Trip to Remember

"I went up to Spokane and saw mom the other day," Monga said.

My mom and I looked at each other, then turned and smiled at Monga. We hoped our smiles hid the forgotten fact that Grandma Struck had been dead since 1986.

"Have any of you talked to Jack?"

Mom and I looked at each other, then turned to Monga and shook our heads.

"Hmm. I wonder what he's been up to?" she asked.

"I don't know, mom, " my mom said. I looked down at the floor, sighed.

Jack hadn't been up to much ever since he and his cat were found dead in his car. Monga used to re-hash this horrible scene multiple times a day, unable, ironically, to wrap her mind around the terrible, lonely death of her wild brother. And her brother Bill, who she'd talk about at the dinner table: "He blew his brains out," she'd say, buttering a homemade roll, even him she drove up to visit while sitting in a chair at Life Care...

It was actually nice that she was still going to see them. In a strange way, it softened the stark reality of her being locked up for something unkown eating holes into her brain.



There was an actual trip my mom and I tried to take Monga on.

It made us sick, in those early weeks, that we had to always leave her at Life Care. I can still hear the decisive gavel-click of the heavy door locking shut behind us. I can still see Monga's desperate, clouding eyes pleading at us through the glass window of that door.

One day, Mom got permission to take Monga to McDonald's for a milkshake. It was about the only thing she'd eat, saying "Yum!" and slurping it into her mouth like a toddler having her first taste of ice cream. So, we went and got her.

She was still able to walk at this time, but she was growing rigid. Sometimes you'd have to touch the back of her knee and say, "Bend this, Monga". You'd tap it a couple of times. Push in gently. "Move this, Monga". And she'd be truckin' again.

This procedure worked fine for walking, but climbing into a Jeep required a lot of complicated physical mechanics. All those body parts with nonsense names: arms, legs, back, neck, hands, feet...I don't know why we didn't ask for help, or why no one offered their assistance.

Anyway...

We got Monga seat-belted into the Jeep and were off and running!

Except, Monga kept playing with the buttons and latch on her door. If my mom hadn't locked the car from her side, Monga would've had the passenger side door open. And she kept pushing the button for the window. Open, close. Open, close. Like a bored kid in the car on a long road trip. A bored, sobbing kid in the car on a long road trip: she cried the entire time.

The ordeal of getting her into the Jeep made us realize there was no way we were going to get her out and back in again. So, we decided to just use the drive-thru. Mom handed Monga a strawberry milkshake.

"What is it?" Monga asked.

"It's a milkshake, mom. You like them," my mom answered.

Monga squeezed the cup, popping off its lid. Strawberry milkshake went all down the front of her. Monga just looked at it--like a toddler who's working on being potty trained who's just had an accident.

"It's okay, mom," my mom said, giving me an exasperated look and wiping up the mess.

I put the lid back on (because Monga was dipping four fingers into her milkshake) and put in the straw. It made that squeaky sound that straws always make.

"Drink it. Like this," I showed her.

"What?" she said, removing the straw.

Strawberry milkshake dripped from the bottom of ther straw onto my arm.

"You're getting it all over. Put the straw back in your cup," I said, re-inserting the straw.

By now, my mom'd given up trying to drive and had parked in the McDonald's parking lot. I showed Monga again how to suck on the straw. She managed a sip.

"Ick," she said.

"You don't like it?" my mom asked, "You used to love strawberry milkshakes. You had two of them yesterday."

"Ick," Monga said.

We drove a sobbing her back to Life Care. Struggled again with the nuisance of limbs and muscles. Walked her back to the Alzheimer's unit, tapping the backs of her knees, escorting her at the elbow.

Learning to walk and forgetting how looked awfully similar.

My mom or I pushed the square button that opened the heavy, militant door. The nurse at the nurse's station greeted us.

"You're back! Did you enjoy your milkshake, Rae?"

"What?" Monga said.

"Did you have a nice trip?"

"Where'd I go?"

"You went to McDonald's. To have a milkshake."

"I did?"

"Was it good?"

"I'd like to have a milkshake. I like milkshakes."

"What's your favorite kind?"

"What?"

"What kind of milkshake do you like?"

"Strawberry," Monga said. Her eyes lit up anticipating the treat.

My mom and I exchanged a look.