I know what you are thinking: oh, no, not that story again. I'm sorry to tell you, when life shrinks to the size of a pinhead, there's not much else to talk about. The old ladies are too polite to talk about bowel movements, but food and flowers are fair game. They are also inordinately interested in the behavior and personalities of the people who work at the care center.Last night Mom and Jane showered praise on a young man named Mario (not his real name). He's a slender man with rugged Latin looks. Mom and Jane described him as honest, caring, and responsive (my interpretation, not their words). This young man has spoken maybe two words to me in the sixteen months I've been visiting. He rarely even looks at me. In his defense, I don't think English is his first language. It could be a cultural thing. It could also be that I'm family of a resident; therefore, I have the power to make his life difficult. He doesn't know I'm one of his biggest fans: I asked the staff if someone could find glider tips to put on the back legs of my mother's walker so she didn't get caught on the rug. The next day, they appeared, and Mom said Mario was the hero who made it happen. I'm glad the ladies like him. It doesn't matter if he likes me as long as he treats my mother well.
The aides at the care center are a diverse crew, with poetic names like Pema, Nema, and Menuka. One wears a hijab and speaks perfect American English. The others have diverse accents. Mom likes them all. I detect no prejudice from Mom or Jane toward any of the staff. In true blue collar style, the old ladies reserve their vitriol for management. Right on.
“Last night someone pounded on my window at three o'clock in the morning,” Jane said. Mom, halfway through her cigarette, looked alarmed and confused. I must have looked skeptical.
“Sometimes one of the aides goes out to smoke and knocks on my window to get back in,” Jane said. If that is true, there are so many problems with that I don't know how to even begin to think about it. I have my doubts; the aides have walkie-talkies to communicate, and the Med-Aide has a key. I can't imagine that any staff member would have the nerve to wake up a resident to be let in. I thought about the other claims Jane has made—the radio that plays in the middle of the night that no one hears but her; the “bowling ball” that fell from the upper story window in the bush outside her room... I gotta wonder if she is a particularly lucid dreamer.
“Not only that, two big trucks came into the parking lot in the middle of the night.”
“Trash trucks?” I wondered.
“They had lights that went round and round.”
“Street sweepers?”
“Yeah, more like that. Lost, probably.”
I could only shake my head and shrug. What should I do about mysterious trucks and intrusive visitors showing up late at night outside the window of a slightly demented old lady with anxiety and paranoid tendencies?
“Don't say anything” Jane said to me, meaning, don't mention these incidents to the managers. “They are already out to get me.”
Mom handed the stub of her cigarette to me to dispose of in the ash bin. When she finishes her cigarette, we know it is time to head for the door.
Tonight when I take the old ladies out for their smoke, I predict the air will be hot and hazy. Smoke has rolled back over the Portland area, filtering the sun with haze from the wildfires. We are surrounded on three sides by burning timber. On the bright side, the old smokers don't mind a little more smoke. I'm the only one who suffers. My eyes are still gritty from the last go-round.
In addition to her other complaints, Jane complained about the roses blocking the view in front of her window. One tall stem has four shabby pink roses. Tonight I will sneak my mother's clippers out with us and whack off that stem. One less thing for her to obsess over.
