Meetings With Alzheimer's

Andie Popova

I visited an Alzheimer's facility and recorded all of my conversations with the patients. I published this memoir of dialogue in the Fall of my junior year of high school. The following are two chapters from my book Meetings With Alzheimer's.

"Ben"

I arrived at Magnolia Hills Retirement Community two minutes early. After signing in, the receptionist unlocked the vaulted door that opened a portal to the past—green, textured wallpaper; rooms with chess tables and encyclopedias; a railing along the walls to guide the patients through the halls; grandfather clocks, medicine tables, a schedule of events; lamps illuminating reading areas; and women in green uniforms.
And then I entered the community center, a room where a few white-haired women were seated around a plasma-screen TV and watching the Hallmark Channel. 

Immediately, I heard one of the patients singing in a soft drone. She sang louder and louder until one of the women in green uniforms held her hand and helped her find a seat. The singing woman seemed no more than seventy years old and seemed pleasant and lively on the outside; however, the incoherent song that trailed from between her lips told an entirely different story.

One of the women in green uniforms, Eleanor, told me to have a seat at a table along the far edge of the room. She took my purse and locked it in her office, and when she returned, she helped a man take a seat across from me. Once he situated himself, she turned to him and asked if he would like to know who I was.

“A pretty girl,” he responded.
“This is Andrea,” Eleanor told him.
“I see.”
“Well, go ahead and make this puzzle. I’ve got a good one for y’all two.” She left us to fit the puzzle pieces together, and I realized that I didn’t know what I was going to say.
“Hi, what was your name again?” That was all I could come up with.
“Ben. And you are?”
“I’m Andrea.”
“Andrea . . .” He took a moment to take the name in. “That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you. I like Ben too. Ben’s a cool name.”
“Now, my real name’s Dean.”
“Dean?”
“Yes. I, uh, in second grade, I changed my name to Ben because I thought Dean was too complicated.” He held up his fingers to count. “See, Dean has four letters. Ben only has three.”
“You’re right, Ben is definitely less complicated.” We both laughed, and I figured we were probably off to a good start.
“You’re Laticia, right?” My heart sank, but I simply shook my head and corrected him.
“Andrea.”
“Oh . . .”
“But I have a math teacher named Laticia!”
“I used to be a math teacher. That was before I was in the navy.”
“The navy? How long were you in the navy?”
He clutched his head and shut his eyes. After a few moments, he looked up at me.
“Twenty years. 1945 to 19 . . .” He shut his eyes again, but when he opened them, a blank gaze stared back at me, and I knew that he had already forgotten the question.
“What did you do after the navy?”
“Got married. Had kids. I had to wait a while though because the navy wouldn’t let me marry like that.”
“How did you meet your wife?”
“How did I meet my . . . we met at a church service. At the beginning of the service, we were on opposite sides of the church. Then, somehow, and I don’t remember how, we ended up in the middle. Together.”
“Wow.” I hoped he would say more, but we both just looked down at our puzzle pieces and tried to fit them together.
“You said you had kids. How many kids do you have?” I leaned in to hear his answer over the loud drone of the singing woman.
“Two. Lee and Christine. Lee was older. An artist. She liked to paint paintings of children. She got a scholarship for art.”
“And what about Christine?”
“Christine was a bright girl. A very bright girl.” He looked back at his puzzle pieces. “They’re both about fifty now.” He couldn’t find a place for one specific puzzle piece he was holding. “They’re both about fifty now.”
“Do they come to visit you?”
“Well, they live here.” I hoped that was supposed to mean they did. I didn’t dare to ask how often they visited.
“Tell me about how you and your wife got married.”
“Well, it was a nice church in Boulder.”
“Colorado?”
“Yes. Boulder, Colorado.” He held his head again and thought. Then he looked up at me to say the rest. “That’s where we lived.”
“So how did you end up in Houston?”
“We drove.”
I chuckled at his answer, and he smiled.
“My daughters lived in Houston, and they said, ‘Dad, it’ll just be easier if you come down here too.’ So, we did.”
“You and your wife?”
He pointed at me and smiled. “Exactly.”
“Is your wife here?” I looked around expectedly.
“No, no, she, uh, she died.”
“Oh.”
“Five years ago.”
I looked down at my pieces. The puzzle had barely gotten any more pieced together. Suddenly, the singing woman approached us. She sang to me as if she were speaking with words, reaching for something. She tried to sit down next to me, and immediately, Eleanor took notice. She rushed over and said to the singing woman,

“Now, Melody, you need to sit over there. Leave this girl alone to talk to Ben, and sit where I told you to.” She smiled. “By the TV.”

