A Life Sentence

YoungMan moves into the Memory Unit a few months before my mother becomes a permanent resident.  The first time we see him at the dinner table, we mistake him for a visitor. He is at the stage my mother was a few years ago, when she lived at home and ran errands with us and helped with chores.   The staff and regular visitors comment to each other that he does not yet need to be there full time.  The first few weeks of his residency are tricky, as he continually tries to go home.  His wife lives in a smaller town ninety miles to the north, so he literally has nowhere to go. 

A few of the nurses say his wife has diabetes and blames him for not being able to take care of her, so she doesn’t visit.  Other nurses say that she cannot visit because of her diabetes, and she was not able to care for him.

Thus, he is imprisoned in the Memory Unit.  No one reminds him why he is there. 

The mission of a few residents, on most evenings, is to break out of the building.  The doors are constantly locked, and only a code entered on nearby keypads will unlock them.  This system is easy for visitors and nurses but exceedingly frustrating for the people who know a larger world exists just outside the window.   Gatherer rams chairs into the front door to open it, and though she has a very strong grasp, her attempts to push open the locked door (especially when it opens inward) are futile.  However, this does not prevent her from returning with new chairs to keep trying.

Other residents have fluidity with the Unit; they depart and arrive for family gatherings and day trips.  YoungMan is not in this category. 

His daughter goes to the college in a town sixty miles to the south, and she has to make special trips to see him on her way to her mother’s house.  Nurse relates that it is hard for YoungMan’s daughter to take time off of work and school to see him, especially as she tries to start her own family.  This, I understand.  If my parents did not have a house a few miles from the Unit, I don’t know how often I would make the hour drive to visit.

One of YoungMan’s friends stops by, and the two chat for a while about cars.  As he is leaving, the friend comments to Nurse that he is surprised by YoungMan’s decline and he is sad to see his friend this way.  Nurse replies that it is worse for YoungMan, and the best way to support him is to visit again.

The good nurses pretend that YoungMan works there and let him help with tasks such as folding towels or letting residents know when meals are ready.  Otherwise the Unit is more of a prison than a home, a realization that everyone seems to know but no one addresses.  Often, after supper, YoungMan emerges from his room sporting his good cowboy boots and leather jacket—ready to go … nowhere.  When he realizes that the room he shares with OhBoy, the hallway, the dining room, and the living room are the extent of his roaming and ability to see the world, he slumps back to his room and stretches out on his bed, often laying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, waiting for someone to help him remember his purpose. 

YoungMan’s sister visits about every week, and his parents stop in fairly often until this becomes too confusing for him.  They get to leave, but he does not.  One evening, as Mother and I watch a movie, YoungMan rocks in the nearby chair, his face buried in his hands.  He cries into his palms, then looks at me and asks, “I have Alzheimer’s?  Why didn’t my parents tell me?”

He sits at the table with my mother and I at Thanksgiving, and we pretend to be his long-time friends so he doesn’t feel as lonely that no one came to see him. 

As my mother’s mobility slowly declines, the one-level, open floor layout of the Unit is ideal.    The longer YoungMan is imprisoned, the smaller the space becomes.  The walls continue to contract as he celebrates his 55^th birthday.  He knows when nurses are talking about him, but he doesn’t respond.  When the nurses are distracted helping other residents into their pajamas, YoungMan tells me that we need to get a group together to break out because “the maids have the place wrapped up pretty tight.”  I assure him that we are okay and he has a room reserved.  Though he generally goes to bed after supper, I invite him to join us for a movie anyway.  On the evenings he does, I try to sneak out without him noticing (after Mother falls asleep).  I always feel his eyes following me out the door, and I don’t have the courage to look back.

My father talks to YoungMan as he helps my mother eat supper.  They discuss YoungMan’s interest in cars for a few minutes, and then the subject dries up and they both go back to concentrating on the food, forks, and plates in front of them. 

YoungMan asks for some fresh air one summer day, and he walks around the courtyard for a few minutes, evaluating the perimeter.  With little effort, he hops the six-foot fence and strolls to the front parking lot.  Nurse intercepts him there and coaxes him back into the building.  After this, he is not allowed outside.

One evening in late summer, YoungMan decides that enough is enough.  Cornering one of the younger nurses, he demands to be let out.  He puts his hands around her neck, squeezes, and demands again.  Nurse gets free, and YoungMan is transferred to a psychiatric ward in another facility, immediately.

The nurses do not say where he went after that (and rightfully so), but six months later one nurse mentions that he had just passed away.  My family finds his obituary online and learns that YoungMan had been moved to a bigger facility in the city I now live.  In fact, he was less than a mile from my apartment.  We do not figure out how he declined so fast after leaving the Memory Unit, and the only thing we can really do is hope that he is no longer suffering.