Uprising at Rockdale
S A Hartwich
From the Rockdale Memory Care brochure:
“When it’s time to find a home for a loved one with memory loss, we at Rockdale Memory Care understand what you’re going through. Many of our staff members have family with memory-impairment and know how to handle every situation. From our Housekeeping staff to our Dietary Clerks to our Med Dispensers to our management team, you’ve found people you can trust. Every potential hire goes through an exhaustive vetting process and a ninety-day probationary period to insure long-term quality in care. To top it off, we pay above industry standard and treat our staff like family. Rest-assured we’ll do the same with your mom and dad.”
Tyler
Granbabs had her hearing aids stolen by week two. Then the new pants we got her went away. I knew we weren’t supposed to bring “valuable” items when she moved in, but c’mon . . . pants? Staff told us to write her name on her clothes. When I heard that I imagined Granbabs wandering around the place with a big “Shirley K.” written across the back of her blouse with a thick Sharpie.
Last time I saw Granbabs alive I kissed her on the cheek and handed her a box of chocolates. “Hey Granbabs. I brought you some sweets.”
She looked at the box like it came from outer space.
“What do I do with this?”
“It’s chocolate. You eat it.”
Granbabs looked skeptical “Oh I can’t eat this. It could be poisoned.”
This was new. “It’s not poisoned. I bought it personally.”
She looked up at me. “Are you trying to poison me, Young Man?”
“Gran, it’s Tyler. I’m your grandson.”
“I don’t have any grandsons. I’ve never even been married. Now tell me who you really are before I press this button!” But she was pressing the button anyway, over and over, and while I was trying to figure out the best response her door opened and a tall skinny guy with a mullet came in. I’d met him a few times but I couldn’t remember his name.
“What’s the problem, Shirley?”
Shirley pointed at me. “This man tried to poison me.”
“I brought her a box of chocolates,” I said, and mullet guy winked at me.
“Shirley, this is your grandson. He’s not trying to poison you.” He spoke slowly and enunciated like he was talking to a toddler, which pissed me off.
“If you say so, George. Will you be stopping by tonight?” Gran turned to me. “George visits every evening. We’re lovers.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but mullet guy had apparently heard this before.
“No we’re not, Shirley. I give you meds and that’s all. And my name’s Brad.”
Something didn’t feel right, but what did I know? She got shit wrong all the time.
After Brad left I gave Granbabs an awkward hug and tried to leave, but she held onto my arm and pulled me close. Made eye contact.
“Please give Rosalie a big hug for me, Tyler. She’s a wonderful lady and the two of you will produce such lovely children. Oh, and next time you visit please bring caramels from Rothschild’s. I have such a weakness for them. And maybe a book or two of poetry? I trust your judgment, but nothing too avant garde.”
I was shocked; number one, Gran had met my fiance only twice before, well after her dementia set in. Number two, she hadn’t had caramels for years. Number three, she’d stopped reading even before she moved in here, that the words just jumbled together.
“I love you, Grandson,” she said, holding my hand between her own. “Now don’t be such a stranger.”
“Love you too, Granbabs.”
Brad
I can’t take back what happened, but the God’s honest truth is I never stole a single thing from one of the residents. I can’t stand thieves. I’ve always believed in an eye for an eye. Somebody takes something that isn’t theirs, they lose a hand.
I got on real well with the residents, for the most part. They called me by my first name if they remembered it and I tried to be nice when they didn’t, because dementia’s a terrible thing and it isn’t their fault.
I never had relations with anybody that told me to stop. They liked it, usually, but when someone said NO with those big capital letters, I respected it. That didn’t happen real often because these are lonely ladies, I’m telling you, and I’m real gentle. I take my time and make sure I do things right, because what’s the hurry? My girls deserved a little happiness. And I never had to tell them to keep quiet because they knew a good thing when then they felt it. Plus I had their backs. Once when Janelle stopped changing Mamie C106’s sheets I was all over her.
“You need to learn respect, Janelle. What if that was your mama?”
“Fuck that shit, Brad. She hides her food under her covers and smears it all around when she’s sleeping. Maybe if she sleeps in yogurt for a few nights she’ll stop that nonsense.”
“Go change her sheets or I’ll write you up.”
“Asshole,” said Janelle.
“Spelled a-d-v-o-c-a-t-e,” I said. Janelle never fucked with anyone I cared about after that, right up until the end.
Sheila Dinwiddie, Director of Operations, Rockdale Seattle North
How about you try to hold a place like this together? I’m not disavowing responsibility because I’m at heart a Buck Stops Here kind of person, but honestly, hiring minimum wage staff to care for memory-impaired seniors? It’s a miracle our residents don’t get their gold teeth stolen. I guess we’re lucky immigrants have a real work ethic, because I can’t imagine the shit-show if we had to hire only American citizens to cook and clean around here. As far as the residents go, I try to see each one as a human being with a past life that earns them respect when they get here. That doesn’t make it any easier to take care of them, because it’s like herding sheep or directing zombies. It gets on your nerves. YOU try to show Mrs. Krump how to use a spoon for the fiftieth time and see if YOU don’t get a little jaded. Then Mr. Bronson drops his trousers during singalong and BMs right next to Mrs. Krump who doesn’t notice a thing and everyone keeps singing--maybe even a little louder--because the louder you sing the less it smells. Or matters. There but for the grace of God.
