The Home

Clarence is a wanderer. That's why Meg the social worker and Lucy the activities coordinator are peering through a crack between the locked doors of the Memory Impairment Unit. They need to be sure Clarence isn't poised on the other side waiting to make his escape when those doors open.

"Oh, no," Meg whispers. "He's right there."

"So is Eva," Lucy says. "Over against the wall."

They turn around to face me and my wife Beverly. "All right, here's what we do," Meg tells us. She is a solid woman in her late thirties, authoritative but somehow gentle at the same time. Meg inspires confidence here where confidence is difficult to achieve. "When the doors open, you both walk straight in. Don't stop and don't let Clarence get hold of you. I'll take Clarence for a walk; Lucy will deal with Eva." I nod, but must look troubled because Meg adds, "don't worry, this is normal with Alzheimer's. It's not because they're being mistreated or anything. A lot of them wander. But your mother's not a wanderer."

No, my mother is not a wanderer. In fact, at ninety she vastly prefers to perch on a chair and catch the action as it passes. Though she can ambulate with a walker, she prefers to stay put. Any aide who crosses her field of vision is asked what time it is, at which point my mother will check her wrist watch and agree. Any staff not carrying or pushing something is asked to call me on the phone so my mother can find out why I never come to visit. Any man who happens by is invited to sit beside her. If there are activities going on, she wants to be involved: she sings, she draws, she even goes on "mystery outings" where, for example, she has picked raspberries on a nearby farm, something I cannot imagine no matter how hard I try. She has been at The Home for a month; changes are happening to her quickly now, and not all of them seem bad. She is uncharacteristically mellow and friendly. She often smiles or hums snatches of old standards. She makes few demands or complaints, except around the issue of my visits. The problem is that she forgets them as soon as Beverly and I leave, and is convinced we never come to see her though we are there at least weekly. We have bought a wall calendar for her on which to note our visits, but know she will not remember to look at it.

Not a wanderer, not incontinent, astonishingly healthy for someone who smoked Chesterfields for sixty years and was always overweight and never exercised, my mother is thriving now that we have moved her from New York to Oregon. But, though she has not been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, her memory impairment is severe and progressing steadily. She has been recommended for the Memory Impairment Unit where she can receive more appropriate support. This is also where Clarence and Eva live, and where we are all going for a tour if we can charge in without letting the others escape.

Before she turns back to open the door, I ask Meg if everyone in the unit spends their whole day trying to get out. I wonder if this is the right move for my mother.

"Oh no, just Clarence and sometimes Eva. If she sees him waiting by the door, she follows. The rest are like your mother and we take them out for all the usual activities." She places a hand on my arm for a moment. "Really, don't worry. If you don't feel good about this, we won't move your mother at all."

The door is opened, Clarence is led out. Head down, arms spread to wedge aside any further obstacles, he nods as he rumbles like a fullback toward the lobby. As the doors close, Lucy and I elude a stunned...