Too Near the Edge (8 page)

“But she doesn’t believe it was an accident.
And I think she’ll be better off knowing as much as she can.”

“How are you two on drinks?” A sweaty waiter
on the restaurant side of the bar eyed Erik’s nearly empty
glass.

“I’ll take another one of these,” Erik
said.

“I’m fine,” I said, preoccupied with thinking
about how to get Erik to be more forthcoming about Adam’s
problems.

I waited until the waiter was out of earshot,
and asked, “Why would he have jumped? Was it business
troubles?”

Erik gave me a conspiratorial smile.. “Look—
there’s a lot Sharon doesn’t know about him. They were only married
two years, you know. And I think they were only together about a
year before that.” Erik leaned closer and spoke softly. “I wouldn’t
want Sharon to know this. But Adam had gotten into internet
gambling. He lost a bundle, kept thinking he’d make it back, but it
got worse instead of better. He borrowed on his business to pay the
debts.”

“I didn’t know Adam,” I said, “but from what
I’ve heard about him, he doesn’t sound like the type of person to
jump off a cliff and leave Sharon and Nathan without a note
explaining why. And if he was going to kill himself, why drive all
the way to the Grand Canyon to do it?”

He sighed, and took on a pensive look. “I
don’t think he was planning to jump when he went there. In fact, I
was originally going on the trip with him.”

“You were going with him?”

“Yes, but it turned out that I had to visit
my brother for an important family thing. I tried to talk Adam out
of going by himself. But he said he couldn’t wait any longer to get
some clarity to come to a decision on what to do. He thought an
answer would come to him at the Grand Canyon, but it didn’t, so he
panicked and bailed out.”

The waiter came back with Erik’s drink, which
gave me an opportunity to look away and collect my thoughts. This
was turning into a very curious evening. I know it sounds odd, but
in a way Erik’s mysteriousness added to the strong attraction I
felt for him. At the same time, I felt annoyed that he’d kept all
this from Sharon.

As soon as the waiter left, I continued my
questions. “So you’re not going to tell Sharon any of this?”

“No, I’m not. And I don’t want you to tell
her either.” Okay, that was a little bossy, but I didn’t feel bound
by what he wanted me to do or not do, so I didn’t argue with him
about that. But I did want to convince him to be honest with
Sharon.

“Don’t you think she deserves to know what
was really going on with Adam? All her questions and doubts are so
troubling, the truth might be a relief—even though it’s not news
she’ll want to hear.”

“Look, Cleo,” Erik paused until I returned
his intent gaze. “I know you want the best for Sharon. But I know
her better than you do. I’ve been taking good care of her and
Nathan. I have them on dietary supplements that will boost their
immune system cells and improve their energy levels. And I’m making
sure they get plenty of exercise. This is what they need to help
them let go of the past and move on. Trust me, I’ve been through
this after my wife died, and I know what works. You’ll be doing
Sharon a big favor if you discourage this idea of contacting Adam,
and encourage her to focus on her future.”

I have never subscribed to the
just-let-go-of-the-past-and-move-on approach to dealing with grief.
It’s the old time-heals-all-wounds myth.

I’ve found people do much better when they
actively work through their grief, much of which involves looking
honestly at the relationship they had with the person who died, and
seeing what they need to do to feel complete with that
relationship. I didn’t want to debate theories of grief recovery
with Erik, but I did want to acknowledge his backhanded mention of
Jenny’s death.

“I know you have some personal experience
with grief, since your wife died less than a year ago,” I said
quietly. “I knew Jenny. She was my Gramma’s favorite nurse. You
must miss her terribly.”

“Look, she was careless. It’s caused me a lot
of grief, but I’ve had to get over it and take care of myself. Life
is short.” Erik gulped the rest of his drink and motioned for the
check.

I was too stunned to answer. His rapid jump
from sensitive to callous gave me whiplash.

He got out his credit card. “I need to get
home, it’s late,” he said. “Hey! Maybe you’d like to check out my
website.” Erik gave me a sweet smile that reminded me why I had
worn the lavender sundress. He handed me a card that read “Vaughn’s
Holistic Healing…innovative and affordable products for your
journey to optimal wellness.”

At this point I felt a little bit jerked
around by Erik’s emotional volatility, so I jumped off my barstool
and said, “Thanks for the drink. Talk to you later.” I ducked out
to Pearl Street and began walking west toward my house eight blocks
away.

