Two Year Old

THOONK! The horn yanked my gaze from the window to the windshield, now almost full of a semi-truck and trailer. The sight compelled my lungs to suck in deeply. The driver barely missed us by swerving around us. Mother swerved to the right and slammed to a stop. My mother had driven halfway into his lane.   

           “Didn’t you see him coming?” I fumed. “It’s incredible we didn’t have an accident.” While Mother’s hands were still glued to the steering wheel, I lunged toward the switch to turn the engine off, then grabbed the keys.

           Her face appeared winter white. “Mother, do you need an ambulance?” I asked.

Mother released her death grip on the steering wheel and her breath and color came back.

“I’m fine,” she said. After collecting herself, she said, “What a rude trucker, pulling in my lane like that.”

“He was rude? What about you? That truck weighed a lot more than us. We would have been smashed like a hamburger on a grill.”

“Why are you taking his side?” said mother. Sometimes she acts like a small child, I thought.

Mother angled her body toward the switch and grasped nothing.

Mother’s hair was a beautiful roan of gray and white. Held together in a tight neat bun, her hair never interfered with her search of the minivan’s floorboard. “Where are the keys? I don’t see them on the floor.”

“You won’t find them,” I replied. “I took the keys because I’m driving from now on.” I stepped out of the car, leaving the door open to talk to her.

“No,” she scolded. “I’m better now. Give me the keys so we can get going.”

“No. You get out of the car too, or we are staying here until the police come.” I showed her my cell phone to indicate how serious I was.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” I challenged back.

She climbed out of the driver’s seat, balancing her 220 pounds with the handhold. “Why are you doing this to me?” Insulted anger slipped into her voice as she muttered. “Make me stand in this cold, cloudy, damp weather.”

As we met at the passenger door, Mother grabbed for the keys I still had in my hands.  My 40-year-old reflexes were no match for her 70-year-old ones.

“Can you give me a hand climbing in? You ungrateful child.” Muttering to herself, she said, “Disrespecting me by taking my keys.”

Mother grabbed the handhold. The last little shove to my plump mother’s butt pressed in as if soft butter. She smelled of deodorant soap to make sure no smell of incontinence remained. At least she was clean.

I started the minivan. Lack of honking cars meant my conversation with Mother would not be about honking. “We’ll be late to the appointment with Dr. Chandler but at least we will be there.”

On entering the waiting room, I approached the receptionist. “We are here for Mrs. Vogt’s two o’clock appointment,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Leslie. You are ten minutes late. We led the next patient to the examining room. It will be about twenty minutes.”

I rolled my eyes and my head. After a moment I thanked the receptionist and sat down by Mother.

“There’s no clock in this waiting room,” Mother said, “What time is it?”

I glanced at my cell phone. “It says 2:10.”

“Oh my. We’re late. They should take us right in.”

“It’ll be twenty minutes.”

“If you gave me my keys, we would have made it on time.”

I bypassed any conversation by letting her comment slide.

Thirty minutes later, the nurse entered from behind a wall and said, “Mrs. Vogt.” I followed my mother.

Once in the examining room, ten more minutes passed.

Dr. Chandler entered the room. In her thirties with a white coat on, she looked professional, but the smile welcomed us as if old friends.

“I’m Dr. Chandler. How are you doing today, Leslie and Mrs. Vogt?”

“You are a very inconsiderate young woman. Making us wait all this time.”

“I’m sorry. I needed to write notes about the previous patient’s examination. Then I verified the supplies brought were correct before the delivery driver left.

           Mother, muttering, said, “Sounds like excuses to me.”

“Now,” said the doctor, “Is it still memory loss that is the problem?”

“She forgets pills,” I said, “and names of nieces and nephews.”

“Mrs. Vogt’s blood panel and hormone levels are normal.” The doctor spoke to Mrs. Vogt, but I was the one listening. “They do not indicate a reason for memory loss.”

“I remember my niece Clarisse is marrying Fred next week,” said Mrs. Vogt.

           “Yes, but do you remember her sister’s name?” I asked.

           Mother paused. “I’ll think of it here in a minute.”

           To Dr. Chandler, I whispered “Clarisse does not have a sister.”

           “I admit I do occasionally forget my pills,” said Mrs. Vogt.

           I sighed. “I already told the doctor that.”

           “From what you have told me here today,” said the doctor, “and at other appointments, I would say you, Mrs. Vogt, are in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.”

