Twelve Oaks Days

Across the table from me, Barbara’s brow furrowed with concern. She stared at her menu and blinked several times. Finally she gave up and turned to her right. “Fred,” she asked hesitantly. “WHAT was it I wanted for dinner again?”

It was Wednesday evening, the weekly high point of life at the Twelve Oaks Assisted Living community…“Breakfast for dinner.” Residents chose from a decent menu of everything from pancakes to made-to-order omelettes. I sat with my friend Fred and two other ladies. 

Fred was my care receiver, part of our church’s Stephen Ministry outreach program. We had been together for several years, much longer than the usual 6-12 months of a Stephen Ministry relationship. Fred had experienced a long, slow downward slide: the loss of independent living; his ability to drive; the passing of his wife; and decreasing physical stamina. 

He was a philosophical guy and… with the exception of his wife…had endured each life change without much fuss. He made some friends at Twelve Oaks and two of them were there that night, Barbara and Jeanette. Barbara had Alzheimer’s; Jeanette, to my right, was still in reasonably good shape.

Twelve Oaks appeared at first glance to be an attractive, inviting place to live. A large fountain dominated the lobby and attractive artwork hung on the walls. Deep carpeting muffled most of the noise, and an activity board listed the week’s social and artistic events. 

But beneath the vibrant facade, a darker, more dismal side lurked. Residents knew it was their last stop. They were just marking time until the inevitable. Many of them had been dumped there by their families, who didn’t know what else to do with them. Some of their children had moved away and it was not uncommon for them to go months, years, without a visit. Some had even stopped getting telephoned.

When I walked through the entrance on my way to visit Fred, there were usually a half-dozen old folks sitting in chairs, some dully leaning on canes. At the wooosh of the doors opening, they’d all look up in excitement. Who was it? Someone they knew? A visitor? Something interesting? They’d stare at me; a few said hello. While I conversed with everybody a bit, I’d try to spend a few minutes extra talking with those who I knew had no one.

Turnover, with the both the staff and the residents, was fairly high. There were a finite number of rooms; yet cheerful signs with photos introducing “our new friend so-and-so” in apartment 32 made it obvious that a former friend no longer needed apt 32.

This particular night, the subject of Barbara’s ability to paint came up. She brightened as her other three dinner guests discussed her talent. Fred, to my left, asked slowly “Well Barbara, perhaps Darryl would like to see some of your paintings after supper.” He was Southern and it was BAH-bruh and SUP-pah. She clapped her hands in delight. “Would you?” she asked. I said it would be a treat. She smiled happily.

It was the four of us on the grand tour: Fred, Jeanette, myself and Barbara. Her paintings were actually quite good and as we walked around her apartment—which contained the usual assortment of old folk medical devices and pill bottles—she had a moment of clarity, describing what this or that painting depicted, where she painted it, the medium, and so forth. 

Partly because they were pretty good and partly to make her proud, I asked if I could take some pix with my phone. To my surprise, she hesitated before nodding. As I took a few pix, she hung back and whispered to Fred. He cleared his throat. “Uh, Darryl, BAH-bruh is afraid you’re going to put those pictures on the INTERNET.” I didn’t understand; Fred explained she was concerned people might somehow steal her work. Her brief moment of clarity had faded.

I assured her I wouldn’t, but she got increasingly agitated. I made a big show of deleting them, then showed her my empty “Barbara” folder, but she still wasn’t convinced. She eventually got so agitated that Fred, Jeanette and myself quietly backed out of her apartment as she continued to wring her hands in distress and glare at me.

The next time I came for dinner, Barbara still looked at me suspiciously. A few new faces were in the dining room. We were having pancakes for supper again, served by someone new with a bored expression. Somewhere far off, a vacuum cleaner was going and signs taped here and there announced their newest friend.

I thought about the movie Cocoon and what these people would give to be 20 again. Or if they ever thought it would all go by so quickly.

One Wednesday, Barbara’s chair was occupied by someone new. 

Nobody had to tell me.