Disoriented

I never know which grandmother will greet me at the door. Will she be the wounded one with the hair trigger? Or will I have to coax from the bed a woman who coughs, sleeps, and apologizes her way through the day?

This week, I was delighted to become re-acquainted with an old friend. A smiling, good-natured lady was waiting in the breakfast nook for our arrival. She bore a close resemblance to the grandmother I remember from my childhood.

Dementia is disorienting for everyone involved. I had not realized how tense I was about the trip to Dallas with Bug until about halfway through the second day. It took me this long to notice my grandmother had not lost her temper with my son or me. Sure, she asked a dozen times if I had the garage door opener. For this visit, she had latched onto a recollection of arguing with a neighbor boy about the driveway of her childhood home. Each telling, the first telling. But through all this, she was still smiling and bobbing along the surface of whatever familial chaos unfolded around her. I felt my shoulders relax. Maybe she would, in fact, make it through our visit without morphing again into one of those other women who inhabit her skin.

My grandmother turned 91 on July 5^th. She is living most of the time in her own house. With assorted relatives and hired hands cycling through to refresh the contents of the fridge and ferry her to doctor’s appointments, she is managing much better than anyone expected. Despite the fact that the calendar has become nothing more than wall art, she can still remember which grandkid and great-grandkid belongs where and to whom. She kvetches over the Dallas Morning News every day, feeds the birds in her overgrown back yard, and occasionally remembers to eat.

 

We had a 4^th-of-July barbecue and birthday party with family up the road. Bug chose a singing card. He danced around the house to “I like to move it, move it,” shaking his booty as laughter rained down. Another grown grandson helped with the grill. We ate burgers and let the lady reminisce. Bug reversed the order of the candles. Grandma turned 19.

The next afternoon, I deposited Bug with a generous aunt for a date with my grandmother.  She doesn’t have the stamina for much these days, but she can still rally for a ladies’ lunch at Neiman Marcus.

I would rather eat beef jerky from the Mobil Short Stop than lunch at a store filled with things I can’t afford and will never have occasion to wear. Strolling through Neiman’s, however, is the old girl’s giddy pleasure. “Oh, isn’t this just lovely!” Grandma cooed and oohed over the Louis Vuitton display, touching the buttery leather. The sophisticated gleam of the store widened her eyes and her grin. My gut contracted with envy as I watched trim man in a suit indulge his blond companion in a search for the perfect Prada bag. My grandmother noticed only the exquisite order of the jewelry counter.

I cannot understand this kind of appreciation for the unattainable. A woman who spends most days decked out in a bathrobe was lingering over a $2000 Roberto Cavalli sheath designed for someone with the figure of a prepubescent boy. While she stroked the hummingbird printed into the aquatic blue fabric, I squirmed in my consignment store sun dress and DSW sandals. Next to Lalique wine glasses, turtle-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers encrusted with rhinestones, and distressed outdoor furniture, my grandmother chatted up employees and gushed in wonder at the beauty of it all. “Do you believe it? Here I am, 91 years old,” she told the salesgirl over a mirrored display of crystal bud vases. “My granddaughter came all the way here just to take me out to lunch.”

“You have a lot to be thankful for,” the salesgirl grinned.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” she said, resting her thin hand on my shoulder.

My grandmother counterbalanced every ounce of my covetousness with an equal measure of joy.

We made our way up to the third floor café where we sipped tiny cups of warm broth and broke open steaming popovers. The servers and manager dipped and fled, quick as dragonflies. They refilled our glasses, delivered dishes of radiant salad greens, and swept the crumbs from the table. They made sure the birthday girl knew her mere presence was a gift.

Swallowing gets harder as you age. Appetite keeps pace with the metabolism of the sedentary. It took my grandmother nearly an hour and a half to work through a third of her Cobb salad. She talked instead. “Those neighbors called in county engineers to build that cussed driveway,” she said. “They weren’t road builders. What a mess it was.” We were back in 1928, sitting on the curb with the neighbor boy, arguing over whose side of the yard belonged to whom. Somehow, this woman plodded her way through the 20^th century, stumbled along the front end of the 21^st, and landed in a big old house in the Dallas suburbs with a military pension and enough love to carry her through to the end.

A raspberry-studded meringue drizzled in caramel and cream lit on our table, candle dancing. My grandmother made her wish, keeping that one secret to herself. Then she clapped her hands dug in, rolling her eyes in ecstasy.

“This time next year,” she said, gesturing with her fork. “Right here.”

We all fret about her. We all worry and tsk-tsk about how sad it all is. But I sat right there and watched an ancient lady make a wish for her 92^nd year. How many of us will have the luxury of drifting through the last chapter of our lives, buoyed by a craft comprised of such care? I don’t know about sad. Try rare and wondrous.

