No, This Is Better

Gene Gilchrist

Louisville, Kentucky

Light. Really bright light.  Hurts my eyes.  Squint.  Did I just wake up?

Hard walls, shiny, light, what color --- green?  Soft ceiling squares, like a business office, white.  Lift my head.  Can’t go far.  Metal bed.  Am I strapped down? Where am I?  How did I get here?

I’m cold. My leg itches.  Scratch.  Can’t move my arm.  Try the leg.  No.  I am strapped to a metal bed? Why? How? Who did this to me?

Too many thoughts.  Calm down.  OK, calm down.  Nothing I can do.  CALM DOWN?  ARE YOU CRAZY?  I am strapped to a metal bed in a strange room not knowing how I got here or why?  CALM DOWN? Who did this to me?

What’s that noise?  Did I fall asleep and wake up again?  Somebody is moving something around.  There is that young Black woman again.  Do I know her?  She is touching me in my personal places, removing something, drying me, putting something else on.  Am I wearing a diaper?  “Stop, stop”.  “Don’t do that to me”.  Why won’t she stop? She just turns and smiles at me when I talk.

The head of my bed is rising. Small room, another empty bed.  My body is covered by one of those hospital blankets.  Seerena.  Is that her name?  How do I know that?  I think she is nice, and it is not her fault she is here or that I am here.  “Thank you, Seerena”.  “I know you are trying to help me”.  Why doesn’t she reply.  She just smiles.  She is trying to say something now.  It’s all jumbled.  Does she have a speech problem?

She has a tray on a stand, opens a jar, starts to spoon me something. It’s warm but tasteless.  Spit it out.  “How’s that Seerena!” Maybe this is all your fault.  She is trying again.  But I am hungry and better take this.  Baby food, I think.  Can I chew?  Run my tongue over my teeth.  No teeth.  What happened to my teeth?  Who did this to me?  I better take what I can get.  Another spoonful.

I am strapped in a metal bed, in a hospital setting, wearing a diaper, with no teeth, being fed baby food by a young woman whom I seem to know somehow.  What’s going on?  How did this happen?  Who did this to me?  Is it my husband, again, getting rid of me?  Is it his family?  Is it my cousin Kathy?  Why?  What did I do to them?

Another mouthful. Chew, sort of.  Swallow.  Tasteless but at least I’m getting full.  A flash.  What?  Screaming pain. What was that……?

                                                                           **********

Every time Zahara turned the handle on Anne Marie’s room she thought again about her career choice.  Her bibi had suffered a stroke when Zahara was in her early teens.  Zahara had shared caretaker duties with her Mom and had come to see how much the caring was more than an expression of love for a family member.  It wasn’t a family responsibility or duty either but a means of deepening a relationship between two people, one of whom, at this moment, was more able to do things than and for the other.  Anne Marie made her question all that.  Was she a reminder of bibi?  Was she a reminder that most patients aren’t bibi?

Zahara always thought that making a career of caretaking would extend the joy of helping those who had been visited by misfortune like her bibi.  It wasn’t long though before she saw how bibi’s innocence was not always shared by her charges.  Far too often her charges were bitter, angry, rebellious, self-justified. In varying degrees they had participated in their own demise.  Their “life style choices” did them in.  Zahara was amused by the kind of cleansed, clinical language that made everyone a victim and no one a participant in their own outcomes.  Substance abuse disorder “victim”, nicotine “victim”, car crash “victim” – did they use drugs, smoke, text while driving?  No one bore responsibility for their behavior anymore.

Anne Marie presented a jumble of feelings for Zahara.  It was that way for her with some of her charges.  Anne Marie’s chart said Korsakoff’s Psychosis; “wet brained” usually from long term, persistent alcohol intake.  Anne Marie was a drunk.

Zahara didn’t know the whole history, just this very end stage.  Anne Marie was in her sixties, but her age was masked by the toll alcohol had taken.  At barely five feet she could not have weighed more than ninety pounds and all of that was skin shriveled over bone.  Apparently, there had come a point at which self-harm had required that she be strapped to her bed.  Due to persistent gum disease her teeth had been removed.  The second bed in her room was used only when necessary as Anne Marie’s erratic waking hours and constant cooing disturbed other patients. 

It seemed like a few times a year a man in his thirties came to visit.  He was fit, obviously professional by note of his dress and haircut, a good looking man.  He would bring flowers maybe for her birthday or anniversary or something. After a few words he just sat and listened.  Anne Marie had some connections going on in her mind and was trying to say things.  Whatever it may be or if it even made any sense to Anne Marie was unclear as whatever she tried to say just came out as something between cooing and howling.

Zahara wheeled her tray to the side of the bed.  “Good morning, madam”, she smiled at Anne Marie with the usual greeting.  The morning routine was always the same.  The diaper needed to be changed followed by a good but short sponge bath.  Powder was applied like a newborn and fresh diaper and gown.  Zahara thought that it must feel good to be dry and clean but, of course, she had no way of knowing. 