Melody decided that was probably a good idea and left Ben and me alone. I turned to face him, and he gave me a pitying expression.

“She does that during classes,” he said, vexed.
“The singing?”
“Yes. She never stops. It is so annoying. I don’t know what her problem is.” He shook his head and looked back at Melody. “I don’t know what her problem is, but she has a problem.”
He fiddled with the same puzzle piece he had been trying to fit into the same spot for the previous five minutes. I simply stared, watching him.
“I guess we all have some kind of problem.”

After Eleanor came to help us out, the puzzle was almost halfway done. She talked and talked about a car her daughter won, and both Ben and I listened. Finally, she went to care for a short old woman with a Russian accent, and we were left to finish the rest of the puzzle on our own.

“How old are you?” He asked me.
“Sixteen.”
“You should be thinking about colleges soon. Have you thought about scholarships?”
“What do you mean?”
“You should really think about scholarships. These big colleges, they just have so much money that they’re willing to give out. It just depends on whether or not you’re looking for it. A lot of parents think, ‘My kid? He couldn’t get a scholarship,’ but you’d be surprised.”
“That’s true. I’ll definitely look into it.” I smiled, but he was completely staid. “What was your first memory?”
“My first . . .” He shut his eyes and held his head. Finally, he looked up at me and said, “Being two.”
“Anything specific that you remember?”
“Nope. Just being two.”

We continued to work on our puzzle sections for a while. The image was now three-fourths complete. After a long silence, he finally opened his mouth to speak, and I thought he was going to tell me about his first memory.

“You know, scholarships are very important. And you can get one.”
I nodded. “Yes. It sounds great. I’ll definitely apply.”
“Just ask your counselor at school. I used to be a counselor.”
“You were?”
“Yes.”
“At a college? The one where you taught math?”
“What?” He held his ear forward, and I repeated the question. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your question.”
I looked down at the puzzle and let the question drop. He opened his mouth to speak again after a few moments.
“Some parents think, ‘My kid? No! He couldn’t get a scholarship.’ But they’re wrong. A lot of colleges give scholarships. I know Rice, U of H, and others are giving some. You should try.”
And that was when I realized he was unknowingly repeating himself.
“Of course. It sounds great.”
“I know colleges are mostly for men, but you could try.”
I smiled. “Actually, most colleges have a fifty-to-fifty ratio of men to women.”
“Really?” He seemed taken aback by this. “Now, see, I didn’t know that.”
I just nodded and continued to work on the puzzle. The image was now only missing a few pieces. Ben and I both filled the final spaces until we realized a piece was missing.
“Oh no.” I looked around.
“Looks like a piece is missing.”
“Well, I guess that’s as far as we can get.”
“I guess so.”
“What happens after you guys finish the puzzles?”
He smiled in a bittersweet way and shrugged. “They take them apart, and we fit them together all over again the next day.”

Eleanor came over to congratulate us on finishing the puzzle. She left, and I told Ben it was very nice to meet him. Before I left, however, Ben stopped me in my tracks as he said, “Make sure to sign up for a scholarship. A lot of parents think, ‘No way! My kid can’t get a scholarship!’ But they are wrong.”
“I’ll definitely look into it. Thanks, Ben.”

He smiled as I waved him good-bye. I wondered whether he would remember me when I come back the next time. I wondered if he would even remember my name.
I signed out as the receptionist unlocked the front entrance. I let the door shut behind me as I scurried to my car, leaving behind another world—a safe haven trapped behind vaulted doors. 

"Adi"

I walked in late, long after the community room had gone dark, so the woman at the front told me to go into the living room and read to some of the patients. After having only spoken with Ben, a high-functioning patient, I wasn’t prepared to talk with the low-functioning patients. I walked into the living room and sat next to a woman with bright-red lipstick and wrinkles lining her face in all directions like a map. She looked at me for a moment, and I smiled.

“Hello. I’m Andrea.” She simply looked at me, puzzled, then began to fiddle with her purse. “What are you looking for?”
But she didn’t respond. She only dug through her purse and mumbled things under her breath. I continued to ask her questions, but she didn’t even seem to hear me. It was like I wasn’t there. It was like she wasn’t there.

