“My mom’s memory is like a window opening and closing.” That’s what my co-worker Lisa said to me, a few years ago. I thought I knew what she meant, but I didn’t. Not really. Now, I get it.
My dad is down to Mahoosuc Green, our senior living facility here in town. He bought in a few years after my mom died, and had the cutest little apartment in the independent living wing, Dirigo Way. But, a few months into lockdown, I got the call, “Ida, we feel your father’s no longer Dirigo Way material.” Ouch!
I guess Dad needed a little more help with things. You know, like showering, cueing (reminding him when he’s supposed to do what). On Dirigo Way, they weren’t set up for that. Plus, his memory was spotty. They’d like to move him to Chickadee Lane. (That’s assisted living for us civilians.) What choice did we have, right?
Mahoosuc Green did all the heavy lifting, of course, because of the lockdown. I tried to prepare Dad over the phone. They kind of like to spring changes on the old folks, so they won’t worry. But I know dad likes to have time to wrap his head around things, and I don’t blame him. Out of respect, I felt like it was my responsibility to give him a heads up.
Still, on the day of the move, he called me in a panic. “Ida! I went to lunch in a different dining room, and
now I lost my nice apartment and I’m living in a logging camp!”
See, that’s the other thing. He has to have a roommate (that’s what he means by “logging camp”) because we just can’t swing a private room down on Chickadee Lane. I take care of his finances, and boy, he’d roll over and croak if he knew how much it was costing. In his eyes, he’s getting less (just a room with a roommate, no apartment to himself). But really, he’s getting all the other stuff, like 24/7 nursing, showers, meals, med’s. And Irene and me are getting peace of mind, knowing he’s being looked after. Especially now, when we can’t be there.
Covid’s been hard on all of us, but it’s especially hard on these old folks. They’re isolated from family and only seeing people with masks and goggles on. I mean, my sister Irene and me were always in and out of Mahoosuc Green, taking Dad out, joining him for meals. Sad to say, he’s really gone downhill. He’s lonely, disoriented, and doesn’t really show a lot of interest in things.
And his memory window has started to open and close. Sometimes he’s pretty good, and a few minutes later, he’s not.
I’ll get a call from one of the nurses down on Chickadee, 9:00 at night. “This is Mary Beth. Your Dad’s real anxious, says he needs to talk to you.”
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“I need the number of the tax bureau. This guy keeps calling, saying I didn’t pay my taxes. I’m bankrupt
and they’re going to take me to jail!”
Now, I know he didn’t get a call like that because of their phone system. (It’s an extension type deal.) And from past experience, I also know that facts don’t really matter here. I could tell dad ‘til I’m blue in the face that he’s not bankrupt, that I do his taxes, and we’re all set there. And he’d listen, then go, “Okay, but I need the number of the tax bureau.”
I find it’s best to just step through the window and meet him were he’s at. “Okay, Dad. Let me call the tax bureau and I’ll get right back to you.”
So I hang up, and wait five minutes and call him back.
“Dad, I just talked to the tax bureau, (mind you, it’s 9:15 at night) and everything’s okay. That was another guy with the same name.”
“Really? Oh, that’s the best news I’ve had all day. Thanks, honey!”
“You bet, Dad. There’s nothing to worry about. You sleep tight! I love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.”
That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!
Hear Ida Tell It: A Window Opening and Closing
Coming Up This Week
February 28: How Ida Changed My Life: The Power of an Alter Ego, Senior College at USM/LA, 3:00pm, This event is free. You just need to register in advance.
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Upcoming Virtual Event
March 8: Making the Invisible Visible: Bringing a Franco-American Perspective to the Stage & Page, Franco-American Collection, 4:00pm, This event is free. You just need to register in advance.
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