Transitions

In yoga class I struggle to be graceful in transitions from one pose to another.  For a newcomer, I’m pretty flexible and mostly strong enough once I get in a position, but it’s the getting there that’s hard.

This current transition is more challenging than I ever imagined. It’s the whole aging thing.  I know I’ve wobbled here before but this pose reaches deeper than any wrinkles on my face, well, so far, with twists that ache more than my arthritis or previous back issues. You see, I see what’s coming up the pike and it’s not pretty.  Spending extended periods of time in a nursing home and assisted living facility has challenged my balance. 

After my dad spent five days in the hospital in intensive care, he was discharged to the skilled nursing and rehab floor, one floor below his assisted living apartment.  The levels of ability and grace of place, both physical and mental, upstairs and down are very varied. 

At my dad’s dining room table looms Dave, nearly two heads above my dad. He’s slow to speak and move, dependent on others for his transportation, but has his wits about him and surprises us with his humor.  Bob, in his signature red fedora, joins the table after parking his walker.  He makes it his business to learn everyone’s name and to observe and comment on the habits and manners of other residents and staff.  We have a lively conversation at the table. 

From Bob I learn about the couple one table over.  They’ve been divorced for over twenty years but now they’re both in this facility.  She’s harnessed into her wheel chair and wiggles about, looking like she’s trying to get comfortable.  She feeds herself in silence, food avalanching down the sides of her mouth.  She doesn’t speak except once in a while, like a bird call, she sings out through the dining room, “What should I do?”  Mostly this is ignored like a belch, but sometimes her ex-husband will snap at her, “You don’t have to do anything. Just sit there!”  Or he says, “Look around.  No one’s doing anything.”  Other times he’s more gentle: “Relax.”  Nothing in her expression shows registration.  He sits in front of a pile of empty tiny coffee cream cups while he sips the next one.  He says to his ex-wife who looks at first but then is lost in her isolated emptiness, “Watch what I do,” at which point he stabs a new creamer with his fork and sucks out the cream.  When the CNA (Certified Nurse’s Assistant) pours him some coffee, he asks for more cream.  In the meantime, he sucks on a pink artificial sugar packet, without hands.  Bob tells me the other day the ex-wife wiggled out of her harness, slipping, slipping, slipping so low she finally lay on the dining room floor.  I guess she figured out what she should do.

Then there’s Hazel who has a delightful manner that goes unnoticed.  As one of the CNAs approaches unannounced from behind and swiftly frees her wheelchair from the parking lot of wheel chairs in the dayroom, she reaches her arms out with a front stroke and swims through the hall, the CNA oblivious to Hazel’s playful shenanigans.

And poor Florence.  Her pleas to be released from her wheel chair, her table, this place are relentless.  On my way out, she calls me from her latest prison near the nurse’s station, “Miss, can you help me?” No one else is in sight.  

I ask her what she needs. 

“I’m trying to get married,” she explains. 

I join her: “Me too!” 

“Really?”  She looks me in the eyes.  “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

We hold hands and shake our heads.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say.

She wishes me luck when I walk away freely.

Upstairs the private care aids help serve meals because there is not enough staff.  Shirley, who I’ve mentioned before, is the talker at the table.  In the stained glamor of her food-crusted red dress, her red nail polish, ninety-seven year old skin sagging beneath her $20 wig that covers her balding head, she time travels in one sentence, telling me about her daughter who is in her late fifties but now is just a two year old.  Shirley nimbly covers up her mental gaps with sarcastic humor.  Her tray is placed before her and she says, “Oh, goody!  Chicken again.”  She eats only two or three dainty bites and slides her plate away.  We talk about pies, her specialty as a cook, banana cream being her mother’s current favorite.  And then she surprises me by allowing her irritation to slice through her mastered charm. She watches Ray, a nearly deaf ninety-eight year old stroke victim obsess over the placement of his cloth napkin, trying over and over to set it just right from his big belly to his plate, aiming for a protective ramp. “Just leave it!  What difference does it make?” she scolds.  Luckily Ray doesn’t hear her.  I see her trying to move her wheel chair using only her little legs which are partially and asymmetrically covered in knee-hi stockings.  I ask if she wants help.  “I can do it,” she boasts, “but I never refuse an offer.”  When I push her wheelchair, she takes the imaginary steering wheel to control the direction and steers us into her room.  We laugh at her creative drivery.  Most days and evenings when I pass her room, I see her little feet sticking out from under her covers.

