Jo Dereske

ALL OF US AT THE SAME TIME

©Jo Dereske 2014

Chapter 8

Betrayal or Common Sense?

I learned that an old friend of Louise and Mike’s was living in care facility near Ludington, 15 miles away. Meadow Manor had a sterling reputation, reportedly light and attractively furnished, with a high staff-to-resident ratio. Without telling Kipling or discussing it with Ray and Barbara, I called the director of Meadow Manor.

“They’re not ready yet,” I told her, “but I’d like to bring them in to visit a friend. Maybe someday . . .” I trailed off, feeling the traitor, unable to look out the window toward Louise and Mike’s house as I spoke.

She understood immediately. “Why don’t you drop by alone to view our facility?” she suggested. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” And then she startled me by inviting me that very afternoon.

“So soon?” I exclaimed, and she laughed.

But I went, in a stew of apprehension and guilt. I was only looking, I told myself. Meadow Manor was light and cheerful. Instrumental music played quietly enough to be unobtrusive. Yes, some “guests” slumped in wheelchairs, a few stared in confusion, others appeared content: laughing and lively.

The director proudly showed me the dining room where a chair exercise class was being conducted to rocking 1950s music, the library and lounge, the kitchen facilities. She assured me that married couples could share a room and they were prepared to handle Alzheimer’s patients who weren’t dangerous or too disruptive.

Around us the cheery voices of staff called patients, “Hon,” or “Sweetheart,” raising their voices to be heard. I had a mental flash of the expression on Louise’s face if she were called “Honey.”

The director showed me to the room of Bernice, the long-time friend of Louise’s who sat in a recliner watching a game show. A necklace of amber – the Lithuanian woman’s favorite gem – circled her neck. One wall of her room was dense with photos from her long life.

“Bring Louise and Mike to visit,” Bernice invited when I explained my connections.

“Does she still braid rugs?”

“Not so much anymore.”

The next day, when Louise and Mike were dressed, I said, “Don’t forget, we’re visiting your friend Bernice today. Kipling’s warming up the car,” sweeping them along into coats, finding gloves, keeping up a light chatter that deterred them from asking too many questions or refusing to go. I kept my eyes averted from Louise’s, certain she’d glimpse my betrayal in them.

I had no plans to trick them or convince them to check into a room, only to introduce them to the care facility. If they could see that Meadows Manor wasn’t a prison or a warehouse, that people – their friends – were actually comfortable there, even content, the idea might lose some of its horror. That was why we were in Michigan, after all, wasnt’ it? To help ease them into assisted living.

“Where are we going again?” Louise asked several times during the drive while Mike hummed to himself as he watched the still unawakened land out the window.

We turned into the circular drive of Meadows Manor and Louise stiffened. “Why are we here?”

“To visit your friend Beatrice.”

“I’m not going in there.”

“She’s expecting you.”

“You’re not making me go in there. This is a trick. You’re committing us.”

“No, no, Aunt Louise, I promise, this is a visit. I told Bernice you were coming.”

“Well, you can tell her otherwise. I’m not stepping out of this car. Take me home.”

Mike began rocking in his seat, wringing his hands as Louise continued to balk, her voice growing low and cold. “Take. Me. Home. Now.”

And so Kipling turned the car around and we drove home. Louise refused to speak to either Kipling or me except to demand that he stop the car so she could change from the front seat and ride in the back with Mike. They were coldly silent the rest of the trip home.

But in front of the garage, as I took Louise’s arm and helped her rise from the back seat, she smiled, squeezed my hand, and said, “Thank you for that nice ride. Let’s do it again another day.”


1930 We played cards at Al and Sylvia’s. Nobody had any money to bet with so we wrote I.O.U.s. I won.
Bill tried to sell but no luck. I swallowed my pride and asked Mrs. B. if I could work for her. Did washing and some baking and she gave me $4. Didn’t see Dr. B. Very cold.


Mike was deeply modest. But he’d begun wetting himself. I’d read in one of the Alzheimer’s books that this was a critical point for many caregivers, when care became too burdensome and professional homes were required.

