aging

Welcome to May

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Maestro, the Great Pyrenees, just passed the coffee store with his owner, a very elderly woman who has dementia. She walks him nearly every day, sometimes multiple times a day, up and down Walnut Street. He’s a welcome sight for most of the pedestrians, a gentle giant of a dog with heavy white fur and a sweet face. His owner is equally sweet and fiercely protected by her son and her caregivers. I worried for a bit when she invited me and my daughter to drink wine on her porch. We don’t even know her name and thought that she could easily be taken advantage of. Our concern was needless. Her son takes good care of her in a way that allows her to continue her walks safely.

Things are gradually returning to normal after the catastrophic storm of Tuesday evening. I believe about 150,000 people are still out of power, down from the 250,000+ of Wednesday morning. The east end of Pittsburgh, where we live, was particularly badly hit, trees and lines down on nearly every block. Don’t worry, though. The wealthiest area was mostly unaffected. Their power lines are underground. 

Wednesday was a strange day in the community. I walked to Walnut Street, expecting that the area had power. Strangely, although some of the shops did, my preferred coffee shop did not. I went to Starbucks, a place I generally avoid because of their anti-worker policies. Apparently, when the going gets tough, I compromise my principles for iced tea and a place to work. 

The Starbucks was packed, forcing people, who definitely would prefer otherwise, to share tables. I asked a young woman if I could sit opposite her and she REALLY did not want to let me. Very reluctantly, she said, “Okay.” However, she did not move at all to accommodate my presence, which meant I had about 6 inches for my computer. That was not going to work so I waited for another seat to open up and took it quickly. My old seat was immediately snagged by a young man who did not tolerate her space-hogging. She left. I guess she wasn’t feeling the vibe. I can respect that. It’s like being a regular gym user who has to put up with all the new-years-resolution visitors on January 2nd. 

Last week, I bought a brand-new Ryobi lawn mower at auction for about $60, on behalf of another person, who shall remain a mystery. The mower arrived yesterday, still in the box, as expected. Unfortunately, once transported to its final location and opened, we discovered that it was missing a battery and charger. Auction items can’t be returned. They’re purchased as-is, where-is, which, in this case, turned out to be an annoying lesson learned. I immediately bought a battery and charger. Problem solved. Some of us easily moved on from the ‘trauma’. Surprisingly, it is I who have yet to move on. I feel so annoyed by the response of the recipient that I am questioning my urge to help, you know? I probably definitely need to chill. I would like to be a person who works for the benefit of the recipient, not for the possibility of praise. Good deeds are good regardless of recognition and perhaps more good with no recognition at all, particularly important to remember for those of us who don’t believe our good deeds are a path to heaven. 

Although I haven’t mentioned not-my-Aunt Ginny recently, I have been to see her. She’s well, if more crotchety. When I arrived last time, she was missing from the lunch table so I went to her room to persuade her to go to lunch and, when my persuasion skills failed to achieve their intended purpose, pushed her wheelchair to the lunch room anyway. 

She should have agency but often, as people slide into more severe dementia, it’s difficult to ensure that they are consulted and that their wishes are respected, primarily because their wishes are not necessarily beneficial to them. Not-my-Aunt Ginny prefers isolation, which is the worst possible thing for her. So, I took her to the lunch room. She had a great time. We lingered over her meal while I dodged her attempts to feed me and chatted with the other women at the table. They, by the way, are delightful: Older women whose minds are still intact as their bodies fail. They tease Ginny gently and talk to me about the lives they used to lead. It’s both significant and bittersweet. If I could be closer without moving there, I’d visit every week.

Much love.

Welcome to May

Clean Plates And Other Crimes

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

My not-my-Aunt Ginny was doing pretty well this week, on my first visit of 2023 (I started the year with Covid but finally am safe to visit with her). She didn’t know me during my visit but also (a little bit) she did, which made for some of our more unusual conversations. I showed her a recent picture of me with my eldest son. She was surprised by how adult he is and asked if the woman in the picture is his wife. Friends, this is the picture I shared:

Later, she asked me what my mom thought of another picture. My mom would have loved it, so of course I answered that way, pretending for a bittersweet moment that Mom lived to know my children and my sister’s children, that she was alive to share a meal with me and to be recalcitrant about something I wanted her to do. 

Sharing a meal … that’s what I miss most. Not even her cooking, really. I miss the act of sitting together, talking about everything and nothing, eating food that someone else cooked for us. She used to love to go to a little tea shop in Erie. We didn’t even get tea. We’d get sandwiches and she’d have coffee. And we’d just spend a little time in each other’s company. 

For her, it was a major indulgence, an act of defiance against something though I never knew what. Possibly, probably, my father.  He was very controlling. She was afraid of him and most everything, really. Once I was old enough to see a future that wasn’t under my father’s control, I would tell her that I would treat her to lunch when I visited but she became ill while I was still in graduate school. We ended up having very little time for tea shop sandwiches.

