Just When Things Were Going So Well

I wuz robbed. Seriously. I realized it after I hauled my laundry to the launderette and opened my car trunk for the supplies I keep there, all newly replenished and unused, I might add. They were gone. Last week, when I picked up Flip's suitcase full of clothing from the first nursing home, I left it in the car so I wouldn't have to carry it up and down stairs next time it was needed. The suitcase is gone, too, plus an expensive bicycle pump, never used, and many tools of various kinds. I wonder what else was stored there that I can't recall. Yet how can I complain when Flip is losing everything?

For several days I've been putting things in the back seat because the trunk was full. There is no sign the lock was jimmied - the culprit must have used a skeleton key or something. He's done it before. I suspect it happened the other night when I was parked about 1/2 mile from the ER in a neighborhood so dodgy that one of the security guards escorted me to my car about 1:15 am. I should mention that my car does not look as if it would have anything valuable in it.

Flip and I picked out two matching suitcases on wheels a few years ago for a trip to New York. Mine was red and his, green. Now his is gone, and the symbolism is blatant. It makes me very sad.

What kind of person would steal laundry supplies? I cannot fathom the level of depredation that requires.

Another Hospital, Another Show

Yesterday I visited Flip, as always, and when he fell asleep after I fed him lunch, I left. The traffic was very heavy both ways because it was Sunday. I bought more cat supplies and a few groceries as I intended to force myself to eat dinner although I have no appetite anymore, but the nursing home called to say that Flip had gotten outside. He was combative and they needed me to calm him down. I said I would come but it wouldn't be for a while because the cat needed his insulin injection at a precise time. I checked a few minutes later and they had called the police and an ambulance to take him to the hospital again.

After I ministered to Pekoe, I headed back to the East Bay in very heavy traffic. I think there was a Giants game and AT&T Park is near the entrance to the Bay Bridge. When I got to the hospital in Berkeley and parked in the garage (most of the doctors' spaces were empty,) I went to the ER, which had no record of him. Finally, they learned that Flip had been taken to a different hospital campus in Oakland and gave me directions. I found street parking but wandered all over the vast complex trying to find the ER. You would think it would be easy to find -- people are generally in a hurry when they go there. I saw a man steam cleaning a huge truck and yelled to him, but he couldn't hear me, so I kept walking.

Flip was on a gurney in a hallway talking to himself and didn't seem surprised to see me. They needed a urine sample so someone handed me a urinal, but I was unable to get him to produce anything. I told him that if he didn't, they would have to catheterize him, a procedure he doesn't take kindly to, understandably. After several hours, I told the attending doctor his saga including the fact that every time he is given Ativan, he becomes aggressive. The doctor wrote on his chart that he is "allergic" to Ativan. Finally. A voice of reason. Flip was given a shot of Haldol and Resperidol. One of the security guards offered me a sandwich as I mentioned that I had eaten only a croissant (almond) with coffee and a banana all day. The sandwich was turkey - starvation trumps vegetarianism - but Flip thought the sandwich was for him so we shared it. Then he conked out.

The doctor spent a couple hours on the phone, trying to find a hospital that would take him as they don't treat Alzheimer's patients. No one would. I thought of Mary in her hour of need, with no room at the inn. They decided to admit him anyway and have their social worker locate another facility in the morning, if such exists. The admitting doctor needed to speak with me, so I waited another hour. I asked the security guard if there was any coffee, and he found me a cup. It was still scalding after I added two creamers, so he got me four more, which was perfect. Another security guard escorted me to my car about a half-mile away, we high fived each other, and the coffee got me home safely at 1:45 am. There wasn't much traffic.

Today I will go to the hospital and also pick up Flip's belongings from the nursing home, the ones they haven't lost. We are no closer to finding him a place in San Francisco but I can't care for him at home any longer, which breaks my heart. All I can do is be a presence, speak sweetly to him and rub his back. It's like watching someone drown.

I just received calls from the attending doctor and social worker at the new hospital, who are going to put out a bulletin asking for placement in San Francisco. "This time I know our side will win." (Victor Laszlo, Casablanca.)

Is There a Writer in the House?

When I turned off my computer last night, I noticed kitty paw prints on the monitor. I had no idea Pekoe was a writer! I looked to see what he was working on because I'm nosy like that. I justified my snooping as getting to know my new roommate so he'll be happier until my daughter, the love of his life, returns from Paris.

We all remember Snoopy's great epic, derivative of Tolstoy, which began "It was a dark and stormy night." I admit I was a bit surprised at the excellence of Pekoe's spelling, even though he was raised by my eloquent and highly educated daughter after she saved him from a beer cooler in which he had been abandoned as a newborn kitten. It seems that despite my love and respect for non-human animals, I still retain a trace of human arrogance, which embarrasses me. I have always believed that we two-leggeds are not the pinnacle of Creation -- we are simply more likely to sing our own praises than other species.

