Still Alice Page 0,36
the code, they wouldn’t need to be here, would they?
“I don’t know if you’ve experienced this yet with your parent, but wandering and nighttime restlessness are very common behaviors with Alzheimer’s. Our unit allows the residents to wander about at any time, but safely and without the risk of getting lost. We don’t tranquilize them at night or restrict them to their rooms. We try to help them maintain as much freedom and independence as possible. It’s something we know is important to them and to their families.”
A small, white-haired woman in a pink and green floral housecoat confronted Alice.
“You’re not my daughter.”
“No, sorry, I’m not.”
“Give me back my money!”
“She didn’t take your money, Evelyn. Your money’s in your room. Check your top dresser drawer, I think you put it there.”
The woman eyed Alice with suspicion and disgust, but then followed the advice of authority and shuffled in her dirty white terry-cloth slippers back into her room.
“She has a twenty-dollar bill she keeps hiding because she’s worried someone will steal it. Then, of course, she forgets where she put it and accuses everyone of taking it. We’ve tried to get her to spend it or put it in the bank, but she won’t. At some point, she’ll forget she owns it, and that’ll be the end of it.”
Safe from Evelyn’s paranoid investigation, they proceeded unimpeded to a common room at the end of the hallway. The room was populated with elderly people eating lunch at round tables. Upon taking a closer look, Alice realized that the room was filled with elderly women.
“There are only three men?”
“Actually, only two out of the thirty-two residents are men. Harold comes every day to eat meals with his wife.”
Perhaps reverting to the cootie rules of childhood, the two men with Alzheimer’s disease sat together at their own table, apart from the women. Walkers crowded the spaces between the tables. Many of the women sat in wheelchairs. Most everyone had thinning white hair and sunken eyes magnified behind thick glasses, and they all ate in slow motion. There was no socializing, no conversation, not even between Harold and his wife. The only sounds other than the noises of eating came from a woman who sang while she ate, her internal needle skipping on the title line of “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” over and over. No one protested or applauded.
By the light of the silvery moon.
“As you might’ve guessed, this is our dining and activities room. Residents have breakfast, lunch, and dinner here at the same times every day. Predictable routines are important. Activities are here as well. There’s bowling and beanbag toss, trivia, dancing and music, and crafts. They made these adorable birdhouses this morning. And we have someone read the newspaper to them every day to keep them up on current events.”
By the light
“There’s plenty of opportunity for our residents to keep their bodies and minds as engaged and enriched as possible.”
of the silvery moon.
“And family members and friends are always welcome to come and participate in any of the activities and can join their loved one for any of the meals.”
Aside from Harold, Alice saw no other loved ones. No other husbands, no wives, no children or grandchildren, no friends.
“We also have a highly trained medical staff should any of our residents require additional care.”
By the light of the silvery moon.
“Do you have any residents here under the age of sixty?”
“Oh no, the youngest is I think seventy. The average age is about eighty-two, eighty-three. It’s rare to see someone with Alzheimer’s younger than sixty.”
You’re looking at one right now, lady.
By the light of the silvery moon.
“How much does all of this cost?”
“I can give you a packet of information on the way out, but as of January, the Alzheimer’s Special Care Unit rate runs at two hundred eighty-five dollars a day.”
Alice did the rough math in her head. About a hundred thousand dollars a year. Multiply that by five, ten, twenty years.
“Can I answer anything else for you?”
By the light.
“No, thanks.”
She followed her tour guide back to the locked double doors and watched her type in the code.
0791925
She didn’t belong here.
IT WAS THE RAREST OF days in Cambridge, the kind of mythical day that New Englanders dreamed about but each year came to doubt the true existence of—a sunny, seventy-degree spring day. A Crayola blue sky, finally-don’t-need-a-coat spring day. A day not to be wasted sitting in an office, especially if you had Alzheimer’s.
She deviated a couple of blocks