Margie, onward through the fog

I missed seeing Margie last week, and although she was beautifully groomed and coifed as usual, she was tired and foggy today. She wasn’t able to remember anything from her sons’ visit Easter weekend, which wasn’t surprising, but then she asked me how many sons she has, which was surprising. 

I tried a couple of conversation prompts that usually work. —Tell me about P.S. 23, where you went to elementary school. That brought a smile and a vague memory of a friend named Johanna but nothing more. —I bet you played with Johanna during recess. A long pause, and then finally, “Something in a circle?” She wasn’t sure. —Did you play London Bridge Is Falling Down? Another wonderful smile, a long pause. “I can’t remember how that one worked.” I sang it for her and she said oh yes, oh yes, but then she drifted off into a daydream and came back saying, “Was that game something involving a dog?” And so the day went.

At one point she looked up and said, “I know you!” She was sure about that, but after another long pause asked, “But how do I know you? Were you Helen’s teacher?” Helen was Margie’s elder sister, long gone. 

I said we were in a writing group together. “Oh, did I write?” I said she wrote about living in the Bronx as a child, about Uncle Herman, about Camp Mikan. Each reminder brought fresh smiles to her face, happy nods, but no words. I talked a little about my week, but she wasn't engaged. “I need some glue,” she laughed. —For your memories? I asked. “Yes!”

She was unsteady on her feet. Back at her apartment, I went up in the elevator with her and made sure she was settled into her chair safely. She kissed my hands and said, “I’m so glad you come to see me. You open things up in here.” She gestured to her heart. “You don’t have to come, but I’m glad you do.” So am I.