What this really boils down to is money. In the end we’re profit-based, and when the money’s rolling in the blinders go on. When all was said and done here at Brookdale North, a part of me smiled.
Ghost of Bill K., Room A112
When I died all the memories came back in a whoosh and knocked me on my ass. Apparently I flew an F4 in Vietnam and raised three kids who raised seven great-grandkids and had an electrical business for forty years before the dementia kicked in.
First thing you’ll want to know is what’s it like to gradually go dark inside until there’s nothing left. I remember bits and pieces of my life back then but it’s like trying to move a thick fog out of the way. Once in awhile I’ll get a recollection about a visit or a holiday or crapping my pants or not remembering someone and then remembering them or I’ll recall an entire day from start to finish down to details you wouldn’t believe. But at some point what comes back seems a long way away, like I’m viewing the memory from down the block or through a pair of binoculars. And I’m not talking about my life up to the Alzheimer’s. I lost most of that right away, which is crap because you lose your anchor. It’s one thing to forget daily tasks like tying your shoes or brushing your teeth and such, but it’s a whole other thing when you can’t remember the “before”. Did I have kids? Was I married at some point? You get what I’m saying. Once you lose your anchors things go downhill pretty fast. For me, I went totally dark by 2014. Don’t have a single memory after that. I was just a body.
So where the bejeebers did I go? I wasn’t some spirit floating above myself, and I wasn’t in Heaven or purgatory. I was just . . . gone. Or buried somewhere, like a dormant virus. When I finally died and left my body all the memories came back but my circuits were pretty much fried, and all I did for the first few months was wander around looking for the “light” so I could reunite with my dead pets and dead wives and dead friends. Too bad for me . . . no light. And every time I tried to go outside I ended up ricocheting back to my room. So I went crazy for a little while. Who wouldn’t? The Ghost Whisperer can kiss my ass.
Marie (Dietary Supervisor)
The cafeteria’s a pretty quiet place for the most part, because seniors with dementia don’t talk much when they eat. Doesn’t seem to matter that they’re all in the same boat; it’s like if they say something it might be the wrong thing and then another resident who’s not so far along might make fun, or start ignoring. Everyone’s assigned a particular seat so there’s no favorites or cliquing up except what happens naturally with the seating chart.
I’m pretty sure it was lunchtime on Meatloaf Monday. Mrs. Atkinson asked me for salt for the thousandth time and I had to turn her down for the thousandth time.
“Sorry Dear, your doctor says no salt.”
“I need salt, Goddamit. This meatloaf tastes like crap!”
Right then I knew something was up because Mrs. Atkinson didn’t talk much and never argued with me. Plus she always spoke in a meek little voice but this time the whole room heard her and turned their heads. (Just because you don’t remember things doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate a little variation to the routine. Just sayin’.)
And then the other salt-free folks started asking for salt and then the whole group, salted and salt-free, went nutty and started banging their knives on the tables. In unison! Like a prison cafeteria! BANG BANG We want salt! BANG BANG We want salt! But the funny thing was only a handful of people weren’t allowed salt, so it didn’t make sense. What made even less sense was when a few people stood up and took their shakers around and salted all the salt-free meatloaf and steamed mixed vegetables and new red potatoes and then sat back down before Miguel and Zebunissa could step in. Then everything went back to normal. I mean perfectly silent, like usual. Like nothing ever happened.
Miguel, Zebunissa and I formed up.
“You notice everyone did the chant? ABGs and all?” said Miguel. ABG stood for “All But Gone.”
“Even they no speak.” said Zebunissa.
“No, everyone was talking,” said Miguel.
“Sorry, even if they no speak usually.” said Zebunissa, who was taking ESL classes at night and sometimes led the singing during Activities.
I let them talk it out because I had no words. I’d been in this business for twenty years and nothing like this. Ever.
Janelle
First of all, I got nothing against old people. I get tired of changing Depends and repeating myself every five seconds but I know it’s not their fault, their memory going away and such. But it’s still annoying and I do what I need to do to keep them in line. If that means raising my voice or a pinch here and there so be it because otherwise this place runs like shit. If it weren’t for people like Brad and me, I don’t know. I swear we’re the only white caregivers in the whole place--except for the assholes running things--and we have to set a standard for everyone else. If that means I look away when I find out Brad’s schtupping the residents then so be it. We stick together. Sure he’s a dick for trying to keep me on track, but I think he means well.
For me it started when I walked into Room C106 and stepped in yogurt Mamie had scooped out on the carpet like she was laying landmines. I guess she’d been saving up for a while because I saw six or eight empty cartons off to the side. I didn’t say nothing for a few seconds because everything was racing around in my brain because Mamie was ABG which means you can’t remember how to do anything, even use the bathroom or get out of bed. I looked over and she’s innocent like a mouse, sitting in her easy chair.
“Mamie, what the fuck?” I said, but she just kept staring at the wall like it was the most interesting thing in the world. To Hell with Brad, I thought. I scraped up the yogurt and spread it all over her pillowcase. If she said anything no would believe her.
Zebunissa
I can’t explain what happened to me. One minute I’m struggling with English and the next I’m not only fluent, but proficient. Suddenly I knew words like rigamarole and obstreperous, and that the past participle of eat is eaten.
A few days after the cafeteria incident, I was leading afternoon Song Group. Understand, I felt lucky if more than a handful of residents took part, but participation isn’t the only goal; getting them out of their rooms into the Activity Area is the number one goal, and anything after that’s a bonus.
