Yellow Mama E zine

Not Yet

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by Cindy Roman

 

       “He needs a higher level of care, I’m afraid,” the text read.

       A pit formed in my stomach, then I felt that familiar flutter in the center of my chest—the warning sign I never want to acknowledge. I sent back the only thing I could — a crying emoji.

      We had just survived a tense, upsetting episode: Frank had tried to drive against doctor’s orders. His health aide and I had to call the police to calm him.

      The text was from his daughter, Cesca, who serves as his power of attorney and medical proxy. I wasn’t sure what she meant by “higher level of care,” but she’d already shared that her brother, James, is determined to move their father into a nursing home.

       “Cesca, he’s not there yet,” I tell her each time she brings it up.

       “I don’t think so either,” she agrees.

       Doctors use stages to chart the decline—seven of them, from forgetful to gone. Frank’s in the middle, right where I thought he was.

       James insists his father’s already in the final stage. I don’t know what he’s seeing.      The man I live with still makes his own coffee and folds the kitchen hand towels just so. End stage looks nothing like this. Frank still jokes, still brushes his teeth, still corrects my pitch when singing. He dresses, washes, and feeds himself. He takes his medications, keeps track of his dentures, and still knows his birth date, Social Security number, and address. He’s absolutely not in end-stage Alzheimer’s.

       Does he need reminders? Of course—for pills, for patience, for what to wear. But he also figures out where he lives by reading the return address on a letter waiting by the door. He’s got some “mad skills,” as my students would say, and they’re what make me certain he’s not ready for a nursing home—not yet.

       Frank is lucid and functional most of the time. Sure, there are bad days when delusions take hold, days he’s angry at losing his freedom. But he can still think, reason, and spar with me—and I test that daily just to see his spark.

       After an early conversation with James left me feeling unprepared, I promised myself I’d learn everything I could. Now I know what I’m seeing. I’m not in denial. I’m aware of what’s happening and where we’re heading. We’re just not there yet.

       That evening—the one that began with the text that knotted my stomach—ended quietly. When I hugged Frank goodnight, I held him longer, tighter. He doesn’t know about the plans being made around him, or the heartbreak they bring me. But he felt the difference. He pulled back, eyes searching mine for something unspoken. Could he see the truth?

       I kissed him and walked away.

       Cindy Roman is the author of Who Am I?, a flash-memoir series that explores caregiving, shifting identity, and the quiet heartbreak of loving someone through Alzheimer’s. She publishes her work on Substack at cindyroman.substack.com.

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Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.