Finding any of my grandmothers waiting in that breakfast nook in a year’s time would be a blessing. It wouldn’t matter in the least which one is there. You don’t need age and Alzheimer’s to help you forget certain things. Just turn your attention away from the silly distractions and gaze in dumb wonder at what is right in front of you. Indeed, dementia disorients. A new orientation may not be such a bad thing after all.

“Right here,” I said, leaning across the table to scoop up some sweetness. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Tethered

Back in 2008, researchers in Australia published a study linking dog ownership to decreased childhood obesity. This evidence has provided an extended stay of execution for old Fenway. In the chaos of the past year, the urge to get rid of the dog has been powerful. Somehow, the mutt has surprised us all and managed to keep herself out of the pound. It may be that I have managed to hang onto my impulsiveness when it comes to her welfare.

Most of us don't need a scientific study to confirm the health benefits of having canine companions in the family unit. After all, they just have to have that walk. Rain or shine, the dogs have to go out.

On the nights when my son stays with me, I pick him up either at his dad's place or at school. By the time we fight through rush-hour traffic and tumble through the door, all either of us wants to do is collapse in a heap on the carpet and play legos until bedtime. But the dog. Oh, that dancing, delighted lump of fur. She greets us, panting and turning in circles, having waited nearly twelve hours for the singular pleasure of emptying her bladder. We don our sneakers, grab the leash and the plastic bags, and head out for a turn around the cul-de-sac.

Now that the snow has melted  and a slice of daylight remains, we are venturing almost every evening into a small patch of woods nearby. When these houses were built along the Difficult Run watershed, someone had the forethought to protect the flow of the creek. A few acres of unmarked, undeveloped green space stretch along behind the homes. Down in the leaves and budding shrubs, Fenway can bound after deer while Bug balances on logs. We all follow raccoon tracks along the banks of the creek, root around in hollow stumps, and weave our way through pricker bushes. For a good thirty minutes every evening, my kid and I follow a snuffling canine out for this enforced stretch. She keeps us moving.

This is a reason to keep the dog. But this is not the reason. When we first arrived here, the prospect of hanging on to her seemed impossible. Who would care for her when I was working? How would I fit in her shots and grooming and getting to Target to buy the gigantic bags of Beneful? Just packing a lunch and dressing my kid for school were dauting tasks. What did Fenway give our family other than one more headache? The needs of the dog seemed too much for this burdened mama to manage.

On a weekend last fall when my parents were traveling, I asked Tee for help caring for Fenway. He refused. "You know," he said to me. "I wanted to get rid of her when we moved." What he failed to mention in this exchange was that "get rid of her" meant one of two things. Either I would have to seek out a good home for her because he was too blown apart even to get up and dressed every day, or I would have to take her to the Humane Society for a near-certain euthenasia.

Tee's chilling admission brought on an odd realization. Fenway had beome my responsibilty. The noise of the dramatic weather patterns up above can deafen a person to the changes down below as the small stuff clicks into its new configurations. I have to kill the spiders now and air my own tires. Sure, the dog has, in many ways, always been my responsibility because I was the one home. But in separating from Tee, the pooch truly had become mine. Was I prepared to take her on so totally?

Of course. Fenway is not a set of dishes that can be donated to Goodwill. She is a living creature, a part of our family, a life. We adopted her well before we had our son. Bug has grown up with that dog. Through four different homes in four different time zones, the only consistent things in his world have been his mom, his dad, and that dog. For all his unknowing abuse of her, she has never once snapped at him. She has walked faithfully with us on every hike, kept us feeling secure when Tee was traveling, and been a joyous -- if skittish --  playmate.

What message would it send to my son if I simply got rid of Fenway? "Our lives are too complicated to care for a member of our family?" Or, "when the going gets tough, abandon your loved ones?" How about, "Lives are expendable? "

I would rather my child learn that we always have room in our home and our hearts (and, alas, even our full schedules) to care for members of our family. We can make time to meet our commitments to one another, even if doing so is inconvenient. Caring does not always emerge spontaneously and naturally. As Nel Noddings reminds us, an ethic of care must be cultivated, and we each must learn to listen to the voice of obligation as a sign that caring is within reach.

Attening to the needs of others is as much a habit of the mind as it is one of the heart. Like so many other practices, the rewards of care may not be immediately evident. But they exist deep in the bones of the routine itself. Every night, I walk Fenway. I walk her because she must be walked; I walk her because it is my job. No matter the sharpness of the wind or the weariness of my feet, I walk her. Yet, each night, I discover all over again where I really am. The dog's need acquaints me with the phases of the moon, the state of the foliage, the cycles of local wildlife. (Tonight, incidentally: waning, budding, peepers).

Change is inevitable. This is something that both bears remembering and bears forgetting. I must prepare myself and my son for transitions we cannot see coming but most certainly will. Also, I must nurture the home and family we inhabit in this moment as if this is the only moment we have. Because, ultimately, it is.