On this particular day the seats were jammed full to the point where the Director had to find some folding metal chairs so everyone could have a seat. I’d never seen more than a dozen residents take part, but there were easily twice as many this time. And they all sang! Right from the beginning. We started with “You Are My Sunshine”, then moved on to “Goodnight Irene”, and by the time we started singing “I’ve Been Working On the Railroad” half of them were standing up and moving their hips and smiling ear to ear, jostling each other like kids in a High School Chorus class.
Then the strangest thing happened: Maisie K. from Room A110 raised her hand.
“Yes, Dear,” I said. “You have song want sing?”
“I think we should try ‘Hey Jude’. I believe we all know and love the Beatles.” Maisie spoke with a thick English accent, but just the fact she spoke was shocking. In two years I’d never heard Maisie utter a word.
I mumbled something in broken English about no lyrics, but the group simply began to sing. Together. In tune. Beautifully. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Men and women, severe Dementia, early Alzheimer’s, it didn’t matter. Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders. Soon most of the building’s staff gathered to listen. Director Dinwiddie stepped out of her office and looked like she wanted to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I did cry, until one by one the residents came up to me and offered a hug or a handshake or a hand to the cheek. Then the song concluded and everyone sat down, and--here’s where it gets exceedingly strange--the energy dissipated, like a plug had been pulled. Everyone went back to normal. Maisie K. dozed off like she usually did. Bob C. mumbled to himself and checked an imaginary watch on his right wrist. Those that usually stared off into space during Activities did so again.
When I awakened the following morning my English was perfect, my accent muted and elegant.
Brad
I’m the kind of guy that likes to lead when I dance and hold doors open on dates and shit like that. I admit it. I like to be in charge. So when Dot Room B109 told me she wanted to be on top I almost crapped myself. On top? They never even hardly moved when we were doing it. Usually they just closed their eyes and blissed out until I finished.
So I ignored her and kept pumping until she pinched my cheek so hard my eyes watered.
“Roll over, Sonny. Mama wants to ride.”
Then--and I shit you not--she made it happen. I mean literally threw me on my back and got up on there and I was so freaked I got soft and she called me a “goddamn useless prick” and told me to get out and never come back or she’d cut my manhood off and feed it to the crows, which made me defensive so I left the bed and put my pants on.
“Fine, Dot. You’re lousy in bed anyways.”
Dot rolled out of bed and grabbed a spork and baby-stepped my way. Like an hour later she’s halfway to me and I’m watching all this like I’m watching some kind of snail-paced horror movie. Then I snapped out of it.
“Whatever,” I said, and left before she got within reach.
Officer Daniel Gray SPD
Arrived at Rockdale Seattle North Campus at 21:05 hours on August 14, 2020 in response to a 911 call concerning Lewd Conduct. Met at coded entry point by three staff members, all of whom appeared shaken and/or upset. Inquired about injuries or other emergencies, but response was negative. All three Insisted I needed to “see this”. I proceeded to follow staff through lobby, down two corridors, and into a dimly-lit courtyard. Once my eyes adjusted I could make out the forms of dozens of elderly people engaged in fellatio, cunnilingus, and intercourse, both vaginal and anal. Everyone was naked. I heard the usual sounds associated with sex acts. One resident, who appeared to be well into her ‘eighties, looked up and saw me. “Join us, Young Man!” she said, then went back to fellating an elderly gentleman who had a large anchor tattoo on his left arm. I inquired in a loud voice if anyone there was being coerced. The only response was from an extremely old man engaged in intercourse with another extremely old man. “It’s just a harmless orgy, Officer!” His comment was met with laughter and agreement by other participants. At that point I withdrew from the courtyard and spoke with staff, explaining that I had no legal right to interfere because this was private property and those participating appeared to be consenting adults. Staff was argumentative and wrote down my name and badge number. I recommended contacting Ownership group for advice on how to proceed. I left at 21:26 in response to a 10-57 at Northgate Mall.
Buddy the Golden Retriever
Dog or not, I take my job seriously. Sure I’m the lovable mascot, roaming around and wagging my tail and snorfling residents that show an interest. But I’m also hell-bent on protection and keeping a close eye on all the visitors that come through the place. I don’t growl and I don’t side-eye, but I’m always watching. Most of the people here aren’t all here, if you know what I mean. They’re the ones I worry about the most because they seem frail like leaves in the wind, like if I accidentally wagged my tail against them they’d keel right over. They smell different, too: like the meat is gone, or buried in their backyard but they can’t remember where.
One day during morning siesta I got a nudge. Not a real nudge, mind you, but a mental nudge. Then the image of that guy I don’t like, Brad. Then the image of six of the ladies that live here. Then the image of Brad doing wrong things to these ladies. Then the image of me biting Brad’s wiener. It was like getting a Mission, and I took Missions seriously. But instead of “Buddy, give Mr. Hollander a kiss”, or “Buddy, get the ball!” it was BUDDY, KEEP BRAD AWAY FROM THESE LADIES. So I did. When Brad came in that night I followed him around. He didn’t know dogs very well, so he just thought I finally liked him.
“I knew you’d come around, Buddy!” he said and patted my nose, which I hate. Seriously, I wanted to take a chunk out of his ass right then, but that wasn’t the Mission.
After everyone went to sleep I kept following Brad around. Eventually he ended up outside the door of the lady in B102, but I blocked his way and sat down.
“Buddy, move!”
I didn’t move.
