Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Delaney
Ireverse my car out of the driveway and stop to stare at the house for a moment. In nineteen days, this will no longer be my home. Unless I get a serious move on in my search for apartment rentals, I’m not going to have anywhere to stay. I pull away, getting lost in my thoughts.
My mom bought this small two-bedroom bungalow about sixteen years ago. Her divorce from my stepfather, Jerry, had just become final, and she wanted something she owned herself. Somewhere that was our home. We had always rented until she married Jerry.
It was Mom’s first and only marriage, but Jerry and my mom were over in the blink of an eye. They were married for three years—from the time I was eleven until shortly after I turned fourteen.
I was sad when we moved out. Jerry was nice to me. Plus, Mom cut down to one full-time job while they were together. Everything was good there. Well, except for Cassandra, my stepsister.
Cassandra was only a year older than me, but she hated me. I suspect it was because I got to live with her father and spend more time with him than she did. So, she made my life a living hell for those three years. I shiver just thinking about her.
When I pull into the parking lot at my destination, I’m a little bothered that I don’t remember the drive. Maybe it’s because there’s been too much on my mind lately.
I get out of the car and grab the mini cooler from the back, then head inside the building. I missed dinner today because I was tied up on a phone call with the realtor who sold the house for us.
No one is manning the front desk when I get inside, so I sign in and walk over to the Memory Care Unit. I punch the code into the keypad on the wall and walk through the door when it unlocks.
“Can you let me out? I have to go home,” a trembling voice asks.
I nearly jump out of my skin, not having seen Alice—one of the other patients—standing only a few feet from the door. After the door closes completely, I make sure it locks before moving away.
“I’m sorry, Alice. That way isn’t the way home. Do you want to walk with me?” I try to encourage her with my words to step away, but she isn’t having it.
I feel bad leaving her, except I need to get to Mom, and I’m later than usual, so she’s probably going to be upset.
I walk the short distance to Mom’s room, but she isn’t there.
She’s also not in the common area where several residents are sitting in front of a television.
I’ve yet to see a nurse or an aide. When I don’t find her at either of the first two locations, I walk to the dining room, thinking maybe there’s an activity going on there this evening.
My heart sinks when I see my mom and two other residents sitting at different tables, isolated, with trays of food in front of them. Mom’s is untouched.
My chest constricts and I rush toward Mom’s table. I’m not sure if I’m sad or angry. It’s likely a combination of the two. I force a smile but then I stop and watch Mom for a moment. I need to get my emotions under control before I get to her.
She’s staring across the room, oblivious to the fact that dinner ended forty-five minutes ago.
She doesn’t seem to notice that not only did no one help her eat, but they left her.
The three residents sit abandoned in the dining room.
I imagine they would stay there until someone realizes they’re missing.
As I walk the rest of the way across the room and take a seat next to her, I wonder how long she would have been in here if I hadn’t come tonight.
This is why I come almost every night to feed her dinner. Sometimes Mrs. Nicker comes to give me a break, and Mom’s one remaining friend, Pat, comes about once every other week to help. But someone is always here for dinner.
“Hey, Mom.” She glances over at me, but from the blank look on her face, I can already tell that today is probably one of the days she doesn’t remember me. “It’s me, Delaney.”
“Delaney…” Her forehead creases, and her lips purse. I suspect she’s struggling to figure out whether she knows me. I try not to let it bother me when it’s clear she doesn’t. That has been one of the most difficult things so far—when she got to where she forgets me more often than she remembers me.
All right, clear that negative energy out of your mind while you’re here. Got it?
I try hard to do so and hope like heck I’ve succeeded. Mom doesn’t need any negativity or anger around her.
“How about I heat these mashed potatoes and maybe the carrots and see if you like them?”
I don’t wait for an answer before I pick up her plate and walk it over to the microwave. I use the time it takes for the food to heat to take a couple of deep breaths.
When I get back to the table, I feed Mom.
She’s to the point now that she can feed herself if there are finger foods, but manipulating utensils is something she can’t do well anymore.
On top of that, she needs someone to cue her to eat.
Otherwise, it’s almost like she forgets she’s supposed to do so.
As I wait for her to chew and swallow between bites, I take in her disheveled appearance. Her unbrushed hair is greasy, and she’s in the same long-sleeved T-shirt she had on yesterday. I glance down at her pants. At least those are different.
When she’s eaten all of her mashed potatoes and about half of the carrots, her interest in the meal wanes. I place the silverware on the tray and move it away from her, then hold her water cup up to her mouth and help her take a drink.
“I’ve got a surprise for you. Did you leave room for dessert?” I smile at her and pull the small cooler over to me. I remove the plastic container with the two scoops of the mint chocolate chip ice cream Mom loves, and I grab a spoon off the meal tray.
I open the container and show it to Mom, and I swear her eyes light up for a second.
When I scoop a small amount onto her spoon, and she takes a bite, a small smile forms on her face, and a moment of joy courses through me.
A smile from her is one of my favorite things, but happens far too infrequently.
“Good,” Mom says, looking at me.
“You like it? I’m glad. It’s your favorite. You love ice cream, Mom.”
“Ice cream.”
“Yep, it’s ice cream. I’ll bring you more tomorrow. How about that?”
“Okay.”
I feed Mom the rest of the ice cream, then I rise and help her stand. When I do, I notice she has brownish-yellow stains from dried urine on her pants. I’m seething, but I fight not to let her see it.
