on a long stainless steel handle, she scooped up the syrup, held it over her head before slightly tipping her hand and letting it drip down from at least three feet away onto my pancakes landing like a bull’s-eye dead center before dribbling evenly over my stack of pancakes. I gasped.
She went to Steve and performed the same feat over his pancakes. I stared and gasped again. Dad and June laughed at our wide eyes and open mouths. On Sunday afternoons at home, syrup got squeezed out of a plastic bottle. I never saw it plummet from over my head and land exactly in the center of its intended target. I was going to try that at home, but Mom probably wouldn’t allow it. I might miss without some practice, leaving a sticky mess on the rarely waxed dining room table.
After devouring our delicious syrup soaked breakfast, we walked over to see the Snoqualmie Falls. The falls drop 268 feet and are truly spectacular. They are higher than Niagara Falls, which I wouldn’t see until much later in my life but I can still imagine the height of Snoqualmie Falls in my mind’s eye. Snoqualmie Falls was my first viewing of an actual natural waterfall out in the world.
“Is the syrup drop supposed to match the waterfall?” I asked my Dad.
He chuckled. “I never thought of it that way, but I guess it does.”
“No matter what it means, that was the best breakfast I’ve ever had,” Steve, added to the conversation.
We watched the water pour over the mountain for quite a long time. I breathed in the fresh air and wondered what else of beauty the world had to offer me. June pointed out a bird in the trees she thought was an eagle but without Dad’s binoculars that he’d left in the car, she couldn’t be sure. We could hear the rat tat tat of a woodpecker off in the distance. A beautiful orange and black butterfly landed at my feet.
“Look June! Picnic tables,” I said. “Can we come back again and have a picnic here? That would be so cool.”
“Next week we’re going to Mt. Rainier and I planned on packing lunch. I think you’ll like that just as much as this,” June said. “There you’ll see snow in July.”
“Snow? In summer?” Suddenly the world seemed a much bigger place full of new sights to explore. I loved watching the falls and now a mountain called my name.
I’ve traveled around the world since that day at the falls and often I think my love affair with distant places began here. The travel bug bit me and me alone, none of the rest of my siblings. There’s not a place in the world I’d refuse to go if the opportunity presented itself. I have a pancake and a waterfall to thank.
In later years every time I planned for an overseas trip, June would ask, “Can you send me a postcard?”
“Of course I will,” I’d say.
I dated the postcard and she noted the date it arrived in her mailbox. The number of days it took for the mail to arrive from some far away land was a favorite topic of conversation. She saved every postcard I sent, organizing them in a photo album she wrote my name on. Paris, Rome, China, Rio de Janeiro. I’d been around the world and June came with me.
At Snoqualmie Falls I began to warm up to this person who had unexpectedly inserted herself into my life. She let us go swimming whenever we liked for as long as we wanted. June never stopped us from having a second scoop of ice cream for dessert. She giggled at our wide-eyed wonder of new places, and seemed to enjoy finding different experiences to keep us entertained. June picked the places she thought we’d like and Dad drove. Dad smiled at June
and she batted her eyelashes back. I figured she was here to stay.
“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated.” - Maya Angelou
Chapter Eight
That first full day left me exhausted. I’d never been a high-energy kind of person so it didn’t take much for me to reach my limit. Richard had the energy. He was always in motion, cooking, cleaning, and washing. If he wasn’t moving, I knew he didn’t feel well. He gave me plenty of time to read a book or work on my writing so I consider myself very lucky. Richard would have June’s apartment cleaned out and sold before I could empty the trash even once. But this was my job. I wouldn’t even think of asking him to help me. He had done this task for his own parents and now it was my turn to do it for mine.
I still had one more task before I could go back to my hotel and crawl into bed. Visit June. By now I knew the route through the lobby to the elevator, up to the third floor and to the far end of the hall. For a person so uneasy on her feet, this is the worst possible room we could choose for her. Time wasn’t on our side and this room was available immediately, so I grabbed it. In my exhausted state, it was a hike even for me. The door to her room was propped wide open, the television blaring. The other residents must be deaf if they weren’t complaining about the noise. I didn’t bother to knock; no one would hear me. `
June lay on her bed curled up in the fetal position, her eyes closed. A slight grin graced her lips. She looked peaceful for a change. Not wanting to wake her I sat down in the chair in the corner to wait. She sensed the presence of someone else in the room.
“Linda! Where have you been?” she yelled out in a gravely voice.
“You were sleeping. I’ve been right here,” I said.
I know that’s a lie but I was beginning to understand how to answer her to cause the least amount of agitation. I wouldn’t always succeed but I was giving it my best shot.
“I. Want. To. Go. Home,” she screamed at me.
Dad never allowed yelling in the house. It startled me whenever she raised her voice this loud.
“June. This is your home now,” I answered. “See. There’s your favorite painting.” I pointed toward a lovely still life of autumn leaves and branches. It had hung in a prominent place over the couch in every home she lived in as long as I could remember.
June’s eyes darted around the room. Her gaze turned dark and blank as she studied the picture of my father on her nightstand, before moving onto the antique stained glass lamp she inherited from her aunt on the desk.
“How did I end up in this little bed?” she complained. “I hate it. I’m afraid I’m going to fall out.”
The management at the assisted living home insisted we buy a new mattress. A used one was unacceptable plus her king size bed wouldn’t fit in this tiny room. Bed bugs, they told me. Richard called in a favor after his long career in the furniture business and we bought her a brand new twin bed with a matching dresser and two nightstands. The furniture was gorgeous, well built and at a bargain price.
