The Art of Reassembly: a Memoir of Early Mother Loss and Aftergrief by Peg Conway

Author:Peg Conway
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2021-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

Chapter Seventeen

Standing before the glass front doors of the eight-unit condominium building where Ag and Dad lived, I paused to collect myself before pressing the button next to their name. They had moved here when our kids were young, not long after Christian’s birth. Through the years on our occasional visits, the three of them would jockey over who got to ring the bell. Arriving alone this early June Saturday morning, I pressed the button, my now-teen-aged children no longer concerned with such things anyway. At eighty, Dad had declined significantly from Alzheimer’s. I rode the elevator like an actor just before curtain, mentally preparing for the performance.

The door to their unit stood slightly ajar, so I entered after a perfunctory knock, calling “Hello!” as I passed through the foyer, and turned right into the open-plan living and dining room. The compact galley kitchen was on the left, while straight ahead the blinds were raised on the condo’s signature view. The picture window and sliding glass door to the balcony spanned the entire front to take full advantage of the building’s perch above the Ohio River snaking among soft rolling hills. The view first beckoned in welcome and then mesmerized. To the west, skyscrapers of downtown Cincinnati rose into the clouds as the sun glistened on the water’s surface.

Ag and Mark greeted me from the kitchen. Smile fixed in place, I lightly hugged each of them and accepted a glass of water before we settled in the cozy sitting area facing the windows. Dad was napping, Ag said. I sat on the couch against the far wall, Mark took the love seat on my left, and Ag had sunk into one of the two bucket-style chairs across from me. The chairs and love seat were the same ones purchased by my mom decades earlier and reupholstered twice now by Ag to suit her decor. Today it occurred to me that the adoption conversation had taken place while seated on these furnishings too, though in a different house.

Ag had initiated this unusual gathering for the purpose of discussing Dad’s status, so she got right to it. “He can’t even finish getting dressed without my reminding him and helping. He wanders around the place during the night, opening drawers and doors. I don’t think I can leave him alone at all, even to run to the grocery.”

I kept my expression blank as anxiety, guilt, and empathy stiffened my shoulders. I wondered where this was headed as she leaned forward, continuing, “Dr. Collins prescribed a new medication when we were there last week, but these changes are all to be expected with the dementia, he said.”

In unison, as if choreographed, Ag and Mark swiveled their faces toward mine. Then Mark picked up the narrative, “Peg, the other night she found him opening the door to the balcony at two o’clock! This is really becoming hard on Mom. She can’t go on this way.”

I noticed her pallor, and though always slender, now she appeared almost gaunt.

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