“Get the fuck out of the way,” said Brad, trying to be quiet.
I didn’t get the fuck out of the way.
Then Brad tried to move me physically and I almost bit his hand off, but I got an image of me in a cage next to a bunch of other dogs in cages. So instead of biting his arm or his wiener I started barking.
“Shh!!!!” said Brad.
I kept barking.
“Fuck,” he said, and retreated down the hall. So I followed him.
We did this four more times and by the end, Brad smelled scared. Like he knew what was up. The Mission wasn’t over that night, or the next; as long as Brad worked here and had a wiener I’d be on his ass like flies on a dump.
Ghost of Bill K., B102
In case you’re curious, I wasn’t the only spirit wandering around Rockdale; there was Marge from Room C104 and Barbie from D112, and I think Brandon from A 101. I was never sure about Brandon because he was pretty translucent, even to me. But he walked hunched over like Brandon and stuck to “A” wing for the most part. Anyhoo, none of us got a light or a tunnel, so we walked the halls looking for one or the other. It was frustrating but what the hell else were we supposed to do? Couldn’t play chess or bridge or bingo and watching movies always made me itch, like I was wasting my afterlife. We kept to ourselves as if any sort of camaraderie might jinx the search. When the living residents--and I use the term “living” loosely--started acting up, all of us noticed and looked at the other ghosts to see if they noticed.
It was like someone came along and flipped a switch and then flipped it off again after a few minutes. Must have been nice for the folks, reconnecting with their past and having a few decent interactions, even if it was just to sing or prank a shitty caregiver. Not that I’m condoning some of the behavior I witnessed, but I guess when you’ve been locked out of yourself for so long you get a little crazy when your faculties start up again. Each to his own, as they say.
Myrna C. Room D107
Let me start by telling you I’m no savior. I wasn’t chosen for being special, or holy, or spiritual. I was raised a Christian Scientist but disavowed God when Prayer didn’t save my little girl from Leukemia. My dementia kicked in during my late ‘seventies, and five years later I was a vegetable.
When I Awakened nothing came back in a rush; I recalled a few details from my life, but most of it remained hazy and distant. All that mattered was the Mission.
It wasn’t difficult to find Brad’s keys; he routinely left them in the medicine cart he pushed around, two drawers down. Mission parameters specified when he’d been taking his lengthy bathroom break, and for how long. I went to the facility pharmacy, unlocked the door, and went straight for the medicine cabinet. Two minutes later, shopping bag stuffed with all kinds of painkilling narcotics, a mortar and pestle, and several dozen little paper cups, I returned the keys and got to work in my room.
At precisely 2:45 AM, I gathered up my handiwork and went to the cafeteria. Sure enough, it looked like every single resident had found their way. No staff in sight.
Buddy the Golden Retriever
New Mission: trap the overnight staff, Brad and Janelle, in the staff lounge. Use all means necessary to prevent escape, including teeth. By now Brad was used to being shadowed, so he didn’t notice when I followed Janelle into the room and blocked the door. When they got up to leave I growled. When Brad tried to walk around me I wouldn’t let him. When he tried the other way I wouldn’t let him. When he tried to kick me I finally got the chance to bite his wiener. Then he fell to the floor and whined like a little puppy bitch. Janelle reached for her cell but the mission voice said NO so I bared my teeth and she put it down. Then I wagged my tail because I was the shit.
Ghost of Bill K, B102
GO TO THE CAFETERIA. This came through loud and clear like an order from my old drill Sergeant, so I went. I mean what the Hell, right? I had nothing to lose. When I got there it was clear something big was afoot: all the residents gathered, all the ghosts gathered. Then Ghost Barbie smiled at me and waved and my chin dropped to my knees. Six years ignoring and being ignored by the other spirits in this place, and now this. I wandered over and then Ghost Brandon and Ghost Marge wandered over and the four of us waited. Then the residents woke up en masse and looked around at each other and started talking all at once. This wasn’t like the cafeteria uprising or the singing or the orgy I’d tried to forget; those felt like partial awakenings, like tests. This time it was all the way. People were restored.
Myrna from C114 clapped her hands until the crowd settled down and turned toward her.
“Welcome back everyone! I wish we had more time but I’m being told we don’t. Anyway, you all have a decision to make.” She held up one of the medicine cups. “Drink one of these and you’ll die and cross over. Or don’t drink and you’ll revert to the state of dementia you were in previously. And before you ask, I have no idea what’s on the other side.”
Margaret, Room D108, stood up. “Won’t our families think we’ve been horribly murdered?”
“No Dear,” said Myrna. “Security cameras were installed recently, in light of the goings on around here. Family members will certainly be allowed to review the video footage, which will make it look like what it truly is.”
Then everyone started talking and gesticulating but it didn’t take long to reach consensus, and people started lining up for the “medicine”. Far as I could tell, no one said no. All thirty-eight residents, deciding enough was enough. I felt the urge to take some myself and stifled a chuckle.
For the next few minutes people shared like able-minded people share, hugging and shaking hands and exchanging stories. Then they started drifting off, one by one, falling back in their chairs, and pretty soon their spirits rose up and out and immediately wafted their way toward the back of the room and just . . . disappeared. The four of us long-term ghosts exchanged glances. Then Myrna’s spirit rose up out of herself and gestured to us. Get in line. So we did. And there was no light. And there was no tunnel or passageway or staircase or elevator. Just a barely noticeable shimmer and a cool wet patch like walking through a waterfall.