I thought she’d like to have something new. How wrong I’d been. She didn’t want to give up anything, not even her old and lumpy king bed with a nicked and wobbly wooden headboard.
“I hate this bed.” She pounded her fists into the mattress.
“June. Give yourself some time to get used to it.” My frustration at this conversation grew exponentially each time she announced her rebuttal, my guilt grew heavier, and my sadness forced me to hold back tears.
“I want a cigarette,” she said.
“Okay. Let’s go downstairs and get them from the receptionist. I’ll sit with you outside and we’ll chat.” I went to the side of her bed to help her up.
“No!” she screamed. “I don’t want to go outside. I want to smoke it here.”
“June, you know the rules. You can’t smoke in your room. Yvette has your cigarettes downstairs and you can ask for them anytime you want.”
“No! Go get them for me,” she insisted.
“June, you know I can’t do that,” I answered in as soft and soothing tone as I could muster, my annoyance at her multiplying.
“I hate it here. I want to go home.” Like a child throwing a temper tantrum, her face scrunched up into a thousand more wrinkles than her aging skin already showed and turned a bright shade of crimson.
“June. I’m sorry you’re so upset but this is the best thing for you.” I reached for her hand. “I want you to be safe and you weren’t safe in your apartment.”
Tears ran down her cheek, which she dabbed with a tissue she always kept wadded up in her hand. June and her tissue went together like peanut butter and jelly. She would never be without one in her hand or tucked up her sleeve.
Playtime with all of her dogs over the years included a game where they nuzzled her hand until she allowed the corner of her tissue into view. Shana would tear off a piece and enjoy eating it like a snack. Watching this totally grossed me out, the dog eating a snotty tissue, but June loved it. She smiled with her soft, signature giggle every time the dog asked to play.
When Steve and his wife, Karen married, Dad and June went on a well remembered and often discussed drinking binge. We knew them to love a few drinks but starting with champagne in the afternoon before moving on to glass after glass of vodka seemed excessive for them. After the reception ended, a group of us sat in the bar while the two of them each downed many more glasses of vodka, their drink of choice. In fact the rest of us left them in the hotel bar well after midnight, we’d had our fill. Dad insisted they weren’t ready to go.
I have no idea how many more drinks they had or if they had any trouble finding their room that night, but when I saw them the next morning at breakfast, Dad claimed he didn’t have a hangover and June held a tissue to her weeping eye where it remained for the rest of the day. She insisted she wasn’t crying or teary about the wedding and didn’t know what was causing this but the tears continued to flood from her eye. Together we came to the conclusion all that vodka needed an escape. Out of her tear duct it came. Thank goodness June came equipped with a supply of white tissues. She went through an entire box that day.
I brought her a new box of Kleenex from the bathroom and set it on her nightstand. She grabbed another one without looking at me.
“Linda.”
I knew I was in trouble when she said my name in certain way with hard inflection on the last syllable.
“You tell them I want dinner in my room. I refuse to go to the dining room,” her body stiffened as she spoke.
“Why don’t you want to go to the dining room?’ This was worse than trying to reason with a child.
“You tell them I’m sick. I’m not going,” June insisted. “You tell them.”
“The nurse will come take your temperature,” I said. “She’ll know you’re lying.”
“You tell them.” June gritted her teeth.
I kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll tell them. I’m going to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I love you. Don’t forget to tell them,” June said, her tone softening.
“Love you too. Bye bye.” I turned away and left the room.
I tracked down the nurse on my way out. June needed a long list of things attended to that had been neglected for a long time. She needed to see the podiatrist, the doctor and the hairdresser. God forbid I forget the hairdresser; she’d never speak to me again.
“June wants to have dinner in her room,” I said with a wink knowing already what her answer would be.
“Residents are not allowed to be served meals in their room unless they’re sick,” she responded in a matter of fact tone.
“I understand. She’s pretty miserable and wants a cigarette badly,” I said.
The nurse rolled her eyes at me. “She needs to quit.”
“I understand but she’s been smoking since she was a teenager and now she
’s 91. Can the doctor give her something to help with the nicotine withdrawal?” I asked politely.
“I’ll check with him,” she answered curtly.
“Thank you,” I replied with a similar edge to my voice.
I learned quickly, it was important to June’s well being I kiss these people’s asses. There is no way to sugar coat that phrase when it comes to taking care of the elderly. While they are keeping track of how much food she eats and her urine output, secretly they are also marking on a tally sheet who visits and how often. If that number doesn’t add up to a total the nurse deems an acceptable level, watch out. Your loved one will be labeled as neglected and no matter how hard you try to change their perception, it will never happen. Another layer of thick gooey butter cream frosting disguised as guilt had been spread on the cake and a heaping forkful shoveled in my mouth.
I’m grateful for the nurses and aides who chose this way to make a living. I could never do it, and as a society we need them. As more baby boomers retire, we will need even more trained medical workers. Families are mobile and distant from loved ones and are either unable or unwilling to care for their parents. So they get shipped off to the assisted living facility on the way to the full-fledged nursing home. I’m a fool if I don’t think the resident who came in here with the fanciest jewelry and brought it even after they’d been told not to, gets the best treatment. I can say thank you with a smile, but I really need to send over a tray of cookies and sign June’s name to the card when I get home.
Deflated once again by the nurse’s quick answers to my questions, I wondered what had happened to the kind and compassionate attention the staff assured me of when I shopped for assisted living homes. I made the decision to move June here with my nose instead of my head. This place didn’t stink of pee and old people like the others. There was a jam-packed calendar of activities June would never participate in and they had the all-important beauty salon. When I picked Hawthorne I never thought to interview the nurse to see if she had a personality.
A Bittersweet Goodnight Page 5