Pekoe seems to be having an existential crisis, trying to make sense of a world in which everything familiar is gone, like coming home to find all the furniture moved. He and Flip are having remarkably similar experiences. Pekoe has moved from the home he knew to one he had never seen before, and the person who was his entire world has disappeared. We both hope ardently that it won't be for long, although I, who have been to Paris while Pekoe has not, am also thrilled and excited for her to be realizing a dream which was also something I would have loved to do when I was young. Strangely, it turns out to be just as exhilarating to experience my dreams vicariously through my children. This grown child, my youngest, has also visited Tahiti (twice,) another dream of mine from the time I saw my first Gauguin painting as a child. I even bought an English-Tahitian dictionary in my teens, when Barnes & Noble was a single brick and mortar store in Manhattan, so I would be able to converse with the natives on arrival. I'm still waiting, but somehow the fact that my daughter has been there makes it more a part of my world than it was. And she did not find it lacking, although she said that nearby Moorea is far lovelier.

Pekoe's writing is amazingly precise, yet unpretentious. I think posting his work here will not create ugly problems regarding copyright laws as I am not plagiarizing but giving full credit where it is due. It's likely that this is his first draft, so hopefully you will take that into consideration when you read it, and be kind. Here, then, in his own words, is my roommate, Pekoe:

Catie's mom is trying hard, I'll give her that. I'm sorry I scratched her (twice.) She speaks sweetly to me, at times in a voice so high it must hurt her throat, and seems to have an endless supply of foods to tempt me when I go on a hunger strike. We both know that I am only allowed to eat one food, the same flavor even, because I am diabetic, but the poor woman is desperate. The first morning I was here, I refused to eat and she ran to the store in pajamas to buy tuna for human consumption and a ripe avocado because my lovely Catie had mentioned that she should not leave avos ripening on the table as I've been known to ravage them. (I really like mangoes, too, and their skins are easier to penetrate with tooth and claw. I'm strategizing how to make her understand that I need a mango. Humans are dense, even when they mean well.) She also laid in a supply of Gerber's baby food (chicken) which savvy cat people know we can't resist. She was unbelievably grateful to me for eating, couldn't thank me enough and even sat on the floor stroking my back while I ate. Despite my intention to be indifferent to her advances, I let her. I think I'm going to like it here, but of course she can't be allowed to become overconfident. Humans will walk all over you if you let them. For now, I'm allowing her to sleep in my new bed. It's a queen size, and she isn't a large human. I can be generous.

I like her house plants and wonder what happened to the rest of them. There is a pile of plant saucers which makes me think that some of them were removed, probably because they were toxic to cats. How stupid does she think I am? I know better than to nibble on anything that could hurt me, but it must have made her feel better to think that she was providing a safe environment for me. There is a cleared two-story table in front of the bay windows with a nice view of the garden, and a big tree next to the building with a pair of small birds who visit me sometimes. They are rather entertaining creatures. I may let them live awhile, at least until I figure out how to open these heavy windows. If I can pull that off, the screens are easy. I have very sharp knives at the ends of all my claws and I know how to use them. I wish she would get me a fish tank as I need a hobby.

I'm not sure how I feel about sharing a bathroom with her. At Catie's house, I had my own bathroom. There is a chair in there which is made of the same material - I think it's porcelain - as the sink. Whenever she sits on it, no doubt to admire my new litter box which I am doing my best to keep full, I rush in and rub against her knees so she can pet me. It also provides a leg up to investigate the stuff she keeps on the shelves above it. Last night I had the most fun hiding. She kept calling me and looking under the bed a million times, checking the door to make sure she had closed it. Finally, I got bored and came out of the kitchen cupboard. All the pots and pans clattered to the floor after me and it was very satisfying, especially since I had just pooped and she had to pile all the cooking stuff into the kitchen sink and wash everything. I notice that cupboard door and all the others are firmly closed now. She is obviously educable. Now, how to use that to my best advantage...

Hope Springs Eternal

There is no comfort in resignation. To achieve that state, you have to give up a dream, a belief that things will get better than they are. It requires the most brutal honesty with yourself and strips away illusions. If I believe that it will be easier for Flip and because I love him, for me, too, when he loses all awareness of his situation, I am relinquishing forever the good stories I might tell myself about a cure for his disease which will completely restore him to his former self. And while I know that brain cells cannot regenerate themselves, I am unable to completely write off that life raft of a thought and wish him oblivion. Oblivion is too final and irrevocable. I cannot sanction it.

Flip does not go gentle into that good night. I admire his fighting spirit. I applaud that something in him is trying bravely and desperately to hold the fort, against all odds. I love that he values life enough to struggle so against a disease that is sweeping him away from his moorings like a monster riptide. I just want things to be the way they were.

