Randomness

“That’s Gramma’s grandson,” I hear as I walk past the two guys sitting in front of the nurse’s station as I leave tonight.  It was the gay one that said it.  Demented.  The guy he was next to was a rather handsome guy, probably there for some type of physical rehabilitation.  He didn’t seem demented.  I laugh to myself, of course, the gay one is next to the good looking one. 

I’m touched that so many people know who I am at ManorCare.  It’s because of Gram.  For the first couple of years she was there, random people would approach me and say, “You must be Mikey.”  “Yes.”  “Gram talks about you all the time.”  Gram is the only person that calls me Mikey – and the only person I let call me Mikey.  At that earlier time, Gram was able to make sentences better and hold conversations so she talked about me so much that people just knew me – staff, visitors and other patients alike.  It always made me smile when someone would approach me.  I knew Gram was talking about me again.  I also know that it wasn’t always good.  And that also made me smile. 

My mind wanders as I walk down the long hall toward the elevator and think about the gay one: 

Where DO old and/or demented gay people go?  You don’t see them in nursing homes or assisted living – at least I haven’t.  Maybe they hide themselves well.  Maybe their generation was better at “fitting in” and not being “obvious” – OUT as we say.  Maybe they all become sugar daddies and find young guys to take care of them so they can die in their own homes.  Who knows?  I know where one is tonight.

It’s actually tragic – this gay one who is so friendly.  He’s young – probably not much older than me – mid 50’s maybe.  I don’t know his story, but he is clearly demented.  Is it Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia?  I don’t know.  It’s simply tragic.

As I slowly proceed to my truck and drive home, my mind takes me back and I remember two other tragedies:  

“Hello, come here!  Come here! Come Here! Hello?” Ernie would say as he lie in the hospital bed next to my grandfather’s at St. Francis hospital.  As I walked behind the curtain to his side of the room and stood at the base of his bed, he would sit up in bed, “Ptui! Ptui!”  Yes, with all the power of his upper body slinging forward, he would spit at me.  Actually, he would spit at anyone he could get to step to his side behind the curtain.  Either that or he would pull back his sheet and expose himself.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  He seemed to get a real kick out of the shock factor of his behavior, like a kid who was just told NOT to do something, but wanted to push the envelope and of course, do it anyway.   It was funny, but sad.  It was pathetic.  Ernie was another tragedy – an example of what Alzheimer’s can do to a young man – a professional.   The disease doesn’t discriminate.  At that time, Ernie was in his 50’s and an orthopedic doctor.  But most of the time his brain was mush and his behavior – well, crazy.  I remember once, he was completely lucid.  Gram was having an issue with her leg.  He had her sit down and examined her.  He mumbled a few medical terms and told her what he thought was wrong – totally normal.  This disease is a roller coaster; one of extremes and contradictions. 

There was another, too.  I forget his name; also young, probably late 50’s and another St. Francis roommate of Pap’s.  (Pap spent a lot of time in St. Francis hospital.  I often took Gram to visit or picked her up, so I spent a lot of time there too.)  This guy was very late stage Alzheimer’s.  He didn’t talk; he made noises.  He squirmed in bed.  He had a tracheal intubation and his hands were usually strapped down so he couldn’t pull out the tube.  One particular night, he was frantically squirming in his bed, shaking his head back and forth.   It was enough to make me look over behind the curtain and notice.  He wasn’t strapped down; his tube was out of his throat.  I was young and I guess I thought it was intentional – that maybe for tonight he could remove and re-insert the tube as needed.  I don’t know, but I didn’t say anything to anyone.  It wasn’t long before some nurses came in rolled the guy out on a gurney, sheet over his head.  Dead.  Tragic.  I should have told the nurse when I saw the tube out.  I killed this guy.

Gram was in bed tonight when I arrived.  Lying on her left side and raised up on her left elbow staring at the TV as if it was some foreign object she’d never seen before.  CSI: Something or Someplace was blaring.  Her room was dim, only the TV lighting it.  She squints as I walk in, “Who’s that?” Pause.  “Oh, Mikey!  What were you doing?”  “Nothing,” I reply.  She turns back to the TV.  Captivated by it, she speaks random words and phrases and occasionally points to it. 

She’s holding a stuffed Ape and a stuffed Dragon.  She undoubtedly pilfered them from someone else’s room.  She’s famous for wandering into other peoples’ rooms and taking things, even wheelchairs!  She strokes and pets the ape.  “I like this,” she says over and over.  Then suddenly, “Don’t do it or I’ll smack your ass!  You’re a bad boy!”  She picks up the ape extends her hands out as it hangs from her grip.  Then back in front of her, she caresses it gently, “I like this.”  “He’s cute.”

Stefanie and Gary, two more of my favorite aides, stop in.  “We’re going to come in soon and get you up, ok?”  It’s 8:30 at night, but they both smile and acknowledge that she is wide awake and will be getting up anyway, so they might as well do it for her.  I laugh.  Gram mumbles some sounds toward them and laughs her devilish laugh.  “We’ll be back in a little while,” Stefanie says as she walks out of the room.    “She’s nuts!” Gram retorts, looking at me and gesturing disgust with her hands by flinging them out in front of her.  Immediately she turns and starts obsessing over the sheets on her bed.  She straightens them and she slides her hand across them as one would do to get the wrinkles out.  She’s focused on fussing with the sheets.  It’s a remnant of her past; of her 40 years of pressing bridal gowns for Carlisle’s Bridal shop.  “Donna Lee would like this,” she mumbles.  Donna Lee is my Mom, her daughter.  Gram talks about Donna Lee a lot, too.  She refers to lots of people as Donna Lee, especially my sister Michelle. 

Her attention goes back to the TV.  She’s enthralled by it. 

Aida walks with a glass of orange juice.  Aida is the night nurse.  She was there the night Gram arrived three years ago.  I didn’t much like her at first, she seemed cold and uncaring.  I’ve since learned that she’s actually the opposite.   Aida has endured her own pain; the pain of losing a son.  I understand her much better now.

Aida hands the glass of Juice to Gram.  Aida and I know it contains Gram’s meds.  Gram, as always, is suspicious of it.  “What is it,” she asks, with a look of distrust and suspicion toward Aida.  “It’s juice,” Aida says and I reiterate.  Gram reluctantly takes the glass.  As Aida leaves the room, Gram turns to me and slowly raises the glass to her mouth, smelling it suspiciously.  “It’s juice,” I say, “Just drink it.”   She does.

Gram has always been suspicious when given her meds.  I was always the one who could get her to take them.  She trusted me.  Early on, the staff would even call me and have me talk to Gram on the phone so she would take her them.

Gram goes back to the TV and the sheets.  She’s now holding the ape inside her arms.   I kiss her good night.  I tell her I love her.  “Where you going?” she asks.  “I’m going to work.”  Ever since Gram has been in a facility, the easiest way for me to leave and for her not to get upset, is for me to say I’m going to work.  She always understood that so she would accept it.  It’s a lie, but I've learned, with this disease, that sometimes lies can prevent a lot pain and turmoil.   "I’ll see you when I get home.  I love you.”  “Ok.”