S A Hartwich
From the Rockdale Memory Care brochure:
“When it’s time to find a home for a loved one with memory loss, we at Rockdale Memory Care understand what you’re going through. Many of our staff members have family with memory-impairment and know how to handle every situation. From our Housekeeping staff to our Dietary Clerks to our Med Dispensers to our management team, you’ve found people you can trust. Every potential hire goes through an exhaustive vetting process and a ninety-day probationary period to insure long-term quality in care. To top it off, we pay above industry standard and treat our staff like family. Rest-assured we’ll do the same with your mom and dad.”
Tyler
Granbabs had her hearing aids stolen by week two. Then the new pants we got her went away. I knew we weren’t supposed to bring “valuable” items when she moved in, but c’mon . . . pants? Staff told us to write her name on her clothes. When I heard that I imagined Granbabs wandering around the place with a big “Shirley K.” written across the back of her blouse with a thick Sharpie.
Last time I saw Granbabs alive I kissed her on the cheek and handed her a box of chocolates. “Hey Granbabs. I brought you some sweets.”
She looked at the box like it came from outer space.
“What do I do with this?”
“It’s chocolate. You eat it.”
Granbabs looked skeptical “Oh I can’t eat this. It could be poisoned.”
This was new. “It’s not poisoned. I bought it personally.”
She looked up at me. “Are you trying to poison me, Young Man?”
“Gran, it’s Tyler. I’m your grandson.”
“I don’t have any grandsons. I’ve never even been married. Now tell me who you really are before I press this button!” But she was pressing the button anyway, over and over, and while I was trying to figure out the best response her door opened and a tall skinny guy with a mullet came in. I’d met him a few times but I couldn’t remember his name.
“What’s the problem, Shirley?”
Shirley pointed at me. “This man tried to poison me.”
“I brought her a box of chocolates,” I said, and mullet guy winked at me.
“Shirley, this is your grandson. He’s not trying to poison you.” He spoke slowly and enunciated like he was talking to a toddler, which pissed me off.
“If you say so, George. Will you be stopping by tonight?” Gran turned to me. “George visits every evening. We’re lovers.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but mullet guy had apparently heard this before.
“No we’re not, Shirley. I give you meds and that’s all. And my name’s Brad.”
Something didn’t feel right, but what did I know? She got shit wrong all the time.
After Brad left I gave Granbabs an awkward hug and tried to leave, but she held onto my arm and pulled me close. Made eye contact.
“Please give Rosalie a big hug for me, Tyler. She’s a wonderful lady and the two of you will produce such lovely children. Oh, and next time you visit please bring caramels from Rothschild’s. I have such a weakness for them. And maybe a book or two of poetry? I trust your judgment, but nothing too avant garde.”
I was shocked; number one, Gran had met my fiance only twice before, well after her dementia set in. Number two, she hadn’t had caramels for years. Number three, she’d stopped reading even before she moved in here, that the words just jumbled together.
“I love you, Grandson,” she said, holding my hand between her own. “Now don’t be such a stranger.”
“Love you too, Granbabs.”
Brad
I can’t take back what happened, but the God’s honest truth is I never stole a single thing from one of the residents. I can’t stand thieves. I’ve always believed in an eye for an eye. Somebody takes something that isn’t theirs, they lose a hand.
I got on real well with the residents, for the most part. They called me by my first name if they remembered it and I tried to be nice when they didn’t, because dementia’s a terrible thing and it isn’t their fault.
I never had relations with anybody that told me to stop. They liked it, usually, but when someone said NO with those big capital letters, I respected it. That didn’t happen real often because these are lonely ladies, I’m telling you, and I’m real gentle. I take my time and make sure I do things right, because what’s the hurry? My girls deserved a little happiness. And I never had to tell them to keep quiet because they knew a good thing when then they felt it. Plus I had their backs. Once when Janelle stopped changing Mamie C106’s sheets I was all over her.
“You need to learn respect, Janelle. What if that was your mama?”
“Fuck that shit, Brad. She hides her food under her covers and smears it all around when she’s sleeping. Maybe if she sleeps in yogurt for a few nights she’ll stop that nonsense.”
“Go change her sheets or I’ll write you up.”
“Asshole,” said Janelle.
“Spelled a-d-v-o-c-a-t-e,” I said. Janelle never fucked with anyone I cared about after that, right up until the end.
Sheila Dinwiddie, Director of Operations, Rockdale Seattle North
How about you try to hold a place like this together? I’m not disavowing responsibility because I’m at heart a Buck Stops Here kind of person, but honestly, hiring minimum wage staff to care for memory-impaired seniors? It’s a miracle our residents don’t get their gold teeth stolen. I guess we’re lucky immigrants have a real work ethic, because I can’t imagine the shit-show if we had to hire only American citizens to cook and clean around here. As far as the residents go, I try to see each one as a human being with a past life that earns them respect when they get here. That doesn’t make it any easier to take care of them, because it’s like herding sheep or directing zombies. It gets on your nerves. YOU try to show Mrs. Krump how to use a spoon for the fiftieth time and see if YOU don’t get a little jaded. Then Mr. Bronson drops his trousers during singalong and BMs right next to Mrs. Krump who doesn’t notice a thing and everyone keeps singing--maybe even a little louder--because the louder you sing the less it smells. Or matters. There but for the grace of God.
What this really boils down to is money. In the end we’re profit-based, and when the money’s rolling in the blinders go on. When all was said and done here at Brookdale North, a part of me smiled.
