Caring For Mary (4 page)
Authors: Nicholas Andrefsky
Mary: They live too far away to tell me anything.
Nicholas: So as long as they are not close by, they can’t give you their opinion?
Mary: Yes.
There are countless examples of these little disconnected conversations that, to the unhinged mind, make perfect sense. Sometimes, in anticipation of the conversation, I would preempt her.
Mary: Honey, do you think— (This would invariably be about food.)
Nicholas: No, honey, I don’t think—
Mary: Okay, dear.
Mary: Honey, isn’t it— (This, too, would be about food.)
Nicholas: No honey, it isn’t—
Mary: Okay, dear. When do—
Nicholas: Soon, dear.
Mary: Okay, honey.
Mary: Nick, shouldn’t I—
Nicholas: No, honey, you shouldn’t. I cook.
Mary: Good. You know I’m a good cook, though.
Nicholas: I do.
When she would fish for a snack, it made me just a little crazy.
Nicholas: Honey, why are you wandering around aimlessly?
Mary: I want … to … put something … attractive in my mouth.
Nicholas: How about my hand? Can’t you just say you’re hungry?
Mary: I’m not hungry—I just want something sweet to chew on.
Nicholas: Then you’re going to spit it out in the sink, I suppose.
Mary: No, I’m going to swallow it.
Nicholas: So, to recap, you want something attractively sweet to chew on for the sole purpose of swallowing it, yes?
Mary: Yes, dear.
Nicholas: I’m thinking you might want a snack.
Mary: That would be nice, dear.
W
e had three cats: Stivagli, Olivia, and Betty Jo, a.k.a. the Wink. Mary was always amazed that there were little kitties
everywhere
.
Having no memory, she would constantly exclaim, “Look, there are cats here!”
The other thing that amazed and freaked her right out of her collapsing mind was that Stivagli and the Wink were both black. When they appeared together, it was like a John Carpenter film to her.
Ultimately, Stivagli—who was terribly unhappy with the new living arrangements and living with two other female cats—agreed to relocate to Farmingdale, New York, to live with a semi-retired widow in her quiet condo. Lucky cat. Mary never noticed.
Mary: Look at all these cats!
Nicholas: Two cats are not “all,” honey.
Mary: But where did they come from?
Nicholas: Popi and I brought them when we moved in.
Mary: You moved in?
Nicholas: Yes, honey. We live here with you.
Mary: Where do you sleep?
Nicholas: Popi sleeps in his room, and I sleep in the room next to yours.
Mary: Did I make your bed?
Nicholas: Honey, you didn’t even know I lived here—how could you make the bed?
Mary: Because it’s the right thing to do.
Nicholas: Be that as it may, I make my own bed.
Mary: That’s good, honey.
After acclimating over time to having cats, the conversations turned to disagreements over their outdoor proclivities. They were completely fenced in, which meant nothing to the elderly worrywart.
Mary: Honey, I’m going to shut the door to keep the cats in.
Nicholas: No, sweetie. The cats like going outside.
Mary: But I don’t want them outside.
Nicholas: That is not your decision to make since they are not your cats.
Mary: Yes, they are. They are my cats.
Nicholas: Okay, if they are your cats, what are their names? [I know, I
know
; a cruel display of logic]
Mary: That doesn’t matter.
Nicholas: It does to me. And you keep calling them
him
when they are both girls. I know this because they are my cats.
Mary: I still don’t want them outside.
Nicholas: Sadly, honey, you don’t get a vote on this.
Over time, we allowed Mary to believe that the Wink was entirely her cat because she slept on her lap for long stretches and went into her room at night for “sleepies.” That did not change the outcome of the conversations.
Nicholas: Honey, don’t close the door—we need the air.
Mary: But the kitty is going out.
Nicholas: And she has been doing so all day long and you haven’t minded.
Mary: But now it’s getting dark.
Nicholas: Which means what exactly?
Mary: That they’ll get lost.
Nicholas: That is not possible since they are completely screened in.
