What About Bob?

So many things in here that aren’t hers.  So many things shoved into spaces they don’t belong. 

I went through everything in mom’s tiny closet, pulling out items that I hadn’t moved in with her so that I could hang up all of the clothes that actually belonged to her.  Probably a third were other people’s. Mom wasn’t wearing a stitch of her own clothing and I saw another resident sleeping upright in a dining room chair, mom’s soft white hoodie wrapped around her.

Over the last couple of years, I have had to pare down mom’s clothes by over 90%.  I tried to keep her favorites and the ones that still fit.  She was no longer in a position to demand that we keep the skirts and blazers and sweaters and blouses and perfectly creased pants and heels that she once wore to work everyday before coming home and fixing a meal from scratch that included 4-5 dishes.  “Sarah, you never know. I might have to go back to work some day!” The disdain was thick in her voice. 

It’s memory care of the highest level: CCDI – licensed chronic confusion or dementing illness unit.  Mom has graduated in every sense of need.  She requires that level of care but wow, it has been quite the adjustment for both of us.  Gone are the days of Assisted Living Memory Care and the fresh, new facility she previously lived in with lots of windows with a view of the outside world and the bike trail that had cyclists in numbers commensurate with the temperatures.  Her surroundings were a big, open space for very few residents that were mostly calm and pleasant but just needed a babysitter and a locked door.

Mom now has a stash of Depends and a crazy amount of wipes.  I counted 16 bags of full or mostly full bags of wipes shoved into her belongings.  And zero shoes.  Well, zero that were hers.  She had a pair of cute white tennies with black cow spots that were 3 sizes too small in her closet and she had someone else’s shoes on that seemed to be VERY snug but none of her own.  Sigh.  She still insists her feet are a size 6 as if her moral integrity is dependent upon it. Hello, size 8 wide.  

Zero bras that were hers but she, and most of the other ladies, no longer wear them and don’t seem to care.  Probably a dozen hair brushes as mom can’t pass up a brush without putting it into her walker bag and taking it with her insisting that it is hers and that she bought it at the store.  Fine.  Whatever. 

I left mom’s room and hustled down to the nurse’s desk and asked the department head if she’d come back to mom’s room with me. I raced back, hoping mom was still seated on the edge of her bed where she promised me she would stay until I got back.  Mom doesn’t keep her promises very long and I am keenly aware of this.  

I asked the department head about the 16 bags of wipes that were now piled in front of us on mom’s bed.

Sheila: “Well, we asked Kay about that and she said she picked them when she went ‘shopping’”.

Le sigh.  “Shopping” in other people’s rooms and confiscating other people’s things. 

Me:  OK, well, what do we need to do about this?  And her missing shoes?  And…her missing everything else?  

Sheila gave me answers and they are fine for now.  I understand that every item in that unit is ripe for growing legs and walking out of rooms, getting shoved in pockets or down in one of the rare bras, tossed in drawers in other people’s rooms and pushed into couch cushions for safe keeping.  It seems like a big slumber party where people share and give and take and lose and misplace and forget.  Sheila asked if I had any other questions.

Why, yes. I did.

Mom had a resident that was obsessed with her, by all accounts.  “Bob” was a gentleman that, like everyone else in there, had earned his place in that unit.  He repeated a couple of phrases at a volume that made me cringe and usually did so over someone else talking because he was hard of hearing.  His thin, wispy hair on top of his head always looked as if a poof of wind had blown it the wrong way and his glasses that had one arm snapped off sat whopper-jawed on his face.  He often wore shorts and had a decent tan for someone in a locked facility. 

He kept saying, with wide eyes, shrugged shoulders and outstretched arms, that he was sorry and that he didn’t know what to do. If I had to guess, it was about a situation that was probably stuck in his head, replaying from years or decades ago. But he knew mom always wanted a Snickers and of course, always wanted to go home.  He probably would’ve made it happen for her if he could’ve.  He asked me if I could get her a Snickers. He cared for her in his own way and wanted her to be happy. 

He scooted around in a wheelchair and when mom was across the room from where he was, you could see the look of determination wash over his face as he recklessly scootched towards her, locked into tunnel vision.  Chairs and unsteady, unsuspecting residents were nothing that was going to stand in his way. Bob always wanted to be near her.  Sometimes he called her by his deceased wife’s name and sometimes she referred to him as Mr. Russell.  Neither seemed to either notice or care about the discrepancy.  

He doted on her in his own way.  He was concerned about her especially if he couldn’t see her.   He talked right over me and mom while we were trying to visit.  The staff tried to move him away from us and told him to let us visit.  He didn’t like it and would watch from wherever they moved him and slowly start to creep back to us but his lack of subtlety let staff know what he was up to.  More than once he asked if I wanted to sit on his lap which I just ignored, minus an uncontrolled eye roll.  He could be a bit annoying but I admired his spunk.  He seemed to be harmless and mom enjoyed some of the attention and having a companion to eat with but also was not used to such bold behavior towards her.  She had a friend even if he was a bit much for her at times. 

I hadn’t seen him and looked at the name tag on his door and it was gone.  

I asked where Bob was.  

Sheila, who was busy picking up mom’s loot, froze.  She slowly turned to look at me and my heart dropped.  Then she turned to mom with a furrowed brow, looking for any signs of recognition at Bob’s name.  

My mind raced in those few moments of silence.  Had something nefarious happened?  Had my mom had a hand in it?  Was he not as harmless as I thought? 

“Your mom and the others were sitting at the tables in the common area.  He made his way over to her and was trying to talk to her but your mom had nodded off. He just kept talking to her and you could see he was getting desperate, not understanding why she wasn’t responding to him”

Sheila paused and her eyes left mom’s face and locked with mine.  “I’m getting chills talking about this.”  

Dread washed over me.  Sheila eyed mom for any recognition or reaction. 

“We told him that he should wait to talk to her until she wakes up.  But Bob was sure she was intentionally ignoring him. He took it personally.  He felt she had rejected him.  He became despondent and went downhill, fast.  He was dead within a week.”

Sheila paused again.  “He died of a broken heart.”

My mouth was agape and my solar plexus became empty and black.  

Mom:  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Not missing a beat while brushing her hair.

Sheila, turning to face mom with a compassionate look: “That’s alright, Kay.  I’ll remember for you.”

I think I mumbled a few words of incredulity and sadness and shock.  Mom still stared intently in the mirror, repeatedly rounding her brush through her hair, over and over, as if she could will it into the style she wanted, the waves she was determined to have.  She was oblivious to the weight of the conversation we were having, no memory of her friend Bob or his absence and no clue of her role in it.  

Sheila asked if I needed anything else.  No, that wiped my mind clean of any previous notions.  Thank you. 

Lots of thoughts have been rolling through my head but a couple keep repeating.

Dementia is a cruel beast but maybe you no longer suffer the losses you can’t remember.

The power of our perception is undeniable.  Our perception is our reality.  He believed mom rejected him.  That broke his heart to the point of dying.  

Being rejected by people we care about can feel shattering.  Even though mom may not have been the person he believed her to be, he had real feelings, real love for her.

Love, and the withdrawal of it, are life-changing forces.  

A while back, I found myself in a situation, gobsmacked by someone I loved, adored and trusted. Knowing how betrayed and confused I felt, my sense of safety and community that I had carefully cultivated, obliterated, makes my heart break for Bob and his perceived rejection without explanation.  I know how wounded I was but he was so hurt, he no longer wanted to live and within a week, manifested that.  

I fought back some tears and mom wanted to know what was wrong with me.  

“Good question, mom.  What do you think is wrong with me?”

Mom: “I don’t know but you can start by combing your hair.”