The Memory Unit
Robert Wexelblatt
Saint Jeanne’s Home sits on a large, well-maintained campus in rural Allegheny County. The grounds feature copper beeches, blue spruces, box hedges, rhododendrons, spirea and the kind of lawn that summons up English country estates. There is a gold cross on the peak of the portico. Saint Jeanne’s is a first-class care facility and not cheap. The charge is $5000 a month for what is called, without irony, assisted living. The price for those housed in the special unit named for Saint Dymphna, patron of the demented, is nearly twice as much. The memory unit has eighteen individual rooms each with its own bathroom ensuite with elevated commodes and handrails everywhere. Nine rooms are on the east side, nine on the west. In between there is a kitchen area for snacks, tables and chairs for meals, and a vast flat-screen TV confronting eighteen recliners. To enter or leave the unit requires a code. Almost all the residents are women and the same goes for the staff who were all born in hot countries far from Allegheny County.
Eighty-three-year-old George Demetrios was one of two men in the memory unit. He had been a successful restaurateur in Pittsburgh, married with two children and five grandchildren. A gregarious man, he relished chatting with his customers, was liked by the newer staff and adored by the veterans. When his memory went, his wife Yvonne took over the business and moved George to Saint Jeanne’s over her husband’s objections. To the reservations of their children, she replied, “You don’t have to live with him while trying to run three restaurants.” Yvonne visited, on average, every three weeks and spent most of the hour she was there upbraiding the staff and interrogating the management. At first, George did sometimes recognize her, but twice he guessed she was his mother and three times thought she was his deceased sister. In time, he didn’t recognize her at all. But his genial sociability was proof against his dementia, and he was always glad to see everybody, including Yvonne. Holding out his hand, as he did to all visitors, he would cordially, “Hello! So glad you to see you. I’m George. You look like you’re having a lovely day. What’s your name?” He asked all visitors about the weather and usually told them a joke, most often the one about a Greek immigrant who had no English. His cousin got him a construction job but forgot to teach him how to order lunch at the local diner. So, the cousin made him repeat the phrase ham sandwich until his accent was penetrable. When, after a week of eating nothing but ham sandwiches, the kindly waitress asked, “Would you like some apple pie and coffee with that?” the panicked immigrant shouted, “Ham sandwich!”
George was a favorite with all the women in the unit, including the staff. Rarity confers value. The only other man in the unit, though much younger, seldom came out of his room. The poor fellow, a victim of early onset Alzheimer’s, had no visitors and hardly said a word to anyone.
Marsha Kelleher’s decline began when the dress shop she managed for thirty-two years closed and she couldn’t find another job. Her husband’s death three years later moved things into high gear. Her daughter sold the big house and moved Marsha in with her after putting in a third bathroom. Marsha grew morose, cried often, and lost touch with her friends. She was unsteady on her feet, far beyond forgetful, and occasionally incontinent. Around-the-clock home aides didn’t aid enough. Her daughter, her son-in-law, and teenage grandson all grew desperate. Finally, everybody, including Marsha, agreed the money from the house would go for Saint Jeanne’s.
Marsha was initially disoriented and stayed close to her room or in it. But years of helping women clothe and decorate themselves had formed habits. She soon engaged with the other women in the unit, cheerfully advising them on their appearance, treating them alternately as customers and children. George liked this about Marsha and the look of her, too. He introduced himself to her every morning for four days, sat with her at meals, and showed her pictures of youngsters, though he couldn’t recall their names or whether they were his children or grandchildren. He never mentioned Yvonne or being married because he couldn’t remember either. For some reason, he called Marsha Monica, and, surprisingly, she accepted the new name. Soon she wouldn’t answer to any other. Marsha/Monica liked George who was tall and funny and made her feel special. The staff were benignly amused to see how the two were with each other. “Like a couple of teenagers,” one commented. “So cute,” another cooed. Marsha’s daughter was delighted to see her mother happy again and, like everybody else, she liked George.
George and Monica spent most days together, except for naps and medical checkups. Neither had any interest in the stupefying daytime television that mesmerized the others. The nature of their relationship or even identities was not fixed for them. Monica told her daughter than George was her boyfriend then that they were engaged, holding up her hand with the two diamond rings she always wore. Sometimes she said they were married. As for George, he was simply smitten, perhaps holding a torch for some long-ago Monica. His brief bouts of withdrawal and depression ceased; he was even more cheerful than before. He never mentioned having a wife; Monica never referred to having had a husband. She called her daughter “Mom.”