Mary: But I want them in.
Nicholas: So it doesn’t matter what they want.
Mary: I don’t like you right now. You’re not being nice.
Nicholas: Because I am disagreeing with you?
Mary: Yes.
Nicholas: So if I disagree with you, then I’m not nice.
Mary: Yes.
Nicholas: And when you disagree, are you not nice?
Mary: I am always nice.
Nicholas: So then I have to always do what you say in order for you to be happy.
Mary: No.
Nicholas: Then I disagree and let the chips fall where they may.
Mary: I want to go home.
Nicholas: This
is
your home, honey.
Mary: My other home.
Nicholas: And which one would that be, the one in Irvington, New Jersey, where you lived as a kid, the one in Middletown, New York, where you lived for forty years, or Palermo, Italy, where your parents live?
Mary: My house.
Nicholas: Okay, honey, you go to your house.
Mary: I will. Where’s my room?
Nicholas: You want to watch
The Three Tenors
, remember?
Mary: Oh yes. Are they on now?
Nicholas: Yup
And so it would go. You could never disagree if you wanted to be viewed as nice. Mary had to have her way, and there were times when I would let her have her way—but only if the timing was right. Don’t get me wrong—I am not a tough task master. But if the house was warm on a beautiful day, there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to let her close the doors and windows because she was chilly. As the temperature started to dip, she could have her way, but till then—uh uh!
Lessons Learned:
Misdirection. For those of you not in the theatre world, misdirection deliberately leads the audience the wrong way for the sake of surprise—like a red herring. This is the person who looks so guilty in every way so that the audience believes they are the culprit when actually it’s the little psychopathic toddler suffering from schizophrenia and illusions of a nonbedwetting lifestyle. Whenever possible, I would change the direction of the conversation to kill the problem. And it’s good to own opera DVDs.
Misdirection works in wondrous ways. Mary’s would say, “Honey, is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Sit
down and leave me alone”
immediately leaps to my lips. However, except when I’m cleaning, I say, “No, honey.” An elderly OCD-laden woman can easily be encouraged to dust things. She’s very careful, tires quickly, and is happy to have helped.
Second Lesson Learned:
Find their niche and play to it.
Family Trivia for One
Sugar Cookie Please, Alex
A
s time goes on, Mary’s memory worsens. The only nice thing really about a ridiculous argument is that she forgets right away and doesn’t spend the night fretting. Yes, it is sad to see her change. She used to say, “That’s my daughter Boo Boo. That’s my little girl Taisia. That’s Frank Pank and my beautiful husband, Jackson.” Now she says, “Aren’t my relatives nice looking?” She doesn’t know a single name.
A few months ago, I was on the phone with Tiz and Mary recognized her voice and wanted to chat. A few nights ago, Beth and I were Skyping, Mary walked over and asked who it was without recognizing the voice or the face.
So, we play trivia for cookies. I give her enough hints to get her there and—believe me—she
wants
that damn cookie.
Nicholas: Okay, sweetie, here we go. Who is this man? (I hold up a photo of her late husband, Jackson, singing at Boo Boo’s house.)
Mary: That’s my husband. He was a priest, you know.
Nicholas: Very good and, yes, I know. I knew Jackson, honey.
Mary: You did?
Nicholas: Yes, but let’s focus, okay? What
was your husband’s name?
Mary: Oh, honey, I don’t know.
Nicholas: Okay, let’s figure it out. What is your last name?
Mary: G—
Nicholas: Very good. So if he was your husband, what was
his
last name?
Mary: G … Jackson G—
Nicholas: Well done, honey. Wanna try for another cookie?
On and on it would go, but only as far as her three children. Her grandkids are foreign to her in every possible way—but she knows the two oldest by name (but not by photo).
Lesson Learned:
This is a good way to kill time (instead of self).
The Dance of a Thousand Dinners
M
ary’s biggest worry is what she is going to make for dinner. The answer changes with my mood, but the outcome is always the same.
