Fluke (32 page)

“A doctor will escort us,” Sara said, reading my mind.
 
“All of the serious cases are under constant watch.
 
Alzheimer’s patients are considered serious when they get to a certain point.”

I nodded my head and continued to not read the magazine.

“Isn’t this a terrible way to meet your girlfriend’s mother?” She asked me, letting out a small, nervous, and unhappy-sounding chuckle.

Before I had a chance to tell her that, no, Sara, it’s not terrible at all, I heard a voice.

“Hello, Sara,” a deep voice said.
 
I looked up to see a large man standing near us.
 
He must have been pushing 6’4”
.
 
I glanced down at his hands, and noticed that they were amazingly small for this man’s size.
 
They were soft, and pink, and looked as if they had never seen rough labor.

“Hi, Dr. Goldstein,” Sara said.
 
She stood up, and hugged the man briefly.
 
She turned, and introduced me.
 
“This is my boyfriend, Adam Fluke.”

“Hello, Adam,” Dr. Goldstein said.
 
His voice had a melodic, soothing quality.
 
He extended his hand, and I took the small pink hand in mine, surprised at the strength behind it.

“Nice to meet you,” I sort of mumbled to him.
 
I wasn’t sure what emotion I should be experiencing.
 
I was a little confused, nervous, tense.
 
It was how I had felt at the few funerals I had been to, except different, too.
 
I never felt like I knew how to act appropriately.

He began to talk to us then.
 
Well, mostly to Sara.
 
He spoke quietly, but sincerely, about her mother’s progress since she had last been here.
 
Her mother was not doing great, but was still strong.
 
There was a calming quality to his voice that worked to ease our tensions slightly.
 
We followed him through hallways, which became carpeted as we moved into a different wing in the same building.
 
He used terminology that I didn’t always understand, but I didn’t ask any questions.
 
I felt extremely somber as we padded across the building, and finally came to a stop in front of a large doorway.
 
The number 135 was on the placard, along with the name, “
DuBeau
, M.”
 
My heart beat a little faster.

“You know the procedure from here, Sara,” the doctor was saying.
 
“If you need anything just hit the button on the wall, and I’ll be here.
 
Is there anything I can get for you, or do for you?” he asked.

“No.
 
No, thank you, doctor.”

“Okay, Sara.
 
Good luck.” He said.
 
He turned to me, nodded his head once, and said, “Good to meet you, Adam.”

I nodded my head in return, but my mouth was so dry that I couldn’t open it in time to say anything before he left.
 
I wiped my hands on my pants, and Sara took a deep breath.
 
She extended her arm, in what looked to me like slow-motion, and knocked on the door twice.
 
I waited with bated breath, and then we heard the quiet reply.

“Come in,” Maggie
DuBeau
said, and we pushed the door open, and I met my girlfriend’s mother.

In the car from New Orleans to Texas, Sara had talked to me a while about Alzheimer’s Disease.
 
She gave me some background on the actual disease, as I really didn’t know anything about it, except the childish notion that it “made old people crazy.” She also gave me some background on her mother’s case, which was pretty rare, as her
mother was only 60 years old.
 
The average age at diagnosis is actually around 80.

“It’s a disease that just, basically, eats away brain tissue,” she said.
 
“And the brain tissue is gone forever; it never rebuilds or regenerates.”

I piloted the car down the interstate, hanging on her words.
 
She had never spoken much about her mother, and I took advantage of the time to learn as much as I could.

“You know, it’s normally old, old people that get the disease.
 
The odds of getting it when you’re still in your fifties are something like ten thousand to one.
 
But, my mom,” she paused.
 
“My mom beat the odds.”

She shifted a little in her seat, and continued: “She was about 51 when she started forgetting things, which is an early symptom.
 
She forgot little things, but progressed pretty rapidly into forgetting my name.
 
By the time she was 53 years old, she was forgetting to take a bath.
 
She was waking up in the middle of the night and walking out the front door and down the street.
 
You can’t imagine what it’s like to have to jump in the car and go find your mother at three in the morning.
 
And knowing that she might not even recognize you when you do find her…” she trailed off.

I put my hand on her thigh.
 
I wanted to say something, but had no idea what.

“I couldn’t take it,” she said, her voice weak.
 
“I was only 17 years old, and I was scared of my mother.
 
I was scared of this woman who didn’t act like my mother at all.
 
She acted like a crazy lady.
 
Sometimes she just started yelling at me for no reason.
 
I was sitting at the table one night, filling out one of my many college applications, and she came in, and just started yelling at me, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? Get out, get out!’ She didn’t know me at all, Adam.
 
And I didn’t know her, either, not by that time.

My Aunt Karen had moved in with us, and was helping with mom.
 
One night, Aunt Karen pulled me aside, and told me about the home.
 
