Losing It

She walked to the bank every Friday to deposit her social security check. She'd been doing it on her own for a long time, since her husband of 49 years died of a brain tumor ten years back. She folded the check in half then put it in her wallet, in the zippered part, then clicked her wallet shut and put it in her pocketbook. After securing the purse strap on her shoulder, Grandma put on her navy peacoat over her handbag to hide it, and left her one bedroom lower level apartment onto Hobart Street in the heart of L.A.

Every so often if I was in town I'd join Grandma on her weekly walk. We were never particularly close. She’d always been contentious, but she once had a quick wit and delivered it with sharp humor, both of which left her years ago, as did the radiant beauty she once possessed. Conversations were now limited to her endless list of complaints, physical, familial, social. Visiting was always a chore, but she was all the extended family either of us had. And family is family.

Her bank was on the corner of Wilshire and Vermont, a particularly noisy, crowded intersection of two major thoroughfares, but grandma was used to the hustle and bustle. She was a city girl—from Manhattan first, lived above a candy/soda fountain shop she ran with her husband. Following her daughter to California, she'd lived at the Hobart Street flat just south of Hollywood, locally known as the Miracle Mile District, for the last 45 years.

We walked down her quiet street of whitewashed, art deco apartments at a hurried pace and with purpose. And she was fast, especially for a mere 4'10” old woman. It was generally somewhat difficult to keep up with her. But on this particular Friday when we turned off her quiet corner onto Wilshire Blvd. Grandma startled, and stopped, clearly confused.

I practically ran into her. My intrusion into her space brought her back to the present and she scolded me for not paying attention and we were on our way again. Her pace was slower now, more cautious, and I knew something was wrong but couldn't figure out what. I offered to go get my car and drive her, and by the tone of her refusal it was clear she didn't care for the implication behind my suggestion.

She picked up her pace so I hurried alongside her in silence the rest of the way to the bank. Grandma opened the glass door, took a few steps inside and stopped dead. I stood panting beside her as she stared around the large, brightly lit space—at the tellers behind the long counter, the desks of the managers and sales reps across the way. She took on this horrified expression, brought her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a scream and her eyes filled with tears that slid down her face when she blinked.

"I have no idea where I am, or why I'm here." She whispered, clearly shamed. "I know I'm losing my mind. I can feel it but I can't stop it." Then she looked away, out the wall of windows at the crowded intersection beyond.

I'd never seen my grandmother cry, not even at her husband's funeral. She was a hard woman. My mom/her daughter, had been telling me for months that Grandma was losing it. Her normally sharp tongue was telling tales of things that never happened, my mother warned. She was taking too much medication because she'd forgotten she'd taken it earlier.

Grandma stood in the middle of the bank crying and I stood there gaping without a clue what to do. People started staring so I took her by the arm and led her to a chair by an empty desk. I knelt in front of her, held her hands in mine and told her to look at me. She did. Her gray eyes focused on mine and I saw the fear of age in them. I spoke softly—told her where we were and why, and that we'd walked there together.

Recognition filled her face but her gloom remained. She retrieved a Kleenex from the small travel pack she kept in her purse, dabbed her face and wiped her nose. She needed a minute before going to a teller window and depositing her check. For the life of her she couldn't remember how to do the math required for the cash back she needed.

"I'm going crazy. I just know it." She looked at me and I felt her begging me for salvation.

I gave her my pocket calculator, and while I taught her how to work it I reassured her she no longer needed simple math skills. We filled out her deposit slip together then checked the math with the machine at the teller window. Grandma slipped her $50 into the zippered part of her wallet then put it in her pocketbook and we were on our way.

Though I wanted to, I though better of suggesting she stay at the bank and I go get my car. She seemed back to her old self, hustling along Wilshire Blvd. I paced her in silence back to her flat halfway down Hobart Street. Inside her own environment she seemed at ease. We watched her favorite soap opera and then she made us scrambled eggs with onions for a late lunch. I helped her with the dishes and left, making light of her dementia with senior moment jokes and feeling confident Grandma was going to be just fine.

I did not accompany her to the bank the following Friday. When she got to the teller window and realized she'd lost the calculator I gave her. She panicked and became disoriented again. The teller was kind enough to call my mom who came from the Valley to pick her up and drive her the half mile home. That afternoon, an hour or two after my mom left her, grandma took three doses of Valium in less than an hour and ended up in the hospital getting her stomach pumped from the overdose.

Not too long after that my mother got a court order for legal custody of her mother. At first, when my grandmother was still lucid, she resented the hell out of her daughter's authority and the Home she was forced to reside in. When I'd pick her up for family functions she'd spend the entire ride slamming my mom. But her anger gave way to wonder as the dementia took hold and her memories were replaced by complex fantasies of exotic places she'd traveled and events she never experienced.

Less than a year from the second bank incident my grandmother did not recognized her family, did not know me, or her own daughter, claimed she never had a child. Though my mother continued to visit her weekly for the next two years, Grandma never acknowledged she had a daughter. This took its toll on my mother, my grandmother was none the wiser, seemed better off since crossing the line of reality all the way. Her flat gray eyes filled with excitement when she told of her adventures on Safari in the jungles of Africa, or the time she did the Atlantic crossing on the Queen Mary.

Her fantasies shielded her from harsh realities present and looming. At 89, her body and mind were shutting down, her time running out, on the fringe of life now and almost invisible. Surely she felt it too. Maybe so many old people lose their mind because the reality of their marginal existence is just too heavy to bear. Dementia was her reprieve. Insanity served her. But getting there--watching herself lose her own mind must have been hellish.

A few years after grandma passed, my mom died of cancer. She never lost her mind, was sentient to the bitter end. But my father is 83, and his is clearly going. He repeats the same sentence several times. He slurs words, jumbles them, can't find the right ones. He is on scores of medication for his heart, blood pressure, liver, and other vital organs shutting down with age. Once an articulate pontificator, my dad talks mostly of his many ailments now. He tries to assure me he's 'accepted his lot,' living in a private apartment in Building One of the retirement Home he recently moved to in Washington, far from the California sunshine he loved, but nice, and affordable.

On the phone with him last Saturday, I heard the fear, the raw terror in his voice as he spoke of the terminal patients in Building Three of the Home. I sought words of wisdom to lighten his load but could think of none. My heart ached for him. I wanted to save him, but know I can not. As I hung up the phone, as harsh as it seems, even to me, I wished for my father a speedy trip into a pleasant dementia.


1 comment:

Grace Burrowes said...

Other cultures, many of which we'd call backward, do not isolate their aged in places where all they can see is misery, more isolation and death. There, one prepares for dying at home and the final journey is shared. Guess it's too late to wish I might finish aging and die in such a backward society.

Very thought provoking post. Thanks.