She stood up and walked away, and I smiled at another woman who was sitting beside her. She gave me a bittersweet grin and then stared off into space as if I wasn’t there. I sat for a moment in the living room and felt the eeriness of the building floating through me. A screen playing a Hallmark movie glowed in the background as rows of white-haired patients sat in silence or in soft mumblings under their breaths.

All of a sudden, a staff member walked over to me with an old woman at her side. The old woman had short buzz-trimmed hair, frail hands that seemed as though they might break with ease, and dulled once-blue eyes. As soon as she saw me, she began to sing “Shalom! Shalom” and continued to sing something I couldn’t understand. Once she finished, she smiled at me and placed her palms gently in her lap.

“What song was that?” I asked giddily.
“Oh no, that was a prayer. A prayer to God.” Her accent was familiar to me and thick like syrup on a winter’s morning.
“Your accent—where are you from?”
“Poland. I am from Poland.” Immediately my mind lit up. My best friend was from Poland, so I knew that the woman and I could connect on something.
“Poland? Where are you from in Poland?”
“I am from Poland.”
I decided to move on to another question for the moment.
“When did you come to America?” She shut her eyes and thought for a moment before she responded.
“I came when I was a teenager. I came to America when I was a teenager. I was the youngest.”
“The youngest? Where are your brothers and sisters?”
She held her head in her hand and shut her eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t . . . care. I don’t want to know.”
“Did you not like them? How did you feel about your brothers and sisters?”
“I . . . I came when I was a teenager. I was the youngest in the family.”
“Why did you come to America?” She shut her eyes again. They opened into a pained expression as she looked at me.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I can’t express myself. I was the youngest in my family. I came when I was young. I was a teenager when I came.”
“So do you remember why you came here?” She looked at me with a bewildered expression. “Why did you come to America?” Then her face lit up, and I knew that she remembered.
“My father was very rich in Poland. He was the richest man in the city.”
“So why did you leave?”
Her face grew back into that confused expression, and my heart sank.
“I don’t remember. I’m sorry, I can’t express myself. I was the youngest of ten children.”
“That’s okay. Was it bad in Poland?”
“Oh yes.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, very bad.”
“Why was it bad?” She hesitated. “Why was it bad in Poland?”
“Because I was the youngest of ten children. I came when I was a teenager.” This time, when she said those words, I felt her yearning to express what she was thinking. It was as if she was merely using those particular words to say something else.
“Are you married?” She seemed almost deflated by this question. “Where is your husband?” She looked down and held her head again. For a long moment she just sat there, thinking, trying to remember.
“I don’t know.” She gave out a dark laugh when she said it. “I don’t know where my husband is.”
“Is he here?” She shook her head.
“I don’t know. I cannot tell you. My memory is kaput.” And that was when I realized how she felt. She knew she could not remember, no matter how hard she tried.
“That’s okay. That’s all right.” I looked away and thought for a moment. “So, you were the youngest of ten children. You came to America when you were a teenager. Your father was very wealthy. The richest man in the city.”
“Did I say that?”
I nodded.
“I don’t . . . I’m getting mixed up. My memory is kaput. I know I was the youngest. The youngest of ten children.”
“Yes. Why was it so bad in Poland? What was it like in Poland?”
“Oh, very bad. People did not treat me . . . they treated me badly.”
“How did people treat you in America?”
She smiled, and her eyes glistened.           
“Beautifully.”
“They thought you were beautiful?”
“No, they treat me with this word. They treated me beautifully.”
“Why did you want to go to America?”
“Because in America there is freedom.”
“Freedom?”
“Yes. America is God’s country.”
She began to sing a prayer again, and I sat back and smiled. When she finished, I asked her what the prayer meant.
“It is a prayer of God.”
“What language is it in?”
“Hebrew. That is the language I learned since I was born. I was born in Poland. I was the youngest of ten children.”
“Where did you learn Hebrew? At school?”
“I don’t remember. I’m sorry. My memory is kaput.” She shook her head. “I am good for nothing.”
“That’s not true! See how much you’ve remembered? You were born in Poland. The youngest of ten children. You came to America as a teenager. You liked America because there is freedom whereas in Poland you felt isolated. You remember.”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Where did you meet your husband?” She held her head, and I asked another question. “Did you meet your husband in America or Poland?”
“Am—it was . . . I met him in Poland.”
“You met your husband in Poland?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“Three or Four. I was very young. The youngest in the family. My parents had ten children. Ten.”
“Where did you get married?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. So much I don’t remember.”
“What was your husband like?”
“He was . . . I was the youngest in my family.” 
“What was your husband like?”
“My husband was very religious.”
“Just like you.”
“Yes.”
“You’re Jewish, right?”
“Yes. We are both Jewish. Very religious.” She began to sing another prayer. When she finished, we both smiled.
“You remember those prayers. You remember.”
“My memory is good for nothing. Kaput. I know that I am the youngest of ten. I came to America when I was a teenager.”
“Why did you come to America? Was there a war?”
“No, it was, eh . . . a very wealthy country. That is why I came.”
“Italy? Germany?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“Did you come to America with your parents?”
“I remember they were very happy I was going.”
“Why were they so happy?”
“Because they were already here. My whole family was here. I was the last one because I was the youngest of ten.”
“You came to America alone?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I cannot tell you. I am good for nothing.”
“Where did your brothers and sisters go?”
“My sisters went to Mexico and Argentina. Mexico and Argentina.”
“Where did you go? Mexico? Texas? New York?”
“I came last because I was the youngest in my family. When I came, they looked at me like . . . I was the youngest . . . disapproval.”
“Were you successful in America?”
“Yes. My husband was very successful.”
“And your family thought you wouldn’t be successful?” She nodded. “Because you were the youngest?” She nodded again.

