Anyway, he, my father, has learned how to get to the food. Out the door, to the right. Walk until you see the laundry room and then do a 180 to the elevator. Go to the 3rd floor and exit. Turn left, walk straight. Voila. Press the button, doors open. There’s a dining room or to the right, you have the Bistro. Today is the first day I don’t see him at all. He manages today. All By Himself. I did talk to him about 9am. He got himself an omelette, in the dining room. Cool. He’s okay. All I want is for people to believe that he belongs there in “independent living”. Just keep it together, please, dear God. He calls this evening to ask what’s going on and seems agitated when I tell him 1) that it’s 6:20 and he should head upstairs if he wants dinner and 2) Curt is in the air and on his way to pick up Marc, the dog, and the vehicles. I tell him that his cell phone cover has been delivered. He knows it’s Sunday and doesn’t believe me that something was delivered on a Sunday. But it has. It’s there. This is life in a big city. No Bay views, but Amazon at your door, even on a Sunday. I’ve been treating myself to Starbucks for the past four days. I haven’t drunk caffeinated coffee in seven years, but it seems appropriate now and it seems appropriate to pay $5.45 for a Starbucks cappuccino. It feels like my indulgence. Like maybe this is me taking care of myself. For now. Everyone wants to know how I’m taking care of myself. I walk my dogs, every morning. Off leash. They get to run, frolick, eat grass, roll in shit, whatever, for about an hour every morning. I get to walk, just walk with them. Yes, sometimes I’m also checking work emails and calling NC doctors, but I’m still kind of free. That’s the best I can say I do to take care of myself right now except to now add that I’m treating myself to Starbucks and this morning, I lay in bed an extra 25 minutes playing Wordle and Connections as well as the Crossword I didn’t do last night.
It makes me sad that I can’t call my mom. I can’t ask her if she’s in bed or okay or watching tv. She doesn’t use her cell phone and I suspect she hasn’t used it for many months. I have it on her bedside table anyway, plugged in. Maybe she’ll want it once she adjusts or once the meds kick in. But I really don’t think so. Time isn’t that important here even though I just bought a clock that has the date, time, and year in large font.
After a trip to Trader Joe’s and DSW (for more appropriate shoes), I get to the Heights, where she’s living. I’m sad I missed puzzle time, but I agree to let that go. When I arrive, she’s at lunch and she seems engaged. I sit with her for a minute after unloading my car and bringing in Parker, my youngest dog and cuddle buddy. I ask if she wants to come back to the room since only she and Julia are left at the table. “In a minute” she says. I am surprised and Iove it too. I imagine that she’s asserting her independence and I can tell that she cares for Julia. I leave her and go back to the room to put away the treats and do some of my own work. Julia is a cheerful Hispanic woman who is not very talkative, but always cheerful. She sits directly opposite my mom at their table. At one end is Ellie. Ellie is beautiful, all 98 pounds of her. She’s wheelchair bound, but she seems able to get around. She is truly beautiful. Anne sits to the left of my mom and she’s going to be 100 on Friday! She’s alert, cheerful, and hunched over. She wasn’t at lunch so there was some concern about her. Opposite Anne is Ruby and she’s a riot. She’s persistently pissed off and can admit it. She literally looks like she’s going to explode; like an Irish bomb. At the other end of the table is Josephine or Jo and she is a beacon. She’s 93 and sharp and also in a wheelchair due to a stroke. I met her the first day and I couldn’t express my gratitude enough for this compassionate, kind, sharp human.
Mom comes back to the room and I’m so happy that she can do it by herself now. She knows where to find her room. Before she gets in, I want to show her the plant I bought at Trader Joe’s, which is a lovely mix of succulents, including a yellow flowering one. It’s on the ledge outside her room, room 2107. She still doesn’t have a nameplate, which kind of bothers me. It’s been almost a week. Anyway, she comes in and I invite her to do the puzzles or art projects that I found on Amazon: projects for Alzheimer’s adults. She nods yes to doing the puzzles. I’m so appreciative of the nod. There have been so many “nos” that I’m thrilled for a nod. She also wants some nuts and crackers that I bought at TJs. I’m thrilled. She’s alert and awake. While she works on the puzzles, I work to recreate the many bills I’ve paid over the last month. The thousands at HomeGoods, Amazon, Task Rabbit (ask me about that again sometime), and not including the miles I used for Operation Jung Refugee. In between slogging through the accounting, which included transfers to/from Venmo and PayPal and to/from my account to Marc’s and to/from my account to theirs and from their savings to their checking and their other checking, which didn’t work at all, by the way. In between doing all that, I’m messaging with the last of the people who are picking up items from the condo in Manteo and my aunt. She is interested in my mom; she’s interested in the articles I found about David, their dad. Their dad who commit suicide at age 37. I want people to know that it wasn’t all alcohol and drugs and whatever. My mom has Alzheimer’s, one doctor said in North Carolina. Who knows for how long she’s been struggling and hiding and compensating.