He was discharged from the hospital today and transported to a nursing home in Oakland. I think he's relieved to be out of the hospital, but not impressed with his new surroundings. He has a roommate with only one leg and a loud TV. His attendant until 11:00 pm is a pleasant Ethiopian man named Tesfu, who brought him "dinner," egg salad on white bread, noodle soup and applesauce because he missed the regular dinner hour at 4:45. I hope the real meals are better. I am quite a good home cook, and it makes me sad that he will never again taste any of the meals I make which he enjoyed so much. It seems wrong to make them just for me, not because I'm unworthy but because cooking and baking are both forms of artistic expression and demonstrations of my love. Cooking for oneself seems like masturbation with food.

The first thing I was asked was whether they should let him die naturally if he got sick. No euphemisms were used. I know they need to know, but I was barely in the door. I said that it would depend on the circumstances, the quality of life he'd be leaving, and that he should not be in pain. Also, I did not wish to make such an important decision when I was utterly exhausted. I was given a sheet of paper, pink, which I promised to fill out and bring back. I haven't looked at it yet.

The neighborhood, which is reputedly dangerous, is just a barrio and seems perfectly safe in daylight. At night, many places are unsafe. More terrifying was the ride home, driving due west into the setting sun which was below the visor on my windshield. I missed a turn because I was literally blinded on a murderous freeway with everyone speeding around me, but managed to find the Bay Bridge which was so fogged in that I had to navigate by the tail lights of the car ahead of me. And tomorrow I get to do it all over again.

The facility in San Francisco has apparently changed its mind about accepting Flip. He has been branded as trouble because of the incidents of aggressiveness, even though they were caused by a drug he was given to control him. It's going to be a long, hard road. The turbaned tollbooth man is gone. (I hope it wasn't something I said.) Perhaps I only dreamed him. Why not? If life is a dream, everything we see is our own invention. I think it matters less if something is real than what we do with that perceived reality. Giving up our hopes and dreams diminishes us, and maybe with a little practice I could even rebuild a husband.

'Twas Brillig and the Slithy Toves

A very hard day today. Flip was fine when I fed him lunch and took him for a walk around the floor, but he awakened from a nap a totally different person, angry, aggressive, frustrated and not his sweet-tempered self at all. He was throwing punches at everyone, making fists, baring his teeth and hissing like a small child who is pretending to be a scary monster. Several people were in fact scared, and the woman who was scheduled to be his evening sitter refused because she said he spat at her. (I think he must have hissed and perhaps some saliva escaped, but I didn't see it.) Security was called (again.) He remembered the words "Fuck you!" and hurled them at everyone. I think he has reached the end of his endurance for the hospital, which is like prison in his case as everyone is pushing and pulling him and controlling everything he does. Another dimension to his pain derives from being relatively young and used to exercising his body. In his mind, I think, he is fighting for his life, Flip against the world. He even yanked my arm off his, even though I had just helped him in the bathroom by aiming his penis (inexpertly) at the toilet. His life has lost much of its dignity.

He has been accepted to a facility in San Francisco, but it will take more than a month before his name comes up on the waiting list. The hospital is discharging him tomorrow, and unless another place in San Francisco comes through at the last minute, he will have to go to one of two nursing homes in Oakland, which is even farther away in the East Bay than Berkeley. The better of the two is in a dangerous slum, and I am not pleased that I'll be alone on the street there at all hours, going to and from wherever I find parking. I have fought hard against this but don't have a choice as he is considered medically stable, and Medicare won't pay hospital charges once a doctor has made that determination. This explains why the hospital in San Francisco booted him against his doctor's orders and without my consent. It's obscene that our health decisions are no longer made by medical people but by insurance adjusters and accountants.

There will be many days like today, and some better ones as well, randomly distributed. A youngish, strong man with an elderly person's disease is a lot like a Doberman Pinscher, a breed that was created by crossing the Rottweiler with the Black and Tan Terrier and German Pinscher. While I have known some lovely Dobermans, it is generally a recipe for disaster to combine an energetic, tenacious terrier with a much larger, aggressive animal. My point, admittedly far-fetched, is that Flip's youthfulness in combination with a mind that is rapidly losing its behavioral filters is someone who could become dangerous to himself and others. While I am not afraid of him, today made me aware that he has become unpredictable and cannot be relied upon to be the delightful, intelligent, extremely compassionate man he always was. I just called to see how he's doing tonight and was told there was another episode. It sounds as if he may have had some kind of psychotic break, but perhaps it's just his brain cells exploding like popcorn over a fire.

So tomorrow he moves again, ready or not. This disease is intellectually fascinating and utterly heartbreaking. I can honestly say that given a choice, I would have preferred to remain ignorant of this particular knowledge.

