A Vignette

Driving without words on a chilly morning as the leafs fall….

IT WAS CHILLY. Forty-eight degrees, but for Connie, too chilly for a walk. Her internal temperature controls are awry these days.

So, we went for a drive. The night before she had shooed me out of our TV-watching date by 7:45, saying she was tired and that it was all “hazy.” I asked what was hazy but there wasn’t an answer. So, she walked me to the door of the unit where we hugged and had a good-night kiss.

This morning she said she was congested, couldn’t breathe. When I got to the unit I asked the nurse about it and he said she wasn’t drinking enough water. I told him about the “hazy” comment and asked if he had any thoughts. He shrugged. Not really. When you search for explanations, for logic, in a memory care unit, most days you are searching in a desert.

So, we went for a drive. The winds had blown all night and into the morning. A lot of the Fall color was gone and trees stood stark against a deep blue, cloudless sky with some yellows and browns hanging on so it was pretty out in the countryside. I gave a quick recap of my day thus far and didn’t get an answer. “”Hello,” I said.

“I’m not talking,” she said. That was it. “Because you don’t have anything to talk about?” I asked. “That, too,” she said, deepening the mystery but I didn’t seek any more clues. I didn’t need to solve the case.

Connie was always front and center in life, as a mother, community activist, lawyer, college instructor. Now, words don’t come. Sentences stop half-way in, pausing to look for a path they never seem to find. I know it bothers her. I know she is worried about what others will think of this person who suddenly can’t string words together. Those who know will pat her on the shoulder, give her a hug. Those who don’t? Well, who cares? But she does.

So, we drive through the country in silence, except for an occasional “that’s a pretty tree.”

It’s a short drive. After 20 minutes she is worried about getting back in time for lunch, though we have an hour left. It’s not lunch. It’s the event. Time is marked by breakfast, lunch and dinner more than by the clock or the rising and setting of the sun in this new world she inhabits.

Back at the memory care unit we do our good-bye hugs and a kiss with soft “I love yous.” We don’t say much more than that. She looks at the bottle of Propel on the counter and says “I have to drink more water.” She takes a sip, another hug and I leave.

It’s getting close to lunch…..

Rich Heiland, has been a reporter, editor, publisher/general manager at daily papers in Texas, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio and New Hampshire. He was part of a Pulitzer Prize-winning team at the Xenia Daily (OH) Daily Gazette, a National Newspaper Association Columnist of the Year. Since 1995 he has operated an international consulting, public speaking and training business specializing in customer service, general management, leadership and staff development with major corporations, organizations, and government. Semi-retired, he and his wife, Connie, live in West Chester, PA. He can be reached at [email protected].