My sister-in-law Barbara tried to introduce disposable briefs but as she explained their use, Mike stared off as if she were invisible. She left a package in what Louise called his dressing room, off the bathroom. I found them in the garage. I returned them to his dressing room; he tucked the package under an afghan on the breezeway. I tried lining his clean underwear with them and found them wadded and unused under the sink. When he wet himself he would suddenly glance down at his pants and exclaim in genuine amazement, “Now where did that come from?”

I tried to enlist Louise’s help, showing her the disposable briefs and explaining that Mike needed to wear them. “He doesn’t need those,” she said indignantly. “They’ll embarrass him. He’s fine.”

We were stumped. We couldn’t physically wrestle him into disposable briefs. And if by some miracle we could, he was aware enough to remove them, anyway. It seemed hopeless, a condition we were loath to accept but might have to.

A few days later, over a cup of tea, Louise confessed that she had laid out Mike’s clothes for him every morning of their married life. “I loved to baby him,” she said.

“And did he baby you?” I asked.

A faraway look crossed her face. “Sometimes.”

That gave us an idea. I laid out fresh clothes for Mike in his dressing room: pants, shirt, socks, and a pair of disposable briefs. The old habits were resurrected and the next day he dressed in the clothes I’d left for him, including the briefs. Triumph, I thought.

But only occasionally was he fooled enough to don the briefs. More often I found them crumpled and dropped on the floor. It would remain a continuing problem.


1930 Stayed home ‘cause we’re flat broke.


Walking my circle thirty-five and forty times a day around the little house had become boring, and now I had a fantasy: a trail through the woods along the edge of the property lines and above the banks of Weldon Creek past the stump where I’d sat in misery the week before. In sections the brush and blackberries and velcro plants were as dense as Sleeping Beauty's forest. But the hardwood trees towered high into the sky: oak, beech, maple, cherry, hickory; forming a canopy reminiscent of a Wanda Gag illustration.

Temporarily forgetting my thoughts of leaving and fired by spring fever, I envisioned a broad trail, wide enough for two to walk side by side, curving around the property, maybe a quarter mile around, maybe a half mile. I could see it clearly in my mind. It would be beautiful, perfect.

I shared my vision with Kipling as we drove home from buying groceries, taking side roads where we vigilantly scouted for signs of spring: swelling willow buds, maybe a hint of real green. Weren’t those birds scratching for bugs? And oh my gosh, pussy willows were fat to bursting.

"Sounds like a lot of work," Kipling commented.

"I want to build it," I told him, “I need a project to take my mind off some of this.” No need to explain what “this” referred to. I wanted to do it alone; it had to be my project, my trail, grubbed out with my own two hands. I could hardly wait for warmer weather and the woods to dry out.

“What’s that?” Kipling asked, slowing the truck and pointing to a billow of smoke rising from a stand of trees. Snow still dotted he ground, especially in the northern shadows of the tree trunks.

“It’s a sugar bush. It’s the end of the season but see the pails hanging on those maple trees? They tap the trees for sap and then boil it down in that shed. Maple syrup.”

He stopped the truck to take a closer look, and we rolled down the windows. The air was mouth-wateringly redolent with the fragrance of maple.


1930 Billy found a dirty job that will last two weeks at 55 cents an hour. I went downtown to return a dress. They only gave me $7 back when I paid $18.50 for it. Robbery.
Al and Sylvia came to play cards and stayed until 2:30 in the morning. Nobody’s buying art so Al’s putting away his paints and looking for a job.


As soon as I entered the kitchen I sensed an unspoken camaraderie between Louise and Mike. They stole glances at each other and smiled. Mike teased Louise, calling her "Weezie," until she giggled.

"Do you love me, Mikey?" Louise asked.

"I sure do," Mike answered.

"And I sure do love you," she told him with such fervency that I stepped out of the kitchen and straightened the living room, feeling the rude eavesdropper, "and don't you forget it."

