of the immovable object and the irre
sistible force. . . . Well, that's stubborn us seated in a row in the
Weiss living room, facing even more stubborn Irving. After all the
excitement, we went back to check on Millie and found Irving in tears.
"Enough, Irving," I say. "No more discussion. Things have
to change."
"I never heard her get up."
"It could have been worse," Evvie says, shuddering. I
know she is thinking about the scissors.
"All right. I'll unplug the phone. I'll hide it before I
go to sleep."
"She'll think of something else," Ida says. "Remember how
she got out of the apartment that night and wandered down to Oakland
Park."
"I put double locks on the doors. I hide the keys. She
doesn't get out any more."
"No, she calls the cops in," says Bella.
"No more putting off, Irving," says Sophie. "If you're in
a hole, you better start digging."
"It's time to get real help. Full-time help," I say.
"Around the clock," adds Evvie.
"No," Irving says. "I have no room for a stranger to
sleep."
"You can't stay up all night and watch her."
"I'll nap during the day if someone is here."
"Irving," Ida says carefully. "You know she'd be better
off in managed care."
Irving puts his hands over his ears. "No! I won't hear
this."
I get up. I feel so weary and so helpless. Through the
bedroom door, I can hear Millie softly snoring. "All right, dear. We'll
try hiring someone. But if that doesn't work . . ."
Irving turns his back on us.
We all tiptoe into the bedroom and take a look in at
Millie. She is curled up with her thumb in her mouth. She looks almost
young lying there, as though the Alzheimer's has made her face soften
as she gives up her worldly cares. Her eyes open and she smiles slyly
at us. Almost like she knows what havoc she causes and it tickles her.
We take turns kissing her good night. Suddenly Millie
says pleadingly, "Where's Francie? Why doesn't she visit me anymore?"
My precocious granddaughter, Lindsay, when she was
younger, mispronounced Millie's illness as old-timer's disease. As we
watch Millie's suffering and try to remember happier days to offset our
reality, maybe that's a gentler way to put it.
----
19
Gladdy's Gladiators
I t is Sunday afternoon and we are sitting in the clubhouse,
our chosen headquarters, strategizing. Now we are six. Since Harriet
met that cute Morrie Langford the other night, she has begged to be
allowed to join our merry band of private eyes. Ida, naturally, is not
thrilled. She still hasn't forgiven Harriet, even though Harriet
apologized for the bank incident.
We have a chalkboard and chairs. What more
do we need? Except that the PA system keeps spewing out songs of the
thirties and forties so loud we have to shout to be heard. The stereo
music is supposed to play outside around the pool. Manuel, our
groundskeeper, turns it on and up every morning before he heads out to
do his landscaping chores. However, he didn't do it today. The music is
inside and blaring at us instead. None of us knows how to figure out
the complicated panel, so Evvie is on her hands and knees (not easy
with arthritis) searching every wall, looking for the plug to shut the
whole thing off. With no success. Hopefully, Manuel will be back soon,
or those of us who aren't deaf will be.
The first half hour is spent wasting time
with general nonsense, all at the top of our lungs. Sophie suggests we
give ourselves a name.
Ida informs her this isn't bingo, this is
not a club, it's very serious business.
Bella, not hearing her, suggests "Gladdy's
Girls."
Ida says, "No names, dammit!"
Sophie, always happy to spite Ida, says,
"How about 'Gladdy
and
her Girls'?"
Bella says, "I like 'Gladdy's Gladiators'
better."
"Where did you come up with that?" Evvie
says from somewhere under one of those industrial-type tables.
"Gladiator is like Gladdy, and Florida has
alligators."
"That has a certain logic, I think," says
Harriet.
She's even beginning to make sense to me
and that's scary. "Thanks for all the
sistible force. . . . Well, that's stubborn us seated in a row in the
Weiss living room, facing even more stubborn Irving. After all the
excitement, we went back to check on Millie and found Irving in tears.
"Enough, Irving," I say. "No more discussion. Things have
to change."
"I never heard her get up."
"It could have been worse," Evvie says, shuddering. I
know she is thinking about the scissors.
"All right. I'll unplug the phone. I'll hide it before I
go to sleep."
"She'll think of something else," Ida says. "Remember how
she got out of the apartment that night and wandered down to Oakland
Park."
"I put double locks on the doors. I hide the keys. She
doesn't get out any more."
"No, she calls the cops in," says Bella.
"No more putting off, Irving," says Sophie. "If you're in
a hole, you better start digging."
"It's time to get real help. Full-time help," I say.
"Around the clock," adds Evvie.
"No," Irving says. "I have no room for a stranger to
sleep."
"You can't stay up all night and watch her."
"I'll nap during the day if someone is here."
"Irving," Ida says carefully. "You know she'd be better
off in managed care."
Irving puts his hands over his ears. "No! I won't hear
this."
I get up. I feel so weary and so helpless. Through the
bedroom door, I can hear Millie softly snoring. "All right, dear. We'll
try hiring someone. But if that doesn't work . . ."
Irving turns his back on us.
We all tiptoe into the bedroom and take a look in at
Millie. She is curled up with her thumb in her mouth. She looks almost
young lying there, as though the Alzheimer's has made her face soften
as she gives up her worldly cares. Her eyes open and she smiles slyly
at us. Almost like she knows what havoc she causes and it tickles her.
We take turns kissing her good night. Suddenly Millie
says pleadingly, "Where's Francie? Why doesn't she visit me anymore?"
My precocious granddaughter, Lindsay, when she was
younger, mispronounced Millie's illness as old-timer's disease. As we
watch Millie's suffering and try to remember happier days to offset our
reality, maybe that's a gentler way to put it.
----
19
Gladdy's Gladiators
I t is Sunday afternoon and we are sitting in the clubhouse,
our chosen headquarters, strategizing. Now we are six. Since Harriet
met that cute Morrie Langford the other night, she has begged to be
allowed to join our merry band of private eyes. Ida, naturally, is not
thrilled. She still hasn't forgiven Harriet, even though Harriet
apologized for the bank incident.
We have a chalkboard and chairs. What more
do we need? Except that the PA system keeps spewing out songs of the
thirties and forties so loud we have to shout to be heard. The stereo
music is supposed to play outside around the pool. Manuel, our
groundskeeper, turns it on and up every morning before he heads out to
do his landscaping chores. However, he didn't do it today. The music is
inside and blaring at us instead. None of us knows how to figure out
the complicated panel, so Evvie is on her hands and knees (not easy
with arthritis) searching every wall, looking for the plug to shut the
whole thing off. With no success. Hopefully, Manuel will be back soon,
or those of us who aren't deaf will be.
The first half hour is spent wasting time
with general nonsense, all at the top of our lungs. Sophie suggests we
give ourselves a name.
Ida informs her this isn't bingo, this is
not a club, it's very serious business.
Bella, not hearing her, suggests "Gladdy's
Girls."
Ida says, "No names, dammit!"
Sophie, always happy to spite Ida, says,
"How about 'Gladdy
and
her Girls'?"
Bella says, "I like 'Gladdy's Gladiators'
better."
"Where did you come up with that?" Evvie
says from somewhere under one of those industrial-type tables.
"Gladiator is like Gladdy, and Florida has
alligators."
"That has a certain logic, I think," says
Harriet.
She's even beginning to make sense to me
and that's scary. "Thanks for all the
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