They were two rays of sunshine in the dull dusk of the demented. Rather surprisingly, their happiness was not a cause of envy but rather a font of universal satisfaction. The other women accepted them as a married couple. The two of them, though wrapped up in each other, made time for everybody else. Monica went on discussing make-up, blazers, lingerie, and jewelry with the old ladies. George told them amusing stories about his childhood and, in an inconsequential but flattering way, flirted with them. He stopped whispering requests to the staff for a big bottle of sleeping pills and/or a shotgun. Monica no longer whined, “I want to go home.” She no longer remembered the home.
Then, one day, the two napped together in George’s room. The staff informed the unit manager who told them this was forbidden, but the next night George slipped into Monica’s room and stayed. The sympathetic staff were perplexed, but not for long. On George’s wife’s next visit, one of them, believing it her Catholic duty, told George’s wife about Marsha/Monica, including the unauthorized sleeping.
Yvonne Demetrios took her rage straight to the top, the executive director, an ex-nun who understood her primary concern to be the satisfaction of those who paid and only secondarily that of the inmates.
“I’m not paying seventy grand a year to subsidize my husband’s adultery. This place has got crucifixes plastered all over it. It’s named for a saint, for Christ’s sake. Fix this or I’m shipping him out. Got it?”
Strict orders were issued. Marsha was moved from the east to the west side. George was prevented from sitting with her during meals. Staff were instructed to keep them apart by means of distraction, feeding them at different times, changing the nap schedule, and, when these measures failed, gentle but straightforward physical interference.
Marsha/Monica grew depressed. She wept when her daughter visited but also when she didn’t. As for George, his mood changed. One afternoon, he tied his sheets together and tried hang himself from the showerhead which broke, causing a minor flood. When he saw Marsha, he wanted to reach out but couldn’t recall her name. He no longer recognized Yvonne as either his wife or his sister. When she visited, he introduced himself and told her about the immigrant and the ham sandwich.
Marsha’s daughter made an appointment with the executive director.
“Aren’t you supposed to make these poor people as happy as possible? Isn’t that your job?” Though she was no longer a nun, the director told Marsha the story of Saint Dymphna, beheaded at fifteen by her senile father because she refused to marry him.
“There are rules, my dear,” she said frostily.
Marsha died in her sleep. Her cheeks were still wet in the morning. Three days later, George had a heart attack over dinner, the massive kind. His chair tipped over and he fell to the floor. The staff was unable to revive him before the ambulance arrived.
Robert Wexelblatt
Saint Jeanne’s Home sits on a large, well-maintained campus in rural Allegheny County. The grounds feature copper beeches, blue spruces, box hedges, rhododendrons, spirea and the kind of lawn that summons up English country estates. There is a gold cross on the peak of the portico. Saint Jeanne’s is a first-class care facility and not cheap. The charge is $5000 a month for what is called, without irony, assisted living. The price for those housed in the special unit named for Saint Dymphna, patron of the demented, is nearly twice as much. The memory unit has eighteen individual rooms each with its own bathroom ensuite with elevated commodes and handrails everywhere. Nine rooms are on the east side, nine on the west. In between there is a kitchen area for snacks, tables and chairs for meals, and a vast flat-screen TV confronting eighteen recliners. To enter or leave the unit requires a code. Almost all the residents are women and the same goes for the staff who were all born in hot countries far from Allegheny County.
Eighty-three-year-old George Demetrios was one of two men in the memory unit. He had been a successful restaurateur in Pittsburgh, married with two children and five grandchildren. A gregarious man, he relished chatting with his customers, was liked by the newer staff and adored by the veterans. When his memory went, his wife Yvonne took over the business and moved George to Saint Jeanne’s over her husband’s objections. To the reservations of their children, she replied, “You don’t have to live with him while trying to run three restaurants.” Yvonne visited, on average, every three weeks and spent most of the hour she was there upbraiding the staff and interrogating the management. At first, George did sometimes recognize her, but twice he guessed she was his mother and three times thought she was his deceased sister. In time, he didn’t recognize her at all. But his genial sociability was proof against his dementia, and he was always glad to see everybody, including Yvonne. Holding out his hand, as he did to all visitors, he would cordially, “Hello! So glad you to see you. I’m George. You look like you’re having a lovely day. What’s your name?” He asked all visitors about the weather and usually told them a joke, most often the one about a Greek immigrant who had no English. His cousin got him a construction job but forgot to teach him how to order lunch at the local diner. So, the cousin made him repeat the phrase ham sandwich until his accent was penetrable. When, after a week of eating nothing but ham sandwiches, the kindly waitress asked, “Would you like some apple pie and coffee with that?” the panicked immigrant shouted, “Ham sandwich!”