"Don't you forget it either," he replied.

Their mood lasted through the entire meal. I tried to imprint it, telling myself to remember this, remember the warmth when he touched her arm, remember her glowing face when he smiled at her. This was the marriage and the love that mattered, this connection between them that was so deep it endured despite mental confusion and crumbling memory.

I dropped a spoon and Mike teased, "Butterfingers," he said and laughed that he'd got it right.

Then I carried the empty milk carton to the trash and tripped on the edge of the stool.

"Buttertoes," Mike said and his face shone with pride at his own cleverness.

Louise laughed with him. She leaned across the table and squeezed his hand. “You’re the funniest man I’ve ever known.”


1930 It has been a bad month. We now owe Big Mike $60. I don’t know how we’ll repay him. Billy and I both have terrible colds but Bill went to the south side to look for rooms. It’s too expensive to stay here.
Mother sent a package with cheese and eggs. Thank you! I‘m too poor to even go home. I sold my green dishes for not a lot.


Barbara phoned from work. She’d just learned of a new program sponsored by the Mental Health Department to help the elderly and their caregivers deal with the challenges of aging, including dementia and depression.

When I phoned the Mental Health Department, I was transferred to Susan Oyler, newly arrived from Tennessee and just building her program. “We’re reaching out to county families who want to keep their senior relatives living at home for as long as possible,” she said, sounding warm, enthusiastic, and young. “We’ll help both the caregivers and the elderly cope with the problems of dementia, maybe give the families some relief. I’m starting an Alzheimer’s support group in two weeks so people can share the experiences.”

“This is exactly what we’re looking for,” I told her, explaining our situation. As I spoke, through the window I could see Kipling digging a narrow trench across the driveway to direct the melted snow into the ditch. It was still the gloomy portion of spring. Too soon for that spicy optimistic fragrance of plants about to burst from the ground. It was second nature to sniff the air for their presence whenever we stepped outside.

“Great. I’ll transfer you back to the receptionist to set up an appointment for an assessment.”

I was flush with gratitude and optimism and burgeoning confidence when the reception came back online.

“Are you their legal guardians?” the receptionist asked.

“No,” I explained. “We’re their niece and nephew.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not eligible for this program unless you’re the legal guardians of your aunt and uncle.”

“But we’re the caregivers.”

“We only have funding for those with a legal relationship.”

“Not a familial relationship?”

“Legal,” she said with single-word emphasis.

“But –”

“I’m sorry.”

“You must be planning on a very small program, then,” I snapped and banged down the receiver, bitterly disappointed.

In that rural area of Michigan, I doubted that many people bothered filing for legal guardianship of their elderly relatives. It was a formality that most would believe unnecessary. Grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles were tended as they needed to be, which was usually sufficient for all concerned, leaving most people so grateful that “something was being done,” they didn’t interfere. I knew people who’d simply enfolded distant relatives into their homes, even neighbors.

Louise herself had rented – “for pennies,” everyone said – the little house for a year to Mrs. Mayer, an elderly widow with no close relatives. As Mrs. Mayer failed, Louise had assumed more responsibility, checking on her and bringing meals, and in the end even paying for her funeral.

Five minutes later the phone rang. I almost didn’t answer it, still fuming. “Hello?” It was Susan Oyler.

“If you’re still interested,” she said, her Tennessee accent twanging. “Let’s schedule an appointment right now for me to come meet your aunt and uncle.”

“But we’re not their legal guardians,” I reminded her.

“That doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “Those guidelines are an issue our staff needs to deal with, completely aside from getting you the help you want.”

We set up an appointment for the following Tuesday and I began pinning hopes on a woman I had yet to meet.


1930 T.Jones knocked at our door at midnight to tell Bill to come to work on the new Mer. Mart bldg. It won’t last long but Bill is tickled. I have a bad toothache but no money for the dentist. Billl went to work with a high fever but doesn’t dare miss the chance.


Next Tuesday, Chapter 9: Susan Oyler