Just then, I heard someone calling me from the other end of the room. A woman in a wheelchair was sitting there, tears in her eyes, looking at me.
“Please,” she begged me, “please come over here. Please just do it. Please come over here by me.” I have never heard such a desperate plea. The sound of her calling me was squeezing my insides into a ball.
“You want me to sit by you?” I responded kindly, thinking maybe she was saying something else at first.
“Yes. Please! Please come sit by me. Just do it. Do it now! Do it, please.”
“Excuse me, just a second,” I said to the woman I had been talking to and walked over quickly to the woman in the wheelchair. “Hello.” I smiled, and she looked so relieved to have me beside her.
“Sit right there. Please. I promise I don’t bite.” She pointed to a spot on the ground beside her, and I knelt down. A staff member came by to roll her and her wheelchair away, simply chuckling and telling me that the old woman used to be a teacher and now she had a soft spot for kids. I laughed forcedly and stood. Once the woman in the wheelchair was out of sight, I walked softly back to the other woman I was talking to.

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I asked her.
“Adi. I am Adi.” I sat down beside her, and I knew she still remembered me, so I continued to ask her questions.
“So what city did you live in in Poland?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“What are your children like?”
“I have four children.” She listed their names and numbered them off on her hand, but that was all she could formulate.
“What was your earliest memory?”
“I was . . . I was the youngest in the family. I came to America . . . I don’t know when it was.”
“You were a teenager.”
“Did I say that? I don’t remember. I am getting mixed up. My memory is kaput.” She coughed and shut her eyes. “I am good for nothing.”
“Do you wish you could remember?”
Adi didn’t answer at first, but then she looked at me with the most woeful expression.        
“Yes. I wish I could remember. But that is the way the cookie crumbles.” Her hands trembled. “My memory is kaput.”
“If there is one memory you wish you could keep forever—a memory you never want to forget—what would it be?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember anything. Tomorrow you could come again, and I would not remember what I have told you today.”
“Would you remember who I am? Would you remember me?”
“Maybe.” She shook her head. “My memory is kaput. I am the youngest of ten children. I am the youngest of ten children. This, I remember.”
With those words, I felt she wanted to tell me so much, but that was all she could say.
“Well, I’m going to go home and write down your story, Adi. Your story will never be forgotten. I’m writing a book of stories just like yours that I will type up and save. Maybe I can come back and read yours to you.”
She shook her head and replied dolefully, “I do not remember. That is the way the cookie crumbles.”

A staff member walked by and told Adi she had to take her medicine. I looked at my phone and saw that I was already staying far past visiting hours. Adi stood and shuffled over to the medicine bar.
“It was a pleasure talking with you, Adi.”
“I enjoyed very much talking with you. I wish I met you when I could remember. I wish I met you when I was a teenager. When I came to America.”
I smiled, and we parted ways. Before I left the room, however, I turned back to bid Adi one final good-bye.
“Bye, Adi!” I waved at her. She looked at me, confused. A staff member tapped Adi and said, “That lady is saying good-bye to you, Adi!”
“Who is saying good-bye? Who is this?” and that was when I felt my heart drop, along with my waving hand. I tried to keep my smile until I reached my car where I finally sat in the driver’s seat and collapsed into myself. Sixty seconds I was away from her, and already she had forgotten who I was.

But I guess that’s the way the cookie crumbles.