She talked to me like she was trying to convince me that it was for the best, telling me that mom wouldn’t know the difference anymore, mom could be better taken care of by professionals, reason after reason.
 
She felt guilty about wanting to put my mother, her sister, into a home.
 
But you know what?”

I looked at her, feeling horrible for not knowing how to comfort her.
 
What do I say? I know what you mean? I understand? I didn’t, not at all.
 
I couldn’t comprehend what she had gone through at all.

“I didn’t hesitate.
 
I told Aunt Karen, yes, put her in the home,” she said.
 
“I actually felt relieved, Adam.
 
That’s awful, isn’t it?”

I shook my head no.
 
One thing I did understand was personal limitations.

“So, she went away one Saturday afternoon, in the car with Aunt Karen,” she continued.
 
“I gave her a hug that day, which was one of her good days…she told me that she would see me soon and that she loved me, which made it slightly harder.
 
Of course, all I had to do was think of the time she threw her coffee cup at me when she caught me in her room getting her laundry, to realize that I shouldn’t feel guilty.”

I chose my words carefully.
 
“It sounds like you did the best thing you could do for her, Sara.”

“I suppose.
 
That’s what Aunt Karen said and what the doctors said.
 
I spent a lot of time thinking differently, though.
 
Thinking that if only I weren’t such a selfish little bitch, I could have taken care of her.
 
My mom was losing her marbles to Alzheimer’s, and I was busy filling out college loan paperwork.”

“Sara…” I started.

“It was okay, though.
 
I learned to deal with it.
 
I went off and moved into the dorms at the school, and I drove home every couple of weekends to see mom.
 
Sometimes, she’d remember me, sometimes, she refused to see me.
 
I just came to accept it all.
 
Aunt Karen is the strong one in our little triad.
 
She’s the one that’s held everything together.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry if I’m depressing you,” she said.
 
When I started to disagree with her, she said, “I just want to you to be prepared for what you may see.
 
She might be the sweetest woman you’ve met one minute, the next minute she may throw something at us.
 
Or, she may not even acknowledge our existence.”

“Whatever condition or mood she’s in, Sara, it’s okay.
 
We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I said.

“Let’s just hope she’s together enough to remember this guy,” she said, holding up the picture I found in her closet so long ago.
 
I caught a glimpse of the guy, smiling, looking like me.
 
It was fascinating and disgusting and I wished more than anything that I had never found it.

I turned away and sighed and just hoped to God we’d make it through the day.

“Mom?” Sara said cautiously.
 
We had taken about two steps into the room, Sara in front of me.

“Who is it?” I heard a voice ask.

“It’s Sara, mom,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
 
“I came to see you, and I brought a friend.”

Sara moved further into the room, and I hung back a few steps.
 
I wanted to give Sara a minute to see what her mother’s mood was like, since I already felt totally out of place.

“Sara? I don’t know any Sara,” her mother responded.

Sara turned back and waved me forward.
 
I stepped in slowly, not wanting to aggravate the situation by my very presence, which I already sort of felt like I was doing.

What Sara had told me in the car prepared me for nearly everything, but I was still caught off guard by how young-looking her mother was.
 
If I had seen her on the street, I wouldn’t have guessed she was older than 40.
 
She looked young, and very much like Sara.

Her face was only slightly wrinkled, and her pale green eyes were carbon copies of Sara’s.
 
She had thick, dark hair, with no visible gray.
 
Her skin was pale, and she looked incredibly tired, as though she had been awake for several days (which I guess was possible), but she wasn’t what I had expected at all.

I guess I had expected a doddering old woman, frail and shriveled up, with thin white hair and age spots all over her skin.
 
I suppose my mind had been confused due to the fact that, even though Sara had told me she was only 60, I expected all Alzheimer’s patients to look like centuries-old people.
 
It was just another sign of how little I really knew about anything.

It was a nice room, though, as far as I knew, anyway, having never been into an Alzheimer’s patient’s room.
 
The walls were painted a pale pink color, and the floor was covered with a cream-
colored carpet.
 
There was a twin bed, with hospital railing along the side and a handset hanging on the rail, which I assumed controlled the bed settings and signaled the on-duty nurse.
 
Next to the bed was a wooden nightstand with a lamp and a framed picture of someone, though I couldn’t tell who.
 
The wall opposite the bed had a large window with white curtains drawn; I could see a large, grassy lawn through the window.
 
Her mother was sitting in a chair, staring out the window when we walked in.
 
She wore a white robe with her initials, ‘MD’ embroidered over her heart in red lettering.

Sara’s mother looked at her, cautiously, as though she were frightened.
 
There seemed to be no hint of recognition in her eyes, no trace of a motherly love for the girl standing in front of her.
 
There was suspicion and apprehension.