|
I was sure you would live to be 90.
You didn’t smoke or have a chronic disease. You
waltzed around the kitchen table, tried Viagra, played cards, and
nurtured your African violets. You began a publishing empire called
the "Brown Envelopes" filled with jokes, war stories,
and Reader’s Digest clips. You collected, copied
and mailed the Brown Envelopes every month to 50
friends, acquaintances and Army buddies.
You listened to Rush Limbaugh on the radio and barked at the anti-Republican
news on TV. I disagreed with your politics ; never argued
with your patriotism.
You counted your pennies but never skimped on good shoes, good
food and good whiskey, certain these were the formula for a long
life.
***
"The room where we go in the summer."
I see gratitude in your gray eyes when I realize what you mean: the
porch. From beneath a plaid flannel blanket in January you
remember warmer days. Days spent listening to Glenn Miller cassette
tapes and sipping scotch from your command post – the rattan
rocker on the porch where you dictated that the squirrels stay
away from the birds and the stray cats scare away the squirrels.
I try to fill in the blanks of your memory and keep you safe while
you wander the house at night looking for your identity.
Still at home, around the time you forgot how to dial the phone
and use the toaster, you disappeared into your room. When you came
out you carried your Sixth Field Artillery jacket and told me you
wanted to be buried in it.
***
A giddy resident floats by in a wedding dress, awaiting her groom.
Another totes an empty suitcase, circling the halls in search of
an exit.
I looked at all the nursing homes near your home and this was
reputed to be the best for Alzheimer’s patients. The walls
hold 1940s movie posters and the televisions play Lawrence Welk.
The closets are full of accessories for an octogenarian costume
party – sequins, spats and suspenders that help the residents
dress to regress. Smiling staff play along with whomever and wherever
residents believe they are.
You would like this place, but there are no rooms available, and
no time to put your name on a waiting list.
***
"Boy am I glad to see you . Let’s get the hell out
of here."
I don't know if you recognize me as your daughter, but my face
is familiar in a sea of strangers. It’s your first week in
the nursing home that was my second choice. You're seated at a
table full of women. Even here you are an officer and a gentleman,
instructing the ladies how to color in the lines of the coloring
books you were given for activity hour.
I push your wheelchair up and down the hall 20 times. When I stop
at your new room, you insist you don’t belong there. So we
keep walking. Your face lights up when a tall man shuffles by. "He’s
one of our men," you beam.
You remind one resident, Alice, of her husband. Soon you two become
inseparable.
When you go to the hospital with pneumonia, I ask the head nurse
what we should tell Alice. The nurse advises me not to say anything
because Alice is emotionally fragile. We don’t mention you
to Alice. In a few weeks, Alice is 19 again and never met you.
***
A study of World War II veterans found that moderate
to severe head injury increased risk of developing Alzheimer’s
disease. Another study found this risk increased if the head injury
resulted in loss of consciousness.
You never talked about being injured. For years you told stories
only about your assignment in the Fijis, making it sound like a
tropical country club where you drank under the stars until you
fell out of your hammock. When I took your Army jacket from your
closet, I discovered your Bronze Star and Purple Heart stuffed
in crumpled wax paper.
Your generation is being lost to a disease that will raid my generation
as well.
For now, though, all I can do is whisper the words a weary soldier
deserves to hear at the end of his long march.
"At ease, lieutenant."
|