Ghost of Bill K., Room A112
When I died all the memories came back in a whoosh and knocked me on my ass. Apparently I flew an F4 in Vietnam and raised three kids who raised seven great-grandkids and had an electrical business for forty years before the dementia kicked in.
First thing you’ll want to know is what’s it like to gradually go dark inside until there’s nothing left. I remember bits and pieces of my life back then but it’s like trying to move a thick fog out of the way. Once in awhile I’ll get a recollection about a visit or a holiday or crapping my pants or not remembering someone and then remembering them or I’ll recall an entire day from start to finish down to details you wouldn’t believe. But at some point what comes back seems a long way away, like I’m viewing the memory from down the block or through a pair of binoculars. And I’m not talking about my life up to the Alzheimer’s. I lost most of that right away, which is crap because you lose your anchor. It’s one thing to forget daily tasks like tying your shoes or brushing your teeth and such, but it’s a whole other thing when you can’t remember the “before”. Did I have kids? Was I married at some point? You get what I’m saying. Once you lose your anchors things go downhill pretty fast. For me, I went totally dark by 2014. Don’t have a single memory after that. I was just a body.
So where the bejeebers did I go? I wasn’t some spirit floating above myself, and I wasn’t in Heaven or purgatory. I was just . . . gone. Or buried somewhere, like a dormant virus. When I finally died and left my body all the memories came back but my circuits were pretty much fried, and all I did for the first few months was wander around looking for the “light” so I could reunite with my dead pets and dead wives and dead friends. Too bad for me . . . no light. And every time I tried to go outside I ended up ricocheting back to my room. So I went crazy for a little while. Who wouldn’t? The Ghost Whisperer can kiss my ass.
Marie (Dietary Supervisor)
The cafeteria’s a pretty quiet place for the most part, because seniors with dementia don’t talk much when they eat. Doesn’t seem to matter that they’re all in the same boat; it’s like if they say something it might be the wrong thing and then another resident who’s not so far along might make fun, or start ignoring. Everyone’s assigned a particular seat so there’s no favorites or cliquing up except what happens naturally with the seating chart.
I’m pretty sure it was lunchtime on Meatloaf Monday. Mrs. Atkinson asked me for salt for the thousandth time and I had to turn her down for the thousandth time.
“Sorry Dear, your doctor says no salt.”
“I need salt, Goddamit. This meatloaf tastes like crap!”
Right then I knew something was up because Mrs. Atkinson didn’t talk much and never argued with me. Plus she always spoke in a meek little voice but this time the whole room heard her and turned their heads. (Just because you don’t remember things doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate a little variation to the routine. Just sayin’.)
And then the other salt-free folks started asking for salt and then the whole group, salted and salt-free, went nutty and started banging their knives on the tables. In unison! Like a prison cafeteria! BANG BANG We want salt! BANG BANG We want salt! But the funny thing was only a handful of people weren’t allowed salt, so it didn’t make sense. What made even less sense was when a few people stood up and took their shakers around and salted all the salt-free meatloaf and steamed mixed vegetables and new red potatoes and then sat back down before Miguel and Zebunissa could step in. Then everything went back to normal. I mean perfectly silent, like usual. Like nothing ever happened.
Miguel, Zebunissa and I formed up.
“You notice everyone did the chant? ABGs and all?” said Miguel. ABG stood for “All But Gone.”
“Even they no speak.” said Zebunissa.
“No, everyone was talking,” said Miguel.
“Sorry, even if they no speak usually.” said Zebunissa, who was taking ESL classes at night and sometimes led the singing during Activities.
I let them talk it out because I had no words. I’d been in this business for twenty years and nothing like this. Ever.
Janelle
First of all, I got nothing against old people. I get tired of changing Depends and repeating myself every five seconds but I know it’s not their fault, their memory going away and such. But it’s still annoying and I do what I need to do to keep them in line. If that means raising my voice or a pinch here and there so be it because otherwise this place runs like shit. If it weren’t for people like Brad and me, I don’t know. I swear we’re the only white caregivers in the whole place--except for the assholes running things--and we have to set a standard for everyone else. If that means I look away when I find out Brad’s schtupping the residents then so be it. We stick together. Sure he’s a dick for trying to keep me on track, but I think he means well.
For me it started when I walked into Room C106 and stepped in yogurt Mamie had scooped out on the carpet like she was laying landmines. I guess she’d been saving up for a while because I saw six or eight empty cartons off to the side. I didn’t say nothing for a few seconds because everything was racing around in my brain because Mamie was ABG which means you can’t remember how to do anything, even use the bathroom or get out of bed. I looked over and she’s innocent like a mouse, sitting in her easy chair.
“Mamie, what the fuck?” I said, but she just kept staring at the wall like it was the most interesting thing in the world. To Hell with Brad, I thought. I scraped up the yogurt and spread it all over her pillowcase. If she said anything no would believe her.
Zebunissa
I can’t explain what happened to me. One minute I’m struggling with English and the next I’m not only fluent, but proficient. Suddenly I knew words like rigamarole and obstreperous, and that the past participle of eat is eaten.
A few days after the cafeteria incident, I was leading afternoon Song Group. Understand, I felt lucky if more than a handful of residents took part, but participation isn’t the only goal; getting them out of their rooms into the Activity Area is the number one goal, and anything after that’s a bonus.