I cook.
All day long Mary would ask what she would make for dinner—before breakfast, during breakfast, after breakfast, during lunch, after lunch, during dinner, and
after
dinner.
Mary: Honey, what am I going to make for dinner?
Nicholas: Honey, we haven’t eaten breakfast yet. I have no idea.
Mary: Well, when do you think we’ll know?
Nicholas: Perhaps after lunch—is that okay?
Mary: Yes, honey. [wait for it] What are we having for lunch?
Mary: Honey, what am I going to make for dinner?
Nicholas: Whatever you want to make.
Mary: What do we have?
Nicholas: Take a look.
Mary (searching fridge): I don’t know what anything is. Can I make this?
Nicholas: Yes, darling, but I don’t think—no matter how you prepare it—you will enjoy a box of baking soda.
Mary: Honey, what am I going to make for dinner?
Nicholas: What do you feel like?
Mary: I don’t know. What do we have?
Nicholas: Chicken hot, chicken cold, or tuna. [remember; colitis and diverticulitis]
Mary: Oh, honey, why don’t you decide?
Nicholas: I usually do, honey.
Then, after she was convinced that it was my turn to cook because she cooked
last
night, she would offer to help. More misdirection.
Mary: What can I do to help you, honey?
Nicholas: Find the sugar (this takes ten minutes—more than enough time to prep dinner).
Speaking of sugar, if it were up to her, she would live on it. It got to the point where I would only make her half a cup of decaf because she only took one tablespoon with half a cup—and with a full cup, she needed three tablespoons. With half a cup of decaf and lots of milk and—
voilà
—no problem. This brings us to wine.
Vino che generosa,
the little guinea broad says. “I’m Italian. I love my wine,” says Mary—and she does so daily! Now, of course, she is not allowed to have wine, but being the caregiver’s caregiver, I was happy to promote the
illusion
—until I had that bone surgically removed from my skull.
Phase 1:
Go to the store and buy a bottle of nonalcoholic merlot. Pour into a regular wine bottle. Refrigerate (argh!) and serve.
Phase 2:
Buy nonalcoholic wine and forget to pour into other bottle. Mary does not notice. Yay!
Phase 3:
Accidentally spill wine and there is none left. Take half a bottle of raspberry-lime seltzer and surreptitiously mix in cranberry-pomegranate juice. Pour into wine bottle. Success!
Phase 4:
Am no longer surreptitious.
Phase 5:
Mix batch right in front of her.
Phase 6:
Just give her juice and ask how the wine is. She loves her
vino
—she’s Italian, you know.
Lesson Learned:
When it comes to food and drink, keep it simple. You really don’t have to be a gourmet to keep someone happy.
M
ary also suffered from the delusion that she lived down the street with her momma and daddy—that is, when they weren’t spending the night with her.
Mary: I’d like to go home today.
Nicholas: Honey, you are home.
Mary: No, I mean my other home.
Nicholas: Where is that, honey?
Mary: Down the street.
Nicholas: Okay, let’s go.
I’d bundle her up because it was below seventy-two outside—which meant coat and gloves—and we’d walk down the street till she was tired. Then we turned around and came home. This happened for a couple of days until I suddenly remembered that I had a car.
Then we’d drive up and down the street, trying to find her house. One day, much to my chagrin, she
found
her house. Rather, it was a neighbor who, again to my chagrin, was home when I knocked.
Nicholas: Hi. My name is Nicholas and I’m sorry to bother you, but you see that sweet old lady in the car? She thinks this is her parents’ home so I had to knock.
Neighbor: Oh, that’s all right. Would you like me to come out and say hi?
Nicholas (whose hand was deep in pocket ready to propose bribe): Would you mind terribly?
The lady was very kind. She chatted with Mary and even went as far as to say she had just moved in and the former owners—Mary’s parents—were the sweetest, most charming people she had ever met.
Mary was thrilled and never asked to stop there again. Eventually, she gave up the search—not at all to my chagrin.