Thursday Conversations

Last summer I spent a couple hours every Thursday afternoon talking with some women at an adult day care center near where I work. The women there are affected to varying degrees by Alzheimer's and similar disorders.

Rita. When I met her, she was over one hundred years old. She always had perfect red lipstick lips and beautiful old earrings. She was living with her daughter and son-in-law, and they dropped her off a couple times a week at the center. She had been going there a couple days or maybe a couple months or maybe even longer; her answers always varied. Rita felt frustrated, because she had been told she would be visiting her daughter's family, but then she found out they had sold her house in Rhode Island. I don't know if this is exactly how it happened, but that doesn't really matter. Rita felt cheated- she wanted to go home. Her smile and her determination affected me greatly. Her life had been a hard one, but she wouldn't say that. She would say that she was blessed with two wonderful daughters and that she worked as a single mom when most women couldn't imagine working outside the home. Rita would say that she helped her family when no one else was there. She married her high school sweetheart, but then he went overseas with the military, and she was left to raise two young girls on her own for a time. She needed him to come home (he hadn't been home in so long), and the military approved a transfer back home. He got sick and died before he saw his family again. Rita got a job and found a way to still pick her kids up from school on time each day. She married again, when her girls were teenagers, but she was left a widow for a second time. She kept working and kept saving for her girls' educations. Then, her uncle (a railroad worker) lost both his legs in a work accident. No one else in her family offered to help him, and Rita couldn't stand the idea of him living by himself. She took him in to live with her family. I heard this story (or versions of it) many Thursdays. I always asked her how she did this, how she found the strength to keep going, keep working, keep living, and she always said the same thing, "I just did." She often told me she'd like to get another job. The fact that she was over a hundred years old did not seem to be a deterrent in her mind. Most Thursdays it was the first time we met. Some Thursdays she thought I was an old friend of the family. Every Thursday she would tell me to go after what I wanted, to make the life I want.

Bertha. Bertha did not want to be at the center. Every ten minutes she would tell me it was time for her to leave. I would tell her that her niece Camilia would pick her up at four thirty. She would say, "oh, yes, Camilia." Many times she'd tell me she needed to find her kids; it was time for them to be heading out. I don't know if her kids were dead or just lived very far away, but the only family I saw her with was her niece's. Sometimes Bertha would be very insistent about leaving. So I would ask her what she would do if she were at home. She said she would enjoy. "Enjoy" was Bertha's word. She loved to relax and eat and enjoy. She would frequently ask me to take her out, out to dinner, out dancing, out anywhere. The first couple weeks, I was very nervous about this kind of talk. I didn't want to say anything that would get me in trouble with the center. As time wore on, however, I started to agree. "Yes, Bertha. Where would we go? What would we eat? Would you like to drive?" It was a distraction she needed. We mostly had the same conversation; I'd compliment her blouse, she would rub my shoulder with one bony hand and lean in and thank me with her eyes, she would want to leave, I would tell her that I want her to stay, to enjoy. I never ran out of conversation with Bertha. I had maybe five talking points, but she never minded that I repeated myself. Some days she would be very weary. She would tell me her husband has died and she needs to make the arrangements, but she has no money. I knew her husband must have died years and years ago. I told her that it would work out, that someone would come through for her. She would wave away my assurances and tell me what a good man her husband was. "He was a preacher, you know. No one heard a man preach as well as him." She would laugh and smile and then grow quiet again. Having no husband of my own, I cannot imagine the enormous heartache associated with a loss like that, nevermind having to relive the days after even years later. Sometimes I wish I had taken Bertha out; I wish we'd gotten all dolled-up and ordered cornbread and greens and just enjoyed.

Betty. The first thing I noticed about Betty was that she never stopped moving. Also, the employess seemed to have little patience for her. The center scheduled a new activity every thirty minutes or so, but the only thing Betty ever did was walk. She would quickly pace from room to room, muttering, worrying. When I walked with her, she would brighten. I would compliment her on her clothes (she was always so well put together) and she would smile and talk about the item of interest. I would try to take her mind off her worrying. The best way to do this was to talk about Colorado. She'd lived there with her family and she loved it. It was easy to see that her frail frame had once been adept at skiing and hiking. She had graduated college and all five of her kids had, as well. She was so proud. Most of the time I could only get one or two coherent sentences from her at a time before her speech would turn to worrying. Her worries weren't ever clear. It seemed like she would string two halves of different worries together. She never stopped walking as she worried. I would try to calm her anxiety, but nothing I said helped entirely. The best time, though, was the time the center let me take her outside. She was amazed at every flower, color, building. I was amazed to see how much of her anxiety melted away at the influence of nature. I guess it was the Colorado girl in her. The last couple times I visited, Betty was very different. An employee told me that her family had changed her medication. The anxiety was definitely gone but so was her excitement. It was like they had erased Betty along with the worrying. I don't know if they ever changed the medication again, but I can only hope that she is walking through those rooms again instead of sitting sedately in some chair staring at a game of bingo.