I'm Sikh of Your Silent Treatment

The nursing home in Marin sent someone to assess Flip this morning and she decided that he was too physically active for their facility, as in ambulatory. This issue comes up every time because he is outrageously young for his ailment. Flip and Alzheimer's are a poor match. He has always been athletic and his body still works fine; it's his mind that is losing ground fast. So he is still in the hospital which would like to discharge him, and we still have no working plan.

Tonight I picked up my daughter's cat's drug paraphernalia, and everything is in place. All that's missing is the cat, who arrives tomorrow. My daughter is moving to Paris in a week and while I am thrilled for her, I am desolate that she will be so far away. I don't know when I'll be able to visit her as tending to Flip's care is still a full time job, and I'll have a diabetic cat who gets injections twice a day. But I'm happy that she is following her heart, and can't wait to see how her jewelry design and photography are affected by living in the City of Light. It's always exciting to watch someone's destiny unfold, especially when it's someone I love so much and who has such extraordinary gifts. Her greatest talent, though, is living life to the fullest.

Every night, returning from the hospital, I seem to be in the same lane at the Bay Bridge because the gentleman in the turban is always there. I always say "Hello" to him, or if I am feeling talkative, "Good evening." He never answers. So then I say "Thank you" as I hand him money and he silently turns on the sign which says I paid. Actually he should be thanking me as I am giving him money but he never speaks, although he does make eye contact with me. I always smile, lips closed, no teeth, but he does not.

I think his outfit is Sikh, and wonder as I drive away whether there is a religious taboo which makes it unholy to speak to a strange woman. Sikh teaching emphasizes equality of all humans and rejects discrimination on the basis of caste, creed, or gender. Maybe he is silent because the prospect of speaking to everyone who passes through his toll booth is daunting. Or maybe he is mute. He looks like a nice man with kind eyes and I would really like to exchange a human greeting with him. I wonder what would happen if I silently offered him a flower, after paying my toll of course. I wonder where I can find a lotus.

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

Today I crossed all three Bay Area bridges: Golden Gate, Richmond, Bay. I drove to Marin to check out a nursing home, then up to Sonoma to see another after which I went to Berkeley to see Flip in the hospital and finally home after stopping for cat food. You know all those t-shirts that say "My parents went to the Bahamas and all I got was this lousy t-shirt?" Well, my daughter is moving to Paris and I'm getting her diabetic cat who requires insulin injections twice a day, so whatever hell I get into will have to be confined to the 12 hours between shots. This morning before my grand tour criss-crossing San Francisco Bay, I went to the pet store and selected a litter box, litter, scoop -- like putting together a baby's layette.

The place in Sonoma was dark and dreary with a nurses' station, like a very scutzy hospital. The director had Nazi tendencies, which is never good. He said dementia patients are not allowed on the patio, only in their own wing, and that Flip's 5150 psych hold might blacklist him so he was going to call the director of the place that had him handcuffed to get her side of the story. The one who gave Flip the bum rap. He would also visit Flip to assess him. He referred to the "general population" as opposed to the dementia unit inhabitants. It sounded like a prison term, which seems fitting. As he was showing me around, he suddenly stopped in a doorway and said, "Don't look in there. Mr. Jackson has fallen out of bed." I peeked and an elderly man was trying to clamber onto the bed from the floor. My tour guide didn't go in to help him or call someone else to do it.

The facility in Marin was the least odious of all I've seen, sunlight pouring in the windows and the beautiful Northern California hills beyond. There was a little more human warmth and kindness evident and the residents looked better cared for. No bad smells. I suspect they don't leave people on the floor if they fall, and the man I spoke with seemed very kind. Flip will probably be transported there tomorrow or Monday. I've told him that he's going to a new place until he's able to come home. I wish it were true. I am not in the habit of lying to my husband, but the truth in this instance would be too painful for both of us. I'm exhausted and living on Odwalla bars, mostly Strawberry-Pomegranate.

There was a very drunk man ahead of me in line at Safeway, where I stopped for cat food before coming home. He was clutching a bunch of roses by their heads which I first thought were plastic as they were improbable colors until I noticed they were half-dead. He lurched toward me, leered, and slurring badly, said, "I got flowers for my lady so she'll forgive me." "Well, you shouldn't have done it," said I, ever the sympathetic one. "I don't want these," he told the checker as he flung them on the counter and staggered away, knocking over a display of home carpet cleaning machines.

"How are YOU?" she said to me.
"Sober."
"I don't know what it is," she said, shaking her head. "They all get in my line. And he didn't even buy her flowers." ("Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine.")

It's been a very long day. I've had my dinner Odwalla bar, Berries GoMega, and need to sleep. Sometimes I think about waking up in a different life, but I'm still curious about how this one will evolve, so I guess I'll keep it.