           “Are you telling me I am losing my mind?” said Mrs. Vogt.

           “I didn’t say that. You have many healthy, enjoyable years left. Though. Adjustments may need to be made to—“

           “I’m leaving.” She tromped out of the room. “Adjust myself indeed,” she said, slamming the door behind her.

           Dr. Chandler addressed me with advice. “More testing would be expensive and accomplish little from what you tell me of her problems. The pills for Alzheimer’s have limited effectiveness, but” she scribbled on her pad, “I’ll give you a prescription anyway.

“There are little things you can do. Keep refreshing her memory with photos. See she receives exercise and fresh food. Have her,” she said with a half-laugh, “if you can, do crossword puzzles books.”

I thanked her and left the examining room. I found Mother shaking her purse upside down. The contents of her purse were spread all over the couch. Like a messy child, I thought.  

“Where are those car keys?” murmured my mother to herself.

I debated how to politely tell her I had them. I thought, I’ll jog her memory. “Who drove you here?”

Mother stopped her search. “Oh. I guess you did. Give me the keys.”

“No. Let’s put things back in your purse.” I gathered the nail clippers and safety pins while my mother collected the lipstick and cosmetics.

“Okay,” said Mother. “Thanks for holding the keys, but you can give them to me now.”

“No.”

“I own the car and the keys are mine. Give them to me, and let’s get going.”

“No. Either I drive or we are not going anywhere.”

“’Hoeing in here?’ That doesn’t make sense.”

“I think I’ll make a hearing evaluation appointment,” I said as we headed to the van.

           “Where do you want to buy a new dress for the wedding?” I started the minivan and pulled out of clinic’s parking lot.

           “I don’t care which mall, but I want to go to Penney’s.”

“To North Park Mall it is then.”

“When is my optometrist appointment?”

“It was Tuesday.”

“I have not had it yet. It is the day after the dentist appointment.”

“Yes. And that was Monday.”

The conversation ended until I arrived at a corner to take for the mall.

“You turn left here for the mall, dear.”

“No I don’t. I turn right. Left takes us into the residential district.”

“You are taking me on a sightseeing tour.”

I rounded the corner to the right, and soon the mall entrance loomed before us.

“Oh,” said Mother, “I guess we’re here.”

I parked the minivan and took out the handicapped sign from the glovebox.

In the mall, the front of Penney’s had no door. The entrance, tall enough and wide enough to drive two large vans through, gave a sense of airiness and brightness from the size and fluorescent lights.  Colorful as the merchandise, the clothes of the customers’ did not help Mother see people. I kept pulling her out of their way because she could no longer turn her neck completely without pain.  

“Can I help you?” said a clerk.

“I like this suit on the mannequin,” said Mother. “How much is it?”

The clerk stifled a snicker.

“Mother. That is a size four dress. You don’t exercise enough to fit into a size four dress. You never have worn a size four dress,” I said.

To the clerk, I said, “We are looking for a dress for my mother. We will be going to a wedding.”

The clerk led us to a Women’s size rack of flowered dresses.

“I want a single-colored dress,” said Mother.

The clerk led the way to another rack.

At that rack, Mother touched the smooth cloth of a sunset red dress. It was small at the top and flared at the hips.

“I like that red better next to your skin than the yellow one you just looked at,” the clerk said.

“I agree,” I said. “Much better than the yellow one. It made you look old and pale.”

“I wanted something a little dressier,” said Mother.

We wandered around, occasionally lifting a suit and another dress.

“What do you think of this, Mother?” I held the dark blue dress next to her face. Curves started at mid-arm, then over the bust. The center panel was twice as wide as the panels on each side.

Mother smiled. “I like it. I think it will flatter me.”

           With the ease of a salesman close to a sale, the clerk said, “It also comes in green in a slightly less accented princess style lines, and with easy care instructions. It is in the right size.”

           To the clerk, my mother said, “You talk too fast.

           “I talked about,” the clerk said, unsure of how to continue, “another dress you may like.”

           “No thank you. I like the blue one. Let me try it on.”

           “The dressing rooms are back there.”

           “Mother, I’ll look around a little while you put it on.”

           Fifteen minutes later, Mother had not returned to show me how it fit. At the dressing room, I called to Mother before entering. I gasped to find the blue dress still on the hanger, but no old woman in sight.”

           Frantic, I hurried back to the clerk, “Did my mother leave?”

           “I was busy with another customer.”