Walking along the quiet, dimly lit sidewalk,
I thought about Adam. Could Sharon be wrong about him? Had he
gotten himself into deep gambling debt and jumped over the edge of
the canyon? It didn’t fit with my image of the loving husband and
stepfather who had adopted Sharon’s son. I did know gambling
addicts often leave loved ones alone and poor. Still, I didn’t
think Tyler would be telling me to “play Nancy Drew,” if Adam’s
death was suicide. But I couldn’t figure why Erik was so convinced
of this explanation.

I was so deep in thought that I tripped on an
uneven piece of paving when a sprinkler system started in the yard
next to me. As I picked myself up, bruised, annoyed, and wet, I
gave new credence to the accident possibility. Even a cautious
person in familiar territory can get distracted and stumble. I
decided I should definitely encourage Sharon to be open to all the
potential explanations.

On Wednesday morning, I had planned to get to
Shady Terrace in time to visit Gramma before I went to her
quarterly Care Conference. But I stopped at the gym to work out and
got held up for 15 minutes by the road construction on Broadway, so
I barely made it in time for the conference. When I rushed in to
the tiny windowless conference room, most of the interdisciplinary
team members were already gathered there. Betsy, the sweet
twenty-something social worker for the Alzheimer’s Unit was talking
on her cell phone to someone who was looking for a nursing home for
a parent. She twisted a lock of her long curly blond hair with one
finger as she earnestly recited the benefits of care at Shady
Terrace.

Susanne, the gray-haired slightly overweight
dietary technician, made notes in a bulging day-planner notebook,
highlighting some of them in yellow. Tanya, my adversary from
nursing, munched on a cinnamon roll as she chatted with Alicia, the
bubbly long-legged activity director. I wondered how much of
Alicia’s boundless energy came from the grande-sized Starbucks
paper cup in front of her.

They all stopped what they were doing when
the medical director, Dr. Ahmed—a slightly-built dark-skinned man
in an impeccable white lab coat—darted in and took the seat at the
head of the table. He placed a stack of residents’ medical charts
on the table in front of him, nodded a brief greeting to the group,
opened the top chart, and said, “Martha Donnelly, age 87.”

This no-nonsense beginning to Gramma’s care
conference was typical. The schedule is always tight, and staff
members are in a rush to get back to their routine tasks. As usual,
they did a quick round where each member described Gramma’s recent
ups and downs in their area of expertise. I’d been coming to these
conferences for years, so by now I could recite nearly all their
lines on my own. Gramma spurned most group activities, especially
bingo. She would attend musical performances, which she usually
enjoyed. She refused to eat anything that required much chewing,
didn’t drink enough fluids, and didn’t sleep well at night. It was
the nighttime activity that was the issue today.

“I told you about the behaviors, Cleo,” Tanya
said, leaning across the narrow table in my direction. Her face was
so close I could see bits of partially-chewed cinnamon roll as she
spoke. “We had a tough time calming her down after she tried to
climb into Flora’s bed, and Flora was furious. We’ve tried
everything to keep Martha settled in the evening, but it’s not
working. I really think she needs new medications. What do you
think, Dr. Ahmed?” She finally looked away from me, as she turned
her face in his direction.

He flipped through Gramma’s chart, without
looking up. Dr. Ahmed isn’t much for social skills. “We could try
Ambien,” he said, writing in her chart—no doubt already ordering
the sleeping pills. “We can start with a low dose and see how she
responds. She might actually be more alert during the day if she
gets more sleep at night.”

I frowned and shook my head. I remembered the
problems Grampa had with Gramma wandering out in the evenings and
nights before she moved to Shady Terrace. Alzheimer’s patients are
at their worst after the sun goes down. In fact, it’s called
sundowning. So I knew what the staff were up against. But I didn’t
want to dope her up and lose even more of her essence. And in my
mind, Dr. Ahmed was all too willing to sedate the residents.

“Cleo, I understand that you don’t want her
medicated,” Tanya said. “But we have to try something to change her
nighttime behavior. I don’t want to wait until another resident
gets upset and hits her. We know she doesn’t mean any harm, but
there’s no way to explain that to them.”

