Island Girl (28 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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“Uneventful,” I told her, leaving out the dreams, the sweats, and the fact that the pills hadn’t stopped me from hearing that damn bird.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Mark said.
“Where’s Grace?” I asked.
“Outside with Jocelyn.” Mary Anne nodded at the window. “Keeping the cats away from the mockingbird.”
The bird-in-a-box. Yes, I remembered.
I glanced over at the answering machine. Saw the flashing light and wondered how long it had been doing that. Pressed the button and wished I hadn’t as soon as the first message started. “Oh, Ruby, I do hope everything is okay,” from Audrey, who had been here yesterday. “We were so worried about you, Ruby,” from Joannie on Algonquin, who was probably spreading the story even as I listened to the message. And the one that truly bothered me: “What the hell was that?” from Grace’s client, Marla.
I drummed my fingers on the counter and stared at the phone, knowing damage control should start immediately with a call to each and every woman who had been caught in the storm. Followed by a visit to the neighbors, anyone who might have heard my outburst and be wondering, talking about what was wrong with Ruby. And there was Grace to consider as well. Poor Grace who was still outside with the crippled bird. On the lookout for cats so she wouldn’t have to come near me.
I could see her through the window, sitting by the birdbath with Jocelyn, the two of them watching the healthy mockingbird dance high above them on a wire. Flicking his tail and flapping his wings, putting on a show for his biggest fans.
The thing might be cute if he’d shut up once in a while. I’d never heard anything like it. He went on and on, sounding like a robin one minute, a cardinal the next, and God only knew what kind of bird after that. He even sounded like a cell phone a couple of times, which was entertaining at first, but was truly annoying at three in the morning.
I turned back to the answering machine. Thought about making those calls. Was reaching for the receiver in fact, when Big Al asked if I had a story ready. Something believable to explain my behavior.
I drew my hand back, closed my fingers up tight, and was still staring at the machine, waiting for inspiration, when Mark announced that breakfast was ready. I walked over to the stove, looked into the pan.
French toast with cinnamon. My favorite.
“Sit here,” Mary Anne said, pulling out a chair in front of a place mat laid with cutlery and a napkin. A glass of orange juice on the left, a cup of tea on the right. When had she done that? I wondered and glanced over at the answering machine. There was no rush, Big Al said. I had all day to make those calls.
I spotted my notebook on the counter as I sat down. I should pick it up. Start today’s list, keep it current so I didn’t forget anything. But again, I had all day and Mark had set a plate in front of me. French toast with cinnamon. My favorite. So I left the notebook where it was and picked up the fork instead. Ate the toast, drank the tea. Heard Mark ask, “Do you want to go canoeing after breakfast?” I shook my head, took both meds and vitamins with the orange juice, and Big Al and I went back to bed.
By Monday morning, both Mary Anne and Mark had stopped being nice. They made me call the doctor. Stood beside me while I explained what had happened, adding enough of their own observations to the conversation that the doctor finally asked who was with me. “Former friends,” I told her.
“Were either of them with you when the outburst happened?”
“Both.”
“Put one of them on.”
And by eleven o’clock, the three of us were sitting in her waiting room, waiting.
Instead of having the receptionist call my name, Dr. Mistry came out herself and scanned the room. For the first time since I’d started coming to her, my impossibly young and pretty doctor had come looking for me. She spotted me in the corner. Smiled like she was genuinely glad to see me. “Come on in, Ruby,” she said. “And bring your friends.”
Friends? I looked from Mark to Mary Anne, and then back at the doctor. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I need to talk to all of you.”
“They have nothing to do with this.”
Her smiled hardened, became frighteningly professional. “Ruby, things have changed. It’s time to talk about your options whether you like it or not. Your friends clearly care about you, and it’s best if they’re there when we do.”
Then she walked away, discussion closed. Making it clear my opinion mattered for nothing, and Big Al laughed.
Mary Anne rose. “You heard the doctor. Let’s go.”
Mark offered me a hand. “She did sound like her mind was made up.”
I let him help me up, let them lead the way. I’d probably get lost anyway.
My doctor’s consulting room was large, bright, and filled with plants. Spider plants, Boston fern, ficus trees, and potted palms. Together with the bamboo furniture and soft chintz cushions, they give the room the feel of a conservatory instead of a medical office. The only giveaway being the massive oak desk in the middle, with her on one side and the patient on the other.
I took my usual chair, the one closest to the door. Mary Anne sat on my left. Mark dragged over a third chair and sat on my right, blocking my exit. Dr. Mistry smiled again and folded her hands on the desk. “Ruby, I’m not the bully you think I am right now, I’m simply worried about you. But I do need to confirm that you’re okay with having me discuss your situation with your friends present before we go any further.”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not?” There were no secrets anymore anyway. What was the worst that could happen?
“All right, then.” The doctor sat back, clearly relieved. “Why don’t you tell me again what happened on the weekend.”
I went over it for her, leaving nothing out because honesty with your medical practitioner is the key to good treatment. When I was finished, she turned to Mark. “Tell me what happened.”
He told the same story I did, and when he was finished she asked if Mary Anne wanted to add anything. She shook her head and Dr. Mistry turned back to me, the monkey in the middle.
“Ruby, I know how difficult that episode must have been for you, but I believe it was the wake-up call you’ve needed, and having your friends here today is a real step forward. It means you’re finally moving past the anger and denial into acceptance, which means you’re ready to deal with the future in a realistic manner.” She leaned forward, her earnest-doctor expression sitting awkwardly on her lovely young face. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to finally look across this desk and see people with you. But before we proceed, I need to be sure that they’re fully aware of what it means to be a caregiver.”
