Monday, August 28, 2006

Bernice

Bernice wants her own room. A room she doesn’t have to share with another guest. A room like the one I’m sitting in now. Bernice rolls her wheelchair halfway into the Garden Suite. A soft alarm tone sounds out in the hallway, like when I leave my keys in the ignition.

“Who’s that? Are you recovering?” Bernice shouts from the doorway towards the bed.

My Grandma is lying with her head back and breathing heavy. Her mouth is open and her lips are pulled tightly over her gums where her dentures used to be until they started to hurt her recently. She’s still asleep. Eyes shut. Very still except for the labored rising and falling of her chest. Two house flies orbit her body and then land on the bed sheet.

“Are you getting into trouble again?” the orderly asks Bernice as she steps behind the wheelchair. “You’re setting off the alarms.”

“I want my own room.”

“You have your own room. What are you doing down here?”

“None of your business.”

The orderly looks at us. “Sorry.”

Bernice is rolled away.

“She’s nuts,” my uncle says. He winks at me. “Well, you know what I mean. Alzheimer’s.”

He moves along side the bed and grabs my Grandma’s hand. “Mom. You awake?” he shouts. Her eyelids flash open.

“Hey, look at that. Joel’s here. Your grandson. He looks pretty good don’t you think?”

She looks at me. The corners of her mouth pull tight like a smile. I squeeze her hand. Her eyes close. Her mouth is still open. I swat away the flies.

“She doesn’t talk anymore,” my uncle says. “Just nods yes or no. Sleeps mostly now. I hope that’s how she goes. Wouldn’t that be peaceful? No pain. Says she can’t feel any pain now. But I hope she goes in her sleep.”

We sit down again.

Bernice slowly wheels into sight, framed in the doorway.

“Who’s that?” she says staring at my Grandma.

“Grace Henning,” my aunt half shouts, annoyed.

“Is she recovering?”

She’s resting now.

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