Dorothy, the woman whose plump tongue sticks out constantly, makes the effort to pull it back in and tell me my curls are beautiful.  She grabs my face and gives me a kiss.  But on my next visit, when I smile at her, she gets agitated and frantically chants, “No.  No.  No!”  I know when I’m not wanted.  On a good day, as she leaves the dining room, pulling her chair forward with her feet, she wheels past Arthur, reaches out for his hand and they have a moment together.  During this particular moment, with her protruding tongue, she grunts at him; he burps; she wheels off.  No one notices.  I laugh alone.

The romance of the unit, Charles and his wife Faye may hold hands during the day, but at night their bed of roses is replaced by separate rooms, diapers, and big blue protective mats on either side of Faye.  One afternoon I walk into the dark TV room and look for a spot for my dad.  The CNA helps me move a chair to the side of Charles, in front of the closed French door.  The CNA leaves me to be the nail for Charles’ hammer as he yells at me, “You can’t put this chair here.  It’s a fire hazard.  Move it!  There are plenty of other places to sit.  Move that chair,” he continues to pound.  I look out at the sea of wheel chairs and crowded sofas and I want to sing out, “What should I do?”  The private care aid comes to our rescue and adjusts four or five wheel chairs so Charles can stop hammering.

Back in the dining room, I look at the table of opposites: four women, two very tall sit across from each other, and two quite short on the other opposing sides.  My dad and I laugh at the funny composition.  But as I watch them talk and engage with one another, I think about my mom.  I wonder if she got lucky or cheated.  Selfishly I wish I were sitting next to her, caring for her.

“What should I do?” rings in my head, haunting me after my visits.  What should we do when physical comfort and pleasure becomes our only goal, when the grappling with dignity is forgotten, along with the comforting blanket of memories and the hope and joy from connecting?  What should we do when isolated darkness takes the place of the romance of moon glow?  What should we do when no one sees, when no one listens?  What should we do when we’re trapped in a wheel chair, when all decisions concerning our whereabouts are up to underpaid, understaffed CNAs and nurses?

I hope I don’t become a cream and sugar sucker, or a grumpy hammer who sees most people as nails.  I hope I can transition into my diminished capacity with the playfulness of Hazel, with the sense of humor of Shirley and Dave, with the awareness of Bob.  I hope, if it comes to it, I figure out a way to squirm out of my harness and onto the floor for a moment of stolen freedom, a ninety-some year old yogi.  And there on the cold floor, I hope I have the sense to feel a little bit of triumph for the grace that got me there.

In honor of Shirley: a fruit cream pie.

Strawberry Kiwi Banana Cream Pie

Sliced fruit: 2 large strawberries, one kiwi and one banana

¾ c. sugar

1/3 c. unbleached flour

¼ t. salt

2 c. milk

3 slightly beaten egg yolks in a separate bowl

2 T. butter

1 t. vanilla

One pie crust, poked with a fork on the bottom and sides so it doesn’t bubble up when you bake it for 10 to 12 minutes at 450 degrees until golden brown.  (See pie crust recipe from previous post)

For meringue: 3 egg whites, ¼ t. cream of tartar, ½ t. vanilla and 6 T. sugar.  Beat egg whites with vanilla and cream of tartar, gradually adding sugar until soft, shiny peaks form.

Let’s do this yoga style. Position fruit gracefully on the bottom of your baked pie crust.  In a pot, combine sugar, flour, salt and gradually stir in milk while keeping your thighs tight so your buns don’t wobble.  Stir over medium heat until bubbly.  Cook and stir for two minutes.  Remove from heat, pivot and stir a moderate amount of this into the egg yolks.  Gently pivot back to center and scrape it all back into the pan.  Hold this pose, cooking two more minutes, stirring constantly.  It should be nice and thick by now.  Tighten your core, and as you inhale, lift and remove from heat to stir in butter and vanilla.  Spoon on top of your arranged fruit and cover with meringue, sealing all the way to the crust.  Exhale.  Maintain your balance as you bend at the hips with a flat back to place in the oven.  Lift from the crown of your head, closing the oven door as you inhale.  Bake at 350 degrees for ten to twelve minutes until peaks are golden brown.

This recipe is a twist on the vanilla cream pie recipe from Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book.

Bake it while you can still move, choose, and enjoy.