I walk her back to her room, not bumping into any staff on the way. Who the hell is running this place today?
When we get to Mom’s room, I walk into the bathroom and pull the cord for the nurse call bell.
I’ve learned during my visits here that the bathroom call lights ring with a sound that’s more urgent than the regular call bells.
Not that you hear the chiming alerts all that often, given most of the patients here don’t understand how to use the buttons.
“How about we give you a nice warm shower and some clean clothes, then get you ready for bed?” She doesn’t respond to me. “You can watch Wheel of Fortune after that.”
Mom’s eyes brighten. Great, she remembers Pat Sajak, but not me. Still, the fact that my mom has always had a crush on the game show host makes me grin. God, she loved… she loves, not loved, that show. She’s still here. I hate when I catch myself speaking about her in the past tense.
So far, the only positive thing about this nursing facility is that they have a shower in the adjoining bathroom between rooms. Not that they use it, apparently.
I gather Mom’s toiletries and her bath seat and put them in the stall, then lead her into the shower, help her undress, and sit her on the seat.
I take my time cleaning her, taking extra long to wash her hair when I see her shoulders and facial muscles relax as I massage shampoo into her scalp and her medium-length, wavy locks. I smile that I can do this for her.
As I wash her body, fury fills me when I find the raw, bright red skin on her groin and butt from sitting in urine. She winces as I clean the areas as gently as I’m able.
It isn’t until I’ve finished showering Mom—probably at least fifteen minutes from when I pulled the call bell—that there is a knock on the bathroom door and an aide enters. Her eyes widen when she sees me. I glance down at her name tag: Sylvia.
“Sylvia, I’m Delaney, Hattie’s daughter. I’d like to talk to the nurse, and I’d like a tube of whatever cream you apply when someone’s skin looks like this.” I point to my mom’s flaming red, excoriated skin.
“Uh, okay. I can get you some cream. I’ll have to call the nurse…”
I squint at her and can feel my forehead creasing in confusion.
“Call her? Where is she?”
“We’ve just got one nurse tonight. The other one called off. So, it’s just Shelly and me here on this side. The nurse is on the skilled unit. I can call her, though.”
I know Shelly. She’s an aide.
“So, there are two aides for this entire unit and no nurse?”
Sylvia’s eyes widen as if she realizes maybe she shouldn’t have shared that with a family member.
I sigh. “Please just get me the cream. Oh, and as of a bit ago, there are still two residents in the dining area who need taken care of. I’ll finish taking care of my mother.”
“Okay. I’ll be back with the cream in a minute.”
I get Mom’s pajama top on, then comb and plait her hair into two braids.
Mom has always had gorgeous hair. At sixty-six, she’s still so beautiful.
You would never guess she was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease at fifty-eight and a half by looking at her.
One wouldn’t know that it’s so advanced now that, most days, she doesn’t remember anyone who loves her.
Yeah, looks can be deceiving. Talking to her, though, that’s a different story. When you try to have a conversation with her, it’s immediately clear that she has cognitive issues.
Sylvia returns while I’m cleaning Mom’s teeth and places a tube on the vanity, then leaves.
I suspect this is the first time my mother’s teeth have been cleaned today.
When we finish, I apply the cream to her skin and help Mom get her pull-up incontinence briefs and PJ bottoms on.
It’s seven-fifteen p.m. now, so she’ll be ready to lie down for the night.
When we get to the bed, I look at the bedding, then sit Mom in the chair instead. Her sheets are stained and clearly not clean. There’s a strong ammonia smell as I strip the sheets. I have to assume there’s been a lot of peeing in this bed with Mom left to lie in it.
Finally, after I’ve changed her bedding, I help Mom get tucked in for the night and find a rerun of Wheel of Fortune on the television. She watches with rapt attention.
I drag the chair close to her bed, sit, and hold her hand while she watches her show.
We don’t talk, and that’s okay. Sitting here like this makes me think about how Mom did this for me when I was a child.
No matter how tired she was, if I wanted her to sit by my bed with my little hand in hers until I dozed off, she did it.
When we’re like this, I can pretend for a while that we’re still at home and I’m still taking care of her. I can pretend that I didn’t fail her.
I try to stay positive; I really do. But tonight, I’m drained. Mom’s long-term care insurance doesn’t cover supplemental help at home, so I couldn’t continue to take care of Mom there. On top of that, they only cover half of what this place costs. It leaves me at a loss for what to do.
This—I look around her room—is what six thousand dollars a month buys. Sporadic subpar care. Even worse, what about the residents who don’t have family checking in or advocating for them? What kind of care do they receive?
“You’re sad.” Mom startles me, and when I turn to her, she’s looking at me with a frown.
I force a smile I don’t feel.
“No, I’m okay. I’m not sad, Mom.”
She reaches up and touches my face with her fingertips. I freeze. It’s been so long since my mom showed me any affection, and the daughter in me doesn’t want it to stop. If I don’t react, maybe it won’t end.
I’m wrong. As quickly as it happened, it’s over, and Mom’s attention is back on Pat Sajak. Twenty minutes later, she’s asleep. I turn off the TV and I stay ten more minutes to make sure she doesn’t wake up, then I stand and move the chair back into its usual place as quietly as I can.
I lean over and place a soft kiss on Mom’s forehead.
“Goodnight, Mom. I love you,” I whisper. I walk to the door, but stop before moving through it, and glance over my shoulder to look at her one more time. “And I miss you so much.”