Not-my-Aunt Ginny prefers companionship while she eats. When I arrived a little after noon, I found that she had not yet received her lunch tray. It was delivered about 10 minutes after I got there and something in not-my-Aunt G’s world converted that tray to a meal I had ordered for myself. From her perspective, we were in a restaurant and that meal became dinner out. It took some convincing but I finally got her to believe that the tray was for her. 

While she’s eating, I always make up an excuse for why I can’t share her food but she can be pretty persistent. Sometimes I tell her that I don’t like the type of food she’s having. Sometimes I tell her that I just ate and am not hungry. Not-my-Aunt G doesn’t care to hear those excuses. She hates food waste, not surprising since she lived through WWII. 

It would drive her crazy that we aren’t members of the clean plate club. Sure, the origins are understandable and waste is a horrible thing. However, I think it’s important to recognize, to acknowledge, that eating the crust of my bread did not, in fact, make my hair curly. If I could, I would tell my Grandma Myrtle (who died when I was 17), that I finally figured out it was a lie, bold-faced, in fact.

It is also accurate to note that starving children do not want my leftovers. They would, in reality, benefit from compassionate food policies that value human life over profit but I’m pretty confident, having eaten it myself, that they would not enjoy that last half-scoop of tuna casserole with peas and carrots.

Be kind to someone today, possibly even yourself.

Much love.

Clean Plates And Other Crimes

Forgotten

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Deb and not-her-Aunt G

On Wednesday, I spent the evening with my not-my-Aunt G in the skilled nursing facility. It’s her permanent address now. The cognitive decline she masked so well in her home of 40+ years is painfully visible. Sometimes she knows that she’s confused. She has the cruel moments of clarity that remind me what I am losing but more often she is almost a stranger or perhaps, I am to her. 

She was sitting on her bed, her preferred seat, and I was teasing her by sitting in her wheelchair, using my feet to steer myself around the room. She was laughing and called me her ridiculous boyfriend. Not-my-Aunt G rarely recognizes me these days but the boyfriend label was a bit of a surprise, I have to say. I asked her if she knew who I was. 

She looked at me with those dark, deep-set, green eyes and said again, “You’re my boyfriend.” There’s a lot to unpack with that statement, right? How do I even respond? Do I, as current thinking suggests, just meet her where she is and play along? On Wednesday, that was hard to do. Usually, it isn’t a problem because I maintain my identity. It’s just our location that changes – we’re on Parade Street, we’re working at a deli, we’re in her house.  

This time it was different. She was lost somewhere in the past. I told her my name. She didn’t recognize it. I mentioned some other people she knows but they too were not familiar. She was afraid, telling me that we were in a “bad neighborhood.” She knew she was safe with me but she kept asking me not to leave her, to please take her home, as though I were about to abandon her in a place where she wasn’t safe. She was trying not to cry, standing at the entrance to her room, waving at me. I had to go. The doors to the wings of the SNF were already closed for the night. Her night nurse promised to check in on her regularly. Would that even help?

Her experiences melded with mine as I drove home – a long dark drive on a mostly empty highway – to a cacophony of voices and sounds in my head. How many times have I left someone in a place they didn’t want to be? How many more will I experience? And what will happen when it’s my turn? Do people avoid visiting nursing homes because they fear the elderly or because they fear their own mortality, their own lonely futures?

Next time I see her, not-my-Aunt G will not remember the details of this latest visit. That’s probably a kindness. It would be better, of course, if her strongest memories were more joyful, if those memories influenced her current experiences. That doesn’t seem to be how it works. Instead, she talks about her mom as though we’re both teenagers and her mom is struggling to stretch their income to feed everyone. 

It’s hard to shake these thoughts. It’s the worst time of year: cold, darker. There’s pressure to feel or pretend a joy that is probably antithetical for many of us. After every visit, I listen to my noisy thoughts as I drive – the sounds of the elderly crying out for a help that no one can provide, the fear in my not-my-aunt’s voice, the dismissal of caring but criminally overworked caregivers. The sounds of my husband, my mother-in-law, my mom, my grandmothers blend like car noises on a busy street. 

What’s the answer? If only I knew. I visit not-my-Aunt G selfishly because it gives me comfort to see her, even though she is nearly lost to me. It is a melancholy choice. It’s so easy to remember people the way they were. Actually participating in their current lives definitely offers unexpected gifts but spending any time among the forgotten elderly will change you in ways you can’t choose and probably wouldn’t. 

On my next visit, I’ll take a half dozen Christmas cookies and since I make a huge selection of cookies throughout December, I suspect that I’ll get to continue giving her new varieties all month. I’ll wear my holiday socks and tell her stories that I’ve already told her. Perhaps I’ll play a different role next visit. I don’t much like being her boyfriend but maybe we can work together at that deli, making turkey sandwiches.

Wishing you good health and good friends this holiday season.

Much love.

Forgotten