Anne Marie would seem to go from agitated to angry to calm.  She fought her restraints though she must know that was futile (or did she know anything).  Her attempts at verbalizing were jumbled sounds, never even sounding like words. Sometimes they would come fast, sometimes they would be slow drawls.  Zahara pressed her professional self to participate but responding to nonsense never seemed right.  Instead she persisted in her routine with bland comments about the weather, the day, the food, the routine.

Zahara opened the bottle of steamed mashed carrots and peas.  The food came with a protein powder that made up for Anne Marie’s inability to chew.  Zahara placed a bib over Anne Marie’s chin and neck and began to feed the mashed food.

As always, the first response was to refuse.  “Now, Anne Marie, we have been through this.  You won’t last long without eating”.  Often this would be followed by a mouthful that had often enough come right back at Zahara that she knew how to avoid it.  This was followed by a reluctant, begrudging, mouthful and then they could both settle into their feeding routine.  Zaraha would get a scant spoonful, wipe away the drip, put the food in Anne Marie’s mouth, wipe at her chin if necessary.  Zahara kept the banter going with a smile.  “It looks like Spring has finally come, Anne Marie.  Maybe soon we can get outside for some fresh air.”  Sadly, Zahara knew that this bed was the last place that Anne Marie would ever visit.

As Zahara turned back with a fresh spoonful she saw in Anne Marie’s eyes that Zaraha was now alone in the room. A sudden stroke, brain hemorrhage, a heart attack perhaps.  It wasn’t really important, and no autopsy was necessary.  An immediate cause of death would be assigned that would not mention addiction; easier on the family.  Zahara wondered if that was really true.  Certainly that young man had long ago come to his own understanding of Anne Marie’s life trajectory.

Zaraha closed down the feeding process, wiped Anne Marie’s chin one more time.  She took off the bib and placed everything in order back on the tray. She straightened Anne Marie in the bed with her blankets. She fitted the gown over her small shoulders. Now it was on to the final arrangements.  Nurse Amelia would make the death pronouncement, note a cause and time.  Anne Marie’s body would be washed and wrapped clean before rigor started. A “final arrangements” plan was required for every patient and that routine would be followed.  The memory of Anne Marie’s time here would be kept only in a paper file and then for seven years until it went to microfiche and remote storage. And Anne Marie’s memory would live in Zahara’s person in ways she was only beginning to understand.  She wondered what the memory was for that handsome man.

Zahara had only now to report to the nursing desk.  Yet she sat for a few moments looking at Anne Marie, or bibi, or everyone she had cared or would care for. And care about.  It seemed important to brush Anne Marie’s hair.  If there was once a style there it was long gone, so she made it as neat as she could.  She wheeled her tray to the door and took one, last glance back.  As she left, she closed the door silently so as not to wake Anne Marie.

**********

Anne Marie had a sudden awareness of standing.  Although the awareness was sudden, she could not say that she had stood there for any length of time or had, as she sensed, just arrived.  Everything in that moment felt new yet familiar.  She had her feet under her, she was fine, but things were somehow unfamiliar.

Anne Marie walked over to a mirror in the room.  As she looked in the mirror, she recognized her forty-something self with still dark brown hair in a short style popular in the 1960s.  She had lightly touched makeup and bright blue eyes.  She looked down and noticed that she wore her favorite blue dyed moccasins with white stitching and lacing.  A loose but stylish, red and blue cotton top bloused over her “capri” pants popularized by Mary Tyler Moore.  Anne Marie recognized the warmth and self-satisfaction of this part of her life.  “But wasn’t that all a long time ago?”, she said to no one.

She was in a room that she seemed to be scanning for the first time.  Yet, the room was familiar.  She stood on a hard, white, tile floor.  That was something she did not recall from before.  Whatever before meant now .  The walls were some kind of plaster with a light green tint.  The ceiling was the soft “dropped ceiling” common in offices.  There were two metal, single beds in the room. One of the beds was made up but unoccupied.  In addition to the mirror there was a wash sink, a door that led to a hallway.  There were no windows in the room.  The florescent lights had that quiet hum we had all become so used to hearing that we didn’t hear it.

Anne Marie stood at the end of the occupied metal bed.  She recognized Zeena, a young woman who had been kind to her in some way that Anne Marie understood.  She always thought that Zeena had a personal, sad story but she recalled only that one day she was in Zeena’s care.  Although Anne Marie knew that she and Zeena had known each other for a long time she did not know her story.

Zeena was sitting quietly looking at the shriveled body on the bed.  There was a single tear running below her eye.

Anne Marie knew who it was in the bed.  She hesitated to look.  She knew it would be painful.  When she finally summoned the courage to look it was as pathetic as she feared.  Yes, it was her.  But she was so damaged, so sad.  Her hair was mousy grey, stiff, unkempt.  Her body was twisted and emaciated.  She was strapped to a metal bed.  She had no teeth.  Only her arms were visible, and they had sores of some sort at several locations.  Zeena was reaching to wipe an orange, mashed substance from Anne Marie’s mouth.  Anne Marie’s eyes were opened but rolled upwards in the socket.

