AUGUST 4, 2023 – (Cont.) Mother’s hospitalization in 2012 was the most disturbing of all her hospital stays. Arriving in full-blown psychosis, she hit bottom, then at first seemed to improve—despite the name change . . . or perhaps because of it.
When we visited her the day after the initial “storm,” we found her somewhat stabilized but with the name “Pisey” written under “Patient name:” on the whiteboard in her room. When we asked the nurse about it, she said that was the name Mother was insisting on being called. Mother herself was convincingly very matter of fact about it despite her mental state. I’d never heard her say the name and had no clue about its origin, except . . .
“Pisey” was her (and UB’s) Grandpa Baldwin’s nickname. When one of my sisters reminded me of this, I was struck by an uncanny coincidence: a few short years before, UB had inexplicably started referring to himself as “George”—the first name of his (and Mother’s) Grandpa Holman.
In full lucidity Mother could be whimsical, and I took the “name change” to Pisey as perhaps a positive sign that Mother was climbing out of psychosis, not falling more deeply into it. But then and there in the psyche ward she went on a de facto hunger strike. She refused to eat or drink. She lost all color in her face and all vitality in her eyes. After she barely spoke and lay like a mortally wounded lamb waiting for ascension.
I was sure she was on death’s door, if not heaven’s gate, and I felt overcome with angry sorrow. I blamed her mental disease, and I blamed myself for not having been more compassionate; for not having had the competence that Elsa showed in dealing with Mother’s care; for not having the loving patience that Jenny always had for Mother; for not being a better surrogate for Nina, who’d known Mother the longest but couldn’t be present to say good-bye. I dropped to my knees beside Mother’s bed, grasped her hand and told her I loved her. My heart burst with regret as I realized how miserly I’d been with the words, “I love you, Mother.” Most surely my omission was because in her old age I’d allowed her mental disease to define my relationship with her.
It was my son Cory who saved Mother’s life. He refused to think she was dying and refused to let me lose hope. He insisted on getting baby food from the local super market and spoon-feeding her at the hospital. To this effort she responded positively, and in a short while she returned to the land of the living.
Since the day after Mother had been admitted to the hospital, we’d been keeping UB apprised of her condition, and when she regained her desire to live, UB made arrangements to fly out from New Jersey. Jenny escorted him to the hospital, and with her usual humor she followed him into the ward where Elsa and I were already on hand. Jenny winked and rolled her eyes behind UB, as he made his grand entrance. As usual, he treated his wheelchair as an amusement park ride. He never actually needed a wheelchair, but in his years of caring for Gaga, who did require one for mobility, he grew to enjoy one himself—much as a young kid might prefer getting around on a tricycle despite his having fully operational feet, legs, knees and hips.
UB was in full riot gear: corduroy tan sport jacket, bright red clip-on tie, soiled trousers, wallet on a leash, and the latest addition—a dark blue French beret, which he insisted on calling his “BOO-ray.” I suspected that what he wanted people to notice as rakish headgear was worn to disguise his ill-fitting toupee.
Showing no special reaction to Mother’s confinement and circumstances or those of her fellow psychiatric patients , he trained his conversations on highly practical matters, such as boarding procedures at the airport, desirable improvements in the design of canes, walkers and wheelchairs—both for people who needed them, as well as for people like UB, who simply “enjoyed” using them.
I wondered what he, the self-appointed medical expert, would have to say about Mother’s disease and condition, but he never let on. Despite the Abnormal Psychology textbook I’d found years earlier atop one of the leaning towers of paper in his “beautiful mind” office in the warehouses, I don’t think UB was the least bit aware of own disorders, and thus, he harbored no worries about any hereditary connections between Mother’s mental state and his own. The textbook was strictly for UB’s psycho-analysis of Alex, the Serbian émigré living in London, doubtless a drug addict and for whom UB held an inexplicable infatuation costing UB over a million dollars, as revealed by the Western Union receipts I found in the “beautiful mind” office. But I’m getting far ahead of the bigger story.
During his unplanned visit to Minnesota we suggested to UB that he try out Sunset by staying in a guest apartment. An ulterior motive was to remove UB from New Jersey to force an end to his one-sided, disastrous relationship with Alex and attend to the massive clean-up and disposition of the New Jersey real estate that UB controlled with an iron fist. Initially, UB was impressed with Sunset and confident, it seemed, that he could soon rule the roost with his “BOO-ray” charm, wacky humor and unrivaled know-it-all brilliance.