George was a favorite with all the women in the unit, including the staff. Rarity confers value. The only other man in the unit, though much younger, seldom came out of his room. The poor fellow, a victim of early onset Alzheimer’s, had no visitors and hardly said a word to anyone.
Marsha Kelleher’s decline began when the dress shop she managed for thirty-two years closed and she couldn’t find another job. Her husband’s death three years later moved things into high gear. Her daughter sold the big house and moved Marsha in with her after putting in a third bathroom. Marsha grew morose, cried often, and lost touch with her friends. She was unsteady on her feet, far beyond forgetful, and occasionally incontinent. Around-the-clock home aides didn’t aid enough. Her daughter, her son-in-law, and teenage grandson all grew desperate. Finally, everybody, including Marsha, agreed the money from the house would go for Saint Jeanne’s.
Marsha was initially disoriented and stayed close to her room or in it. But years of helping women clothe and decorate themselves had formed habits. She soon engaged with the other women in the unit, cheerfully advising them on their appearance, treating them alternately as customers and children. George liked this about Marsha and the look of her, too. He introduced himself to her every morning for four days, sat with her at meals, and showed her pictures of youngsters, though he couldn’t recall their names or whether they were his children or grandchildren. He never mentioned Yvonne or being married because he couldn’t remember either. For some reason, he called Marsha Monica, and, surprisingly, she accepted the new name. Soon she wouldn’t answer to any other. Marsha/Monica liked George who was tall and funny and made her feel special. The staff were benignly amused to see how the two were with each other. “Like a couple of teenagers,” one commented. “So cute,” another cooed. Marsha’s daughter was delighted to see her mother happy again and, like everybody else, she liked George.
George and Monica spent most days together, except for naps and medical checkups. Neither had any interest in the stupefying daytime television that mesmerized the others. The nature of their relationship or even identities was not fixed for them. Monica told her daughter than George was her boyfriend then that they were engaged, holding up her hand with the two diamond rings she always wore. Sometimes she said they were married. As for George, he was simply smitten, perhaps holding a torch for some long-ago Monica. His brief bouts of withdrawal and depression ceased; he was even more cheerful than before. He never mentioned having a wife; Monica never referred to having had a husband. She called her daughter “Mom.”
They were two rays of sunshine in the dull dusk of the demented. Rather surprisingly, their happiness was not a cause of envy but rather a font of universal satisfaction. The other women accepted them as a married couple. The two of them, though wrapped up in each other, made time for everybody else. Monica went on discussing make-up, blazers, lingerie, and jewelry with the old ladies. George told them amusing stories about his childhood and, in an inconsequential but flattering way, flirted with them. He stopped whispering requests to the staff for a big bottle of sleeping pills and/or a shotgun. Monica no longer whined, “I want to go home.” She no longer remembered the home.
Then, one day, the two napped together in George’s room. The staff informed the unit manager who told them this was forbidden, but the next night George slipped into Monica’s room and stayed. The sympathetic staff were perplexed, but not for long. On George’s wife’s next visit, one of them, believing it her Catholic duty, told George’s wife about Marsha/Monica, including the unauthorized sleeping.
Yvonne Demetrios took her rage straight to the top, the executive director, an ex-nun who understood her primary concern to be the satisfaction of those who paid and only secondarily that of the inmates.
“I’m not paying seventy grand a year to subsidize my husband’s adultery. This place has got crucifixes plastered all over it. It’s named for a saint, for Christ’s sake. Fix this or I’m shipping him out. Got it?”
Strict orders were issued. Marsha was moved from the east to the west side. George was prevented from sitting with her during meals. Staff were instructed to keep them apart by means of distraction, feeding them at different times, changing the nap schedule, and, when these measures failed, gentle but straightforward physical interference.
Marsha/Monica grew depressed. She wept when her daughter visited but also when she didn’t. As for George, his mood changed. One afternoon, he tied his sheets together and tried hang himself from the showerhead which broke, causing a minor flood. When he saw Marsha, he wanted to reach out but couldn’t recall her name. He no longer recognized Yvonne as either his wife or his sister. When she visited, he introduced himself and told her about the immigrant and the ham sandwich.
Marsha’s daughter made an appointment with the executive director.
“Aren’t you supposed to make these poor people as happy as possible? Isn’t that your job?” Though she was no longer a nun, the director told Marsha the story of Saint Dymphna, beheaded at fifteen by her senile father because she refused to marry him.
“There are rules, my dear,” she said frostily.
Marsha died in her sleep. Her cheeks were still wet in the morning. Three days later, George had a heart attack over dinner, the massive kind. His chair tipped over and he fell to the floor. The staff was unable to revive him before the ambulance arrived.