And there it was, the worst that could happen.
“Caregivers?” I shook my head. “Absolutely not. No. Never.”
“I can be whatever she needs,” Mark said.
“The same goes for me,” Mary Anne added.
“She needs someone to look after her,” Dr. Mistry chimed in, the three of them completely ignoring me. Paying no attention at all when I repeated, “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”
“Do you both know what that will entail as time goes on?” the good doctor asked.
Mary Anne smiled at me. “Ruby and I have been friends since we were children. She’s more like a sister than my real sister ever was. I know what this illness does, the toll it takes on relationships, and I will be with her whether she likes it or not.”
“And I plan to be with her for years to come,” Mark said.
“You would,” I muttered, and he smiled. Bastard.
“Very well,” Dr. Mistry said, and launched into one of her tedious, inspirational speeches. “It’s important to know that we’re all on the same track.”
I wanted to stop her, to point out that both Mark and Mary Anne worked full time, and Mark didn’t even live on the Island. He was merely a summer visitor with a daughter and a law practice. Neither of my dear, stupid friends had time to worry about me on a daily basis.
But Dr. Mistry was on a roll and I couldn’t find an appropriate break in her monologue, a spot to interject and object. So I sat back and listened to her talk about
the need for a positive attitude
and the
trouble with depression
and
getting myself a buddy, someone else with Alzheimer’s whom I could e-mail or visit with
. Nothing that was new or even vaguely interesting, until she said, “I’m going to adjust your medication again.” At last she had my full attention.
She dragged her prescription pad toward her and started to write. “We’ve been seeing success with smaller doses given more frequently throughout the day. Fewer side effects like nightmares and restlessness. I’m also going to give you something to relax you, something to help keep your stress in check.”
Something to relax you. And thus it began. The slow march toward medicated numbness.
Contrary to what the good doctor assumed, I had been taking a realistic approach to my future from the moment she gave me the bad news. Not only had I read every book and pamphlet, visited every blog, and watched every movie or documentary ever made, I also volunteered at a long-term care center for a while, just to be sure I was making the right decision.
As a result, I was well aware of the rush to quell all negative emotion and outbursts, all depression and sadness in Alzheimer’s patients, and the success of antidepressants in the treatment of this problem. So successful in fact that a sort of apathy took over, leading to that “oh well, what will be will be” attitude that I’d found so frightening in the people I’d met.
Some of them felt nothing anymore. No tears or anger, certainly, but also no laughter and no joy. No extremes of any kind. Just a constant, frustrating calm, which must have caused even more stress in its own way and kept the cycle of medication going. And now it was my turn.
Dr. Mistry put down her pen and handed me two separate pages from her little pad. “You’re going to be taking medications several times a day, and Mark, Mary Anne, that’s where you come in. I need to know she’s getting what she needs when she needs it.” Then, as if she’d been reading my mind, she said, “You’re both probably still working and undoubtedly have busy lives. No one can reasonably expect you to be with her all the time, so she’ll need to start thinking about hiring someone to come in on a daily basis.” She opened a drawer, took out three pamphlets, and slid one across the desk to each of us. But it was only me she looked at.
“I’m talking about a companion, Ruby, not a nurse. Someone to oversee the medications and help you get through the day. Do a little light housework and cooking as well.” She stood up and came around the desk. Knelt down in front of me. “I know it’s not something you’ve wanted to think about, let alone investigate, but the time has come to call a few of these agencies, get their prices, and discuss services. You’d be surprised how many of my patients develop a real attachment to their companions. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.”
Win-win. That was one way of putting it, I suppose. Although woe-woe felt more apt.
Mary Anne was reading the pamphlet in her slow and careful way, but Mark folded his up and put it into his pocket without looking at it. There would be time later, I supposed. While I was sitting neatly in a chair bothering no one. My difficult nature safely stored in a bottle and put away on a shelf so those around me could get on with their day. A little light housekeeping. A little cooking.
My mouth went dry and I drew in a deep breath. I opened my purse, put the pamphlet and the prescriptions inside. Snapped it shut.
“Make sure you fill those prescriptions today.” The doctor rose, and repeated it to Mark and Mary Anne. “Make sure she fills them today.”
They both nodded, but said nothing. They were probably as overwhelmed as I was. And no wonder. You took someone to a simple appointment and wound up tethered to a nut bar for God only knew how long.
Dr. Mistry went to the door, opened it, and waited for us to approach. “One of the agencies I’ve been talking about holds a meeting downstairs every couple of months as a service to Alzheimer’s patients and their caregivers. There’s one starting in a few minutes and I think you’d all benefit from it.” She followed us out into the hall and down to the receptionist’s desk, where she picked up a card and handed it to Mark. “Take the elevator down to the basement and look for room B114.” She checked her watch. “They’ll just be assembling now, so hurry.”
The three of us hurried as instructed, arriving at the same time as most of the other participants. Men and women from fifty to ninety, all shapes, sizes, and colors. Husbands and wives, parents and children, friends and friends—patients and caregivers two by two. We were the only group of three and I suppose I should have felt special, but to be honest I just felt empty.
We joined the line, smiling and nodding to the people around us. Sometimes it was easy to tell who was patient and who was caregiver, but in most cases it was more difficult. Like the three of us I hoped, standing straighter, smiling brighter, wondering if anyone could tell just by looking that I was the one who danced with Big Al.
We shuffled forward, finally reaching a table just inside the door where a perky young woman greeted us with a cheery, “Hello and welcome. Have you been with us before?”

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