           I ran to the mall’s bathroom. No sign of her there. I tried Macy’s where we talked about shopping, but the clerks never saw anyone matching her description.

           Shaking, my thoughts overwhelmed me that it was my fault. I lost Mother and might never see her again.  I prayed a little prayer, then looked for a mall security official to assist in the search. Although several stores away from Penney’s but before I could call a guard, I saw my mother and the clerk at Penney’s entrance. Relief calmed by nerves like a warm blanket.

           “Ma’am, we found her in our backroom.” The twenty-year-old clerk, who had never dealt with senior citizens, appeared helpless. “She wanted our bathroom.”

           “We’ll take the blue dress and I’ll come by tomorrow to pick it up,” I said.

I linked into Mother’s arm. The clerk nodded and returned to the safety of her store.

           When we were in the van, I said, “You’re a handful, Mother. Are you aware of that? I thought you were a goner for sure.”

           “I remember when you were two-years-old and I stopped you from poking a fork into the electrical outlet. I thought you would be a goner for sure. I’m not that much trouble. I’m a grown woman. You don’t have to lead me everywhere.”

I parked at Mother’s house front door. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come in and sit with you?”

           “You have done a lot of unnecessary worrying. Go home and rest.”

           “Shouldn’t I fix your dinner? Or help you take a bath? . . . Or something?”

           “No, the home health care ladies leave meals for supper. I’ve been taking showers and going to the bathroom long before you were born. Go home and rest.”

            Her home of forty-five years was as familiar to her as the daily routines of life. I left her there alone.

           I slouched in my recliner, arms hanging over the sides of the chair.

           Thomas, my husband, relaxed in his recliner while reading his favorite magazine. He lowered his magazine to look at me. “Rough day?”

           I turned my head to look at him. “First Mother almost hit a semi-truck and trailer. Then we argued over keys because I wouldn’t let her drive. Then she walked out of the examining room and I found her looking for the keys by dumping the contents of her purse on a couch. Worst of all, I about lost her. She was supposedly trying on a dress for the wedding. When she didn’t come out in fifteen minutes, I panicked. I looked everywhere, and you know where she was? In the back room of Penney’s, looking for a bathroom.”

           “We need to think about putting her in a nursing home.”

           “But Tom, Dr. Chandler said she has a lot of healthy years left to enjoy.”

           “What about you?”

           “I don’t see how those health care workers take it.”

           “I have wanted home health care workers out since that one got in the liquor cabinet. I don’t like strangers in her house.”

           “And a nursing home would have a lot of strangers taking care of her. I don’t like that. . . . I feel frazzled from only one day.”

           “Why don’t you talk to your friend Gloria. Her father suffered a lot worse than your mother.”

           I nodded and called my friend who invited me to her home to talk.

           I informed Gloria about my day, then said, “How did you do it? How did you take care of your father? Mother is acting like a two-year-old child, but she will not grow out of it. When did you know it was time for the nursing home?”

           “Remember, Leslie, she took care of you as a two-year-old,” said Gloria.

           “You mean, I should treat her like a child?”

           “In some ways, yes. Pay her bills, take her to the doctor, buy her groceries. Your mother is still lucid. My father believed a whole herd of cats and dogs were trampling his chest making it impossible to sleep.

           “Make good memories as best you can. Laugh at some things. Better yet laugh with her. I remember one April when he said, ‘There is a spring in the sky.’ I had to think a minute. ‘I said are you talking about a car spring? Or are you talking about like, ‘spring is in the air,’ Then he had to think a minute. He said, ‘I guess I meant that spring is in the air.’ We both laughed.”

Gloria’s face shifted from a smile to a bad memory gaze. “When I couldn’t lift him by myself, I found a nursing home for him.”

           “So you don’t think I should put her in a nursing home yet?”

           “There’s a Bible verse which says to do unto others as you would have them do to you. If your thinking was like hers, would you want to go to the nursing home?”

           “Probably not. . . . I want to be there for her, like I was in the recovery room after her surgery. I’ll let the nursing home go for now.”

           “I made a fresh pot of coffee, Mother. Do you want some?” I said

           “Yes. Did you make the coffee with the percolator coffee pot?” asked Mother.

           I smiled lovingly. “No. I used the automatic drip coffee maker.”

           “Who automatically made it?”

           “The machine.”

           “Oh, of course. My brain isn’t percolating the best today.”

           We both laughed.