All along I knew better. Repeatedly over the previous 15 years I’d seen the same Roadrunner cartoon starring UB: initially, he’d go along with a suggestion, even an ultimatum, only to reverse course 180 degrees sooner and faster than a person could say, “Beep-beep!” Besides, even if talk about a move to Sunset weren’t another Roadrunner cartoon, within a week the Sunset staff and residents would have their fill of UB, and we’d be stuck finding alternative quarters for him. Ultimately, we—Elsa, Jenny and I—thought the whole idea of UB living at Sunset was a bad one, and luckily, so did he. Soon he was on a flight back to New Jersey. Mother seemed to be as relieved as the Sunset staff was.
* * *
Shortly after a subsequent brush with psychosis, Mother’s status at Sunrise hit the skids. The facility director informed us that Mother would have to be transitioned to the facility’s memory care unit. Elsa, Jenny and I protested. Mother was odd, even apart from her bipolar disorder, but her memory was fully intact. We suspected that Sunset’s concern was less about Mother’s care and more about the prospect of higher fees on the secure “memory care” floor vs. Mother’s lower-rate apartment on an unrestricted floor. We demanded a meeting with the director, whose trademark accessories included a pen, a notepad and a can of Mountain Dew. I can’t even be sure anymore what her actual name was, because my sisters and I always referred to her as “Mountain Dew.”
In any event, Mountain Dew prevailed by issuing an ultimatum: Mother was to be moved to “memory care” or out the door. Without a viable alternative, we caved.
Soon after Mother’s transfer to depressing, locked-down quarters populated with residents who clearly belonged there, I visited her just as a Bingo game was being organized. Mother’s psychotropics seemed to be at optimal levels, and she greeted me with a relaxed countenance and desire for meaningful human interaction.
“Here, Eric,” she said, drawing an extra chair up to her table, which she shared with three other women. “You can help me help these women play Bingo.” Two of her table mates had blanks stares and were confined to wheelchairs. A third had a walker beside her. When Mother introduced me, the walker woman looked at me quizzically and smiled a half smile.
Soon the first round of Bingo was underway. “First match-up is B-3. B-3,” the announcer said. “That’s B as in ‘boy,’ three, as in one-two-three. B-3.”
In four seconds flat, Mother had examined all four Bingo cards on the table and found two “B-3s.” “You see, Cecilia,” she said to one of the blank-stare-participants. “You have a B-3, so we’ll want to mark that square. Here, let me help you.” Mother reached across the table and marked Cecilia’s Bingo card accordingly. “And Alice,” Mother said to the walker woman, “you have B-3 as well, so let’s mark your card too.”
I’d barely had time to settle in before all this had gone down. Mother then turned to the third woman at the table. “Margaret,” she said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait for another call. You don’t seem to have a B-3, but don’t feel discouraged because neither do I.” I looked at Margaret, but nobody was home.
Mother then turned to me. “Do you want your own card? I’m sure they’d let you play if you asked.”
“No thanks, Mother. I’m enjoying my role as a spectator.” It was the truth.
After Bingo a number of participants shuffled—or were wheeled—into the TV room for a catatonic group session non-plussed by reruns of I Love Lucy with the sound cranked way up. Mother had no desire to enter the space. She led me to her room and showed me a book about Monet that Jenny had given her recently. “Would you like to borrow it?” Mother asked. “It’s full of perspective on Monet’s inspiration.”
Eventually “Mountain Dew” lost the substantial revenue stream from Mother’s residency in the “memory care” unit. Following Elsa’s lead, we moved Mother out of Sunset altogether and into a small group home in a quiet residential neighborhood a few miles from “Mountain Dew’s” domain.
On a good day, Mother would sit down at the piano and play hymns or, on the rarest of occasions, accompany me on the violin. If she showed absolutely no desire in talking about any of her many past interests, her mind was sometimes like a pencil fresh out of the sharpener.
I remember a time when she was 91 and asked me for a friend’s phone number, which I’d previously promised to provide her. As I pulled it up on my phone, I told her to write it down. (Her own phone was an ancient flipper.)
“I don’t need to,” she said.
“What do you mean you don’t need to?” I said, more harshly than was necessary.
“Just say it. I’ll remember it.” Skeptically, I recited the 10-digit number. Several days later, I asked Mother if she’d called the friend. She had and relayed to me the details of what had been a long conversation.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
