and gives it some thought. “No.” She shakes her head and returns her attention to the photo. “I’m seven or eight.”
“So it was taken in nineteen fifty-three or four. Sometime after your dad died and before Grandmother married Papa Bob.”
She shrugs. “Momma loved Charles Boyer.”
For most of today, her mind seems clearer than it has in a few years now. She wrings her hands less and mentions Tony only twice. That’s progress, but each time she does, it’s like Groundhog Day, and I feel compelled to explain—very patiently, I might add—the Tony chapter all over again.
If Mom is not repeating old Sutton lore, we talk about the bits and pieces of the past that she can randomly recall. Like the time she took me to a New Kids on the Block concert and bought me Jordan Knight sheets (don’t judge).
I remind her of when we lived in El Paso and she worked at an Elmer’s. She’d have the cook make my favorite for me after school: a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. For dessert, it was always vanilla ice cream with hot fudge and peanuts.
She remembers that she worked at the Drunken Beaver in Portland, Oregon, and recalls every detail of the fight that broke out over her there. “They broke a table and two chairs. One man had to have stitches.”
She doesn’t seem to recall that I’d been sitting on a keg in the back room eating bar nuts and a pickle at the time. Funny how she can remember that fight but not that I’d been ten and scared to death.
“They were so handsome and in love with me,” she says through a nostalgic sigh.
“Did either give you a card with a cactus on it, like Earl?”
“No.” She shakes her head as if it’s a serious question. “They were both married.”
This is not at all shocking. Mom loves men of all ages and marital statuses. Men have defined her life and still do. I imagine the memories of men will be the last to fade and her passionate nature the last piece of Patricia to recede before she sinks into the final stages of her disease. As much as it has driven me crazy all my life, I will hate to see it go.
I’ve cut my Lulu responsibilities in half and work around Mom’s naps, but it’s not enough time. I try to make up the difference at night when Mom’s asleep, but I’m usually too worn out. Before my decision to focus on Mom, I never realized the amount of time it took to run the business of Lulu Inc. I’d been driven and hyper-focused. Doing what I loved and loving what I did, producing creative content in hotel rooms between events. I’ve never taken a vacation where I didn’t work, and it never felt like a chore. I never procrastinated—so why now?
Lulu is my heart and soul. The question of why now has lodged like a burr in my soul and the answer is terrifying. What if I’ve lost the heart for Lulu? What if I don’t love it anymore? My life with both Mom and Lulu is a continual cycle of guilt and anxiety, and I don’t see any resolution.
I’ve tried a couple of more meditation apps, but I struggle to pay attention. A glass of wine might help, but I can’t have one because the wine rack is filled with water bottles, and besides, I’m afraid I might not stop with just a single glass.
We’ve settled into a daily routine and get more comfortable with it every day. Mom’s adjusting to her new surroundings and both her anxiety and her emotional outbursts have decreased. She still has them, but they are less frequent and less explosive. I’m not a doctor, just a daughter living 24/7 with her Alzheimer’s mother, but in the past few weeks I’ve seen a marked improvement. She’s calmer and happier, and I truly believe that her environment has had a positive effect on her memory and thought processes. She’s far from cured, but her mind is clearer. For longer periods of time, I look in her eyes and see the real her.
I hate bugs and spiders and flying insects. I hate that the humidity is sometimes higher than the outside temperature. Sutton Hall is an even bigger money pit than I’d thought at first glance, and I’m bleeding cash. I can’t stick to a productive work schedule, but despite all that, bringing Mom back to Louisiana was the right decision.