I tried to make eye contact with Dr. Ahmed as
he continued to page through Gramma’s chart. “What about trying
some herbal products?” I asked, thinking of Erik’s roots. “That
fitness trainer and nutritionist who works in your Wellness
Center—Erik Vaughn—tells me that valerian helps people sleep
without drugging them.”

“We can’t use herbs like that here,” Dr.
Ahmed said, finally looking up. “They’re not FDA approved, and we
have no idea what side effects they might have. And it makes me a
little nervous that we have some nutritionist going around here,
making suggestions about medicating our residents with herbs.”

“He didn’t suggest valerian for Gramma or any
resident,” I said. “He talked about growing it, and I asked him
what it was used for, and he told me. If I sign something waiving
liability, couldn’t we at least try it? I think Gramma would want
to if she could decide for herself. You know my grandfather was
very interested in herbs. He grew lemon balm, and mint and
chamomile, and made teas that they both drank. I wouldn’t recommend
those teas for taste—personally I prefer coffee—but they both swore
by them as a daily tonic.”

Suzanne from Dietary rolled her eyes. “Cleo,
if you want to feed your grandmother herbal tea we have no problem
with that. In fact we have a selection in the kitchen,” she
said..

“We’ll start her on Ambien and see how it
goes,” said Dr. Ahmed, closing the chart and the subject.

“Do you have any other concerns, Cleo?” Betsy
asked, giving me a sympathetic look..

“No, that’s all I have, Betsy,” I said. I
knew she was trying to validate my concerns, but I was fed up with
Ahmed and Tanya by then.

I knew there was no point in arguing with
them further, so I got out of there as quickly as I could and
headed over to the Alzheimer’s unit to visit Gramma. Some of the
residents were already seated in the dining room even though lunch
wouldn’t be served for at least 20 minutes. Others were parked in
front of the TV in the main room or pacing in the vicinity of the
dining room door. Dianne Amball, slumped in her wheel chair, called
out over and over, “He-el-p me! Somebody hel-l-p me.” This was her
standard refrain, which wasn’t a cry for help in the usual sense,
but rather her way of making contact. Nothing anyone did ever got
her to stop for more than a few minutes, so no one rushed to her
aid.

Loretta, one of the newer residents on the
unit, shuffled slowly over to Dianne. “I can’t stand whiners,” she
said. “I’m a school teacher and I expect adult behavior.” I thought
to myself as I often do when I hear the confused residents speak
out this way that dementia frees people to say what most of us
merely mutter to ourselves.

Dianne ignored her and continued calling out
for help. Soon an aide appeared and wheeled her into the dining
room. Meanwhile some of the residents who had been seated in the
dining room drifted out into the main room, perhaps forgetting
lunch hadn’t been served yet. The aides gently directed them back
into the dining room, as if they had simply taken a wrong turn. I
reminded myself that taking care of these confused people is a hard
job, and I should be more patient and understanding of the staff.
As nursing homes go, this one provides pretty decent care.

I saw Gramma coming along the hall. She
looked pretty, dressed in a loose lavender dress. with her white
hair freshly brushed. Her eyes looked worried, but she smiled when
she saw me. I gave her a hug, walked with her into the dining room,
and sat with her until the food came out. Her meal was mostly
pureed since one of her Alzheimer’s symptoms is that she doesn’t
like to chew—or maybe she has forgotten how to do it. The
multi-colored mounds of mush took my appetite away, but she began
spooning it in. I said goodbye, leaving her to her lunch.

In the parking lot, I ran into Sharon. “Hey,
Cleo. I was just going out for a quick lunch. Want to join me?” she
said. “We could grab a salad at Wild Oats.”

“Sounds good. I have to be at the office by
1:00,” I said. “I’ll meet you over there.”

We sat on the covered patio outside the Wild
Oats grocery and café on Broadway and Arapahoe, munching our salads
of assorted baby greens, veggies, sprouts, tofu and sunflower
seeds, and enjoying the mountain view. At the next table, a man in
his late 50s with thinning gray hair in a pony tail shared a
sandwich with a black Labrador retriever, while pretending not to
stare at a 20-something girl in a low-riding sheer ruffled
raspberry-colored skirt, bare midriff and a pink slip-like top, as
she walked past us into the store. She didn’t look in his
direction, but I figured she knew the effect she had. I never
dressed like that in my twenties, but now that I’m 37 I kind of
wish I’d tried it out back then.