On this particular day the seats were jammed full to the point where the Director had to find some folding metal chairs so everyone could have a seat. I’d never seen more than a dozen residents take part, but there were easily twice as many this time. And they all sang! Right from the beginning. We started with “You Are My Sunshine”, then moved on to “Goodnight Irene”, and by the time we started singing “I’ve Been Working On the Railroad” half of them were standing up and moving their hips and smiling ear to ear, jostling each other like kids in a High School Chorus class.
Then the strangest thing happened: Maisie K. from Room A110 raised her hand.
“Yes, Dear,” I said. “You have song want sing?”
“I think we should try ‘Hey Jude’. I believe we all know and love the Beatles.” Maisie spoke with a thick English accent, but just the fact she spoke was shocking. In two years I’d never heard Maisie utter a word.
I mumbled something in broken English about no lyrics, but the group simply began to sing. Together. In tune. Beautifully. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Men and women, severe Dementia, early Alzheimer’s, it didn’t matter. Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders. Soon most of the building’s staff gathered to listen. Director Dinwiddie stepped out of her office and looked like she wanted to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I did cry, until one by one the residents came up to me and offered a hug or a handshake or a hand to the cheek. Then the song concluded and everyone sat down, and--here’s where it gets exceedingly strange--the energy dissipated, like a plug had been pulled. Everyone went back to normal. Maisie K. dozed off like she usually did. Bob C. mumbled to himself and checked an imaginary watch on his right wrist. Those that usually stared off into space during Activities did so again.
When I awakened the following morning my English was perfect, my accent muted and elegant.
Brad
I’m the kind of guy that likes to lead when I dance and hold doors open on dates and shit like that. I admit it. I like to be in charge. So when Dot Room B109 told me she wanted to be on top I almost crapped myself. On top? They never even hardly moved when we were doing it. Usually they just closed their eyes and blissed out until I finished.
So I ignored her and kept pumping until she pinched my cheek so hard my eyes watered.
“Roll over, Sonny. Mama wants to ride.”
Then--and I shit you not--she made it happen. I mean literally threw me on my back and got up on there and I was so freaked I got soft and she called me a “goddamn useless prick” and told me to get out and never come back or she’d cut my manhood off and feed it to the crows, which made me defensive so I left the bed and put my pants on.
“Fine, Dot. You’re lousy in bed anyways.”
Dot rolled out of bed and grabbed a spork and baby-stepped my way. Like an hour later she’s halfway to me and I’m watching all this like I’m watching some kind of snail-paced horror movie. Then I snapped out of it.
“Whatever,” I said, and left before she got within reach.
Officer Daniel Gray SPD
Arrived at Rockdale Seattle North Campus at 21:05 hours on August 14, 2020 in response to a 911 call concerning Lewd Conduct. Met at coded entry point by three staff members, all of whom appeared shaken and/or upset. Inquired about injuries or other emergencies, but response was negative. All three Insisted I needed to “see this”. I proceeded to follow staff through lobby, down two corridors, and into a dimly-lit courtyard. Once my eyes adjusted I could make out the forms of dozens of elderly people engaged in fellatio, cunnilingus, and intercourse, both vaginal and anal. Everyone was naked. I heard the usual sounds associated with sex acts. One resident, who appeared to be well into her ‘eighties, looked up and saw me. “Join us, Young Man!” she said, then went back to fellating an elderly gentleman who had a large anchor tattoo on his left arm. I inquired in a loud voice if anyone there was being coerced. The only response was from an extremely old man engaged in intercourse with another extremely old man. “It’s just a harmless orgy, Officer!” His comment was met with laughter and agreement by other participants. At that point I withdrew from the courtyard and spoke with staff, explaining that I had no legal right to interfere because this was private property and those participating appeared to be consenting adults. Staff was argumentative and wrote down my name and badge number. I recommended contacting Ownership group for advice on how to proceed. I left at 21:26 in response to a 10-57 at Northgate Mall.
Buddy the Golden Retriever
Dog or not, I take my job seriously. Sure I’m the lovable mascot, roaming around and wagging my tail and snorfling residents that show an interest. But I’m also hell-bent on protection and keeping a close eye on all the visitors that come through the place. I don’t growl and I don’t side-eye, but I’m always watching. Most of the people here aren’t all here, if you know what I mean. They’re the ones I worry about the most because they seem frail like leaves in the wind, like if I accidentally wagged my tail against them they’d keel right over. They smell different, too: like the meat is gone, or buried in their backyard but they can’t remember where.
One day during morning siesta I got a nudge. Not a real nudge, mind you, but a mental nudge. Then the image of that guy I don’t like, Brad. Then the image of six of the ladies that live here. Then the image of Brad doing wrong things to these ladies. Then the image of me biting Brad’s wiener. It was like getting a Mission, and I took Missions seriously. But instead of “Buddy, give Mr. Hollander a kiss”, or “Buddy, get the ball!” it was BUDDY, KEEP BRAD AWAY FROM THESE LADIES. So I did. When Brad came in that night I followed him around. He didn’t know dogs very well, so he just thought I finally liked him.
“I knew you’d come around, Buddy!” he said and patted my nose, which I hate. Seriously, I wanted to take a chunk out of his ass right then, but that wasn’t the Mission.
After everyone went to sleep I kept following Brad around. Eventually he ended up outside the door of the lady in B102, but I blocked his way and sat down.
“Buddy, move!”
I didn’t move.