She forced herself to stand and look and remember.  It was painful, sad but she had a sense of remove at the same time.  Somehow Anne Marie felt it was important, maybe even required that she not only look but consider.

She recalled her youth as a single child to loving parents.  School years, meeting a young man from her Catholic Church.  Their engagement, wedding, children.  She remembered their first home, holidays with family, good friends, a growing family – one boy, two girls.  Such good intentions, a patterned life that provided comfort from its stability.  Things seemed so wonderful for her and Andrew. 

She recalled her cousin Kathy and her friend Marietta.  They had grown up together, attended the same Catholic Church, grammar school, moved on to the same high school.  It was small town life in the first ring suburb.  They were always safe, always had a warm meal, a warm bed that Mom tucked them into every night.

They met and married men from their church.  Children came quickly, two for Marietta, three for Anne Marie, they just kept coming and coming for Kathy.  They enjoyed “stitch and bitch” once a week.  Occasionally there was even a finished, knitted product.  They laughed together. 

Her husband Andrew got a good job in the local arms factory.  He was a good provider.  He worked many hours, but promotions came quickly, so they could afford a home for $6,000 in just a few years after marriage.  The eldest, her son, attended her wedding surreptitiously.  A boy died in childbirth.  Two girls came later.

Even with children their social life continued.  A baby sitter allowed the occasional dinner, backyard parties, holiday gatherings with Andrew’s family mostly.  She had a good relationship with her mother, a bit distant but warm with her dad. Much of community life revolved around St. Patrick’s both as a source of religious and social life.

Anne Marie couldn’t remember when the first mention of drinking started.  She always thought that she handled her one or two beers, the occasional cocktail at dinner was fine.  Marietta drank as much as she did so what was the big deal.  It was Andrew first.  He liked her being fun socially and he sure enjoyed the sex enough afterward.  He matched her drink for drink but she usually had more.

Later on Marietta made some remark.  It was offered in hushed tones, seriously, designed to be helpful, concerned.  She should mind her own bees wax.  They drifted apart.  Kathy remained a friend although now, standing there, she could not remember the last time she had seen Kathy.

It seemed now that Anne Marie could see the “progressions” not so much event to event but in big chunks.  Each new stage unfolding was like a twist that got worse and worse.  She had drifted away from Andrew, but he stayed a long time before leaving her alone so she always had a roof overhead, a bed, food.  She missed event after event in her children’s lives until they seemed not to expect her.

There had been various ins and outs with AA.  Nice women, her age, married women like her.  They were all righteous, holier than thou and had a trite platitude for every occasion.  “Live and let live” my ass.  The rehab visits in the North Country were either forced or grudgingly to get Andew off her back.

The hospital visits became a regular thing.  She fell and broke bones, alcohol poisoning, found passed out on a neighbor’s stoop.  Her son would come to the hospital, take her home eventually.  Andrew left with their youngest eventually but left her in the house.  He must have come quietly and left groceries, money, necessities.  He would check in to see that she had not done herself harm intentionally or accidentally.  The progression of her drinking had obvious results, but Andrew had long ago given up on his influence. 

At some point Anne Marie lost track of her life, time, her arrangements.  Then the memory via a timeline ended and memories had become more episodic.  She was always alone, somehow, and for reasons that were never clear she moved from one apartment to the next.  There was a big blank or stop or something.  And now she stood here at the end of the bed, her bed, looking at the end of her life and all that it never was, never became.

She watched Zeena organize her things in an orderly, professional fashion.  Zeena fixed the bed snuggly around Anne Marie, brushed her hair tenderly.  She watched Zeena take her tray to the door and stop a moment to look back.  She closed the door quietly.

It was unclear to Anne Marie what she should do next.  Or if she should do anything.  Time and place seemed suddenly unimportant.  Surely the absence of pain, confusion, lack of control, dependence were all very real and welcomed.  Should she leave this space?  Was she even in this space?  Where would she “go”? 

As she stood there, fixed gently on the poor woman now lifeless in the bed, she realized a clear sense of relief.  It had been a long, difficult journey.  It seemed that everything she did was wrong for over thirty years.  She had tried, made an effort to get control, to set the ship right and lead the life she was expected to lead, wanted to lead.  She realized now that others had tried hard to show her a way.  Those AA women were holier than thou but well intentioned.  Andrew had to save the younger daughter.  Andrew had to save himself.  She would probably have more understanding over time.  But for now she only needed the peace of knowing and not judging herself, Andrew, Marietta, Kathy and so many others.  What she felt now was the absence of the struggle, the absence of pain, yes, but more so the lack of that internal turmoil from which she somehow could not escape before.

The body lying in the bed, growing cold, and stiffening was all she had known for sixty years.  There was no comfort there, no familiarity even as she has only now started to understand how she had come from these capri pants and loose but stylish top to the shriveled woman now in the bed.

Anne Marie turned away from the bed and headed in no particular direction.  Where was she going?  How was she moving?  Everything was new, unknown, but somehow comfortable, expected.  She looked back once more at her body and the life it had led.  Then she turned and headed for something she did not know.  There was no sense in lingering.  “No, this is better”.

February 2025