The First Time I Died by Joanne Macgregor

Author:Joanne Macgregor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joanne Macgregor
Published: 2021-07-06T00:00:00+00:00

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NOW

Wednesday December 20, 2017

Roseacres Nursing Home smelled of urine, pine disinfectant and the flat, dead-skin odor of old people.

“Are you family?” the attendant behind the front desk asked around her wad of gum. She had a hypnotic way of chewing that wrenched her jaw to the side on every pass, like a cow working its cud.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m his niece from Boston.”

She studied me for a few seconds with round brown eyes and asked, “Is this the first time you’re visiting? Do you know what to expect?”

“I understand he has Alzheimer’s Disease, yes.”

“It’s far advanced, I’m afraid. I’m not sure he’ll even know you’re there. His mind slipped away long since, but his heart keeps on pumping. Sad!”

I nodded.

“Jesus!” she yelled.

It took me a moment to realize she was summoning an orderly, not cursing her patient’s tenacious heart.

“Take Ms.” — she checked the register where I’d entered my details — “McGee to the memory care unit. Visitor for Mr. Turner.”

I followed the orderly down long hallways, past private and shared rooms, a dining hall, and a large, sunny room labeled “Recreation,” where a bunch of old biddies were moving slowly, and completely out of time, to a song that enthusiastically urged them to touch their hands, shoulders, knees and toes. I remembered the ditty from Kindergarten, but back then we’d gyrated wildly to the music. The old ladies of Roseacres moved with the deliberate caution that accompanies an ever-present fear of slipped disks and broken hips.

The memory care unit was located at the far end of the home. Jesús keyed a series of numbers into a security keypad on the wall, and the closed door popped open. We entered the ward, stepping into a soft cacophony of off-key singing, disconnected murmurings, and moans from the patients inside. Some, like the woman singing that the hills were alive, were bed-bound, but several sat in a row of wheelchairs facing a long window which overlooked the snow-blanketed gardens beyond.

I swallowed hard, unnerved by the horror of the room. It was clean, warm, bright, and the patients had been given objects to hold for play or comfort — soft toys, small photograph albums, activity pillows with zippers, tied bows, and movable buttons threaded on a string. They seemed well treated, and their attendant walked amongst them, soothing, picking up dropped objects, holding plastic cups to drooling mouths to give sips of water. But still, it was a prison. They were trapped by their disintegrating brains as surely as by the ward’s locked door.

Jesús wheeled one of the patients around and pushed him to a quiet corner of the ward where a few visitors’ chairs sat waiting forlornly. I took one of the seats and examined Pitchford’s old police chief. Frank Turner, shockingly thin, stared down at his right hand, where his fingers continuously worked a fidget spinner. From a tank mounted to the rear of his chair, oxygen whispered through a thin tube into his nose.

“Mr. Turner? You have a visitor.”

Jesús gently

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