“Get the fuck out of the way,” said Brad, trying to be quiet.
I didn’t get the fuck out of the way.
Then Brad tried to move me physically and I almost bit his hand off, but I got an image of me in a cage next to a bunch of other dogs in cages. So instead of biting his arm or his wiener I started barking.
“Shh!!!!” said Brad.
I kept barking.
“Fuck,” he said, and retreated down the hall. So I followed him.
We did this four more times and by the end, Brad smelled scared. Like he knew what was up. The Mission wasn’t over that night, or the next; as long as Brad worked here and had a wiener I’d be on his ass like flies on a dump.
Ghost of Bill K., B102
In case you’re curious, I wasn’t the only spirit wandering around Rockdale; there was Marge from Room C104 and Barbie from D112, and I think Brandon from A 101. I was never sure about Brandon because he was pretty translucent, even to me. But he walked hunched over like Brandon and stuck to “A” wing for the most part. Anyhoo, none of us got a light or a tunnel, so we walked the halls looking for one or the other. It was frustrating but what the hell else were we supposed to do? Couldn’t play chess or bridge or bingo and watching movies always made me itch, like I was wasting my afterlife. We kept to ourselves as if any sort of camaraderie might jinx the search. When the living residents--and I use the term “living” loosely--started acting up, all of us noticed and looked at the other ghosts to see if they noticed.
It was like someone came along and flipped a switch and then flipped it off again after a few minutes. Must have been nice for the folks, reconnecting with their past and having a few decent interactions, even if it was just to sing or prank a shitty caregiver. Not that I’m condoning some of the behavior I witnessed, but I guess when you’ve been locked out of yourself for so long you get a little crazy when your faculties start up again. Each to his own, as they say.
Myrna C. Room D107
Let me start by telling you I’m no savior. I wasn’t chosen for being special, or holy, or spiritual. I was raised a Christian Scientist but disavowed God when Prayer didn’t save my little girl from Leukemia. My dementia kicked in during my late ‘seventies, and five years later I was a vegetable.
When I Awakened nothing came back in a rush; I recalled a few details from my life, but most of it remained hazy and distant. All that mattered was the Mission.
It wasn’t difficult to find Brad’s keys; he routinely left them in the medicine cart he pushed around, two drawers down. Mission parameters specified when he’d been taking his lengthy bathroom break, and for how long. I went to the facility pharmacy, unlocked the door, and went straight for the medicine cabinet. Two minutes later, shopping bag stuffed with all kinds of painkilling narcotics, a mortar and pestle, and several dozen little paper cups, I returned the keys and got to work in my room.
At precisely 2:45 AM, I gathered up my handiwork and went to the cafeteria. Sure enough, it looked like every single resident had found their way. No staff in sight.
Buddy the Golden Retriever
New Mission: trap the overnight staff, Brad and Janelle, in the staff lounge. Use all means necessary to prevent escape, including teeth. By now Brad was used to being shadowed, so he didn’t notice when I followed Janelle into the room and blocked the door. When they got up to leave I growled. When Brad tried to walk around me I wouldn’t let him. When he tried the other way I wouldn’t let him. When he tried to kick me I finally got the chance to bite his wiener. Then he fell to the floor and whined like a little puppy bitch. Janelle reached for her cell but the mission voice said NO so I bared my teeth and she put it down. Then I wagged my tail because I was the shit.
Ghost of Bill K, B102
GO TO THE CAFETERIA. This came through loud and clear like an order from my old drill Sergeant, so I went. I mean what the Hell, right? I had nothing to lose. When I got there it was clear something big was afoot: all the residents gathered, all the ghosts gathered. Then Ghost Barbie smiled at me and waved and my chin dropped to my knees. Six years ignoring and being ignored by the other spirits in this place, and now this. I wandered over and then Ghost Brandon and Ghost Marge wandered over and the four of us waited. Then the residents woke up en masse and looked around at each other and started talking all at once. This wasn’t like the cafeteria uprising or the singing or the orgy I’d tried to forget; those felt like partial awakenings, like tests. This time it was all the way. People were restored.
Myrna from C114 clapped her hands until the crowd settled down and turned toward her.
“Welcome back everyone! I wish we had more time but I’m being told we don’t. Anyway, you all have a decision to make.” She held up one of the medicine cups. “Drink one of these and you’ll die and cross over. Or don’t drink and you’ll revert to the state of dementia you were in previously. And before you ask, I have no idea what’s on the other side.”
Margaret, Room D108, stood up. “Won’t our families think we’ve been horribly murdered?”
“No Dear,” said Myrna. “Security cameras were installed recently, in light of the goings on around here. Family members will certainly be allowed to review the video footage, which will make it look like what it truly is.”
Then everyone started talking and gesticulating but it didn’t take long to reach consensus, and people started lining up for the “medicine”. Far as I could tell, no one said no. All thirty-eight residents, deciding enough was enough. I felt the urge to take some myself and stifled a chuckle.
For the next few minutes people shared like able-minded people share, hugging and shaking hands and exchanging stories. Then they started drifting off, one by one, falling back in their chairs, and pretty soon their spirits rose up and out and immediately wafted their way toward the back of the room and just . . . disappeared. The four of us long-term ghosts exchanged glances. Then Myrna’s spirit rose up out of herself and gestured to us. Get in line. So we did. And there was no light. And there was no tunnel or passageway or staircase or elevator. Just a barely noticeable shimmer and a cool wet patch like walking through a waterfall.