I COULDN’T SLEEP. AT three am, after hours of tangling up my sheets, I finally took half a sleeping pill. It knocked me out, but I didn’t feel rested when my alarm went off. Bad dreams. I stumbled to the kitchen. Worse, the calendar on my refrigerator reminded me, in large letters written in orange marker: Check-up, Doctor Rudd, 11:30. Darn it. That meant Iris was supposed to pick me up at eleven. Which meant she’d be here at ten thirty because, unlike her brother, Iris is always early. Ugh.
Of course, of all mornings this would be when I ran out of coffee. I put water in the microwave and rooted around for the packets of English Breakfast I had grabbed from the dining room for just such an emergency. I added a bunch of sugar to make it drinkable and fortified myself with a few sips.
But man, did I need a shower. Tossing and turning and sweating and worrying will do that to you. I carried my tea into the bath and turned the tap on full blast. A shower would wash away the grogginess and clear my fuzzy head. I dropped my pajamas and stepped in. No sooner had I lathered up my hair than it happened.
I didn’t exactly fall, as much as tilt too far when I went to pick up the dropped bar of Dr. Bonner’s peppermint soap. I leaned too much to the right and ended up off-kilter, bumping against the shower wall and slipping, slowly and evenly, like a little mound of suds trailing down the tile. The slide came to a halt as my body curled into an awkward half sit, half sprawl in the bottom of the shallow tub.
I took stock of the situation as the water, still running, began to cool. If I stretched I could just reach the emergency call button on the side of the shower. But I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to avoid the humiliation of having someone come in and rescue me out of my own bathtub, thank you very much. Plus, I knew they were required to call the paramedics and Iris and Charlie, and it would be a huge big deal. The expression I would see on Charlie’s face floated in my mind’s eye and gave me the strength I needed.
From my position in the tub, I managed to grab the handles on the sliding shower door, and with great effort pulled myself up. The door slid open and water began splashing everywhere, but I maneuvered till I was perched on the tub’s edge, my legs inside the enclosure. I turned off the faucet. Still holding on to the shower door handles, I managed to stand.
I stepped out of the tub and looked around. There was water all over the floor. Shampoo suds dripped down my neck from my half-rinsed hair, and the bathroom rug was sopping in a puddle. The guilty bar of soap was a goopy lump on the bottom of the tub. I had avoided the embarrassment of having to be rescued naked and dripping, but I still had to figure out a way to clean up. Not to mention get the soap out of my hair.
I inspected my body. My slide down the shower wall hadn’t been violent or jarring, and it didn’t seem like I’d hurt anything. I might even get away with no bruising. I grabbed my walker, which I had parked nearby for after my shower, and put on my robe. Then I pulled towels off the shelf to unfurl over the floor.
First stop, the kitchen. I dropped the robe off my shoulders and used the sprayer in the sink to rinse the soap out of my hair. I had to wrap a clean dishtowel around my head, because all my big towels were soaking up the water on the bathroom floor. Then I pushed over and got the wheelchair they gave me when I moved in after rehab out of the little nook it was parked in. I put a blue plastic bucket on the seat and leaned a mop on the footrests and over the back: a makeshift cleaning trolley. I rolled it into the bathroom, locked the wheels, and carefully hoisted the sopping towels and plopped them into the bucket. Then I used the mop to wipe up, swabbing the floor as best I could.
Eventually, the place looked presentable enough, and it certainly smelled clean, since shampoo-scented water had splattered everywhere. The floor could finish drying on its own. The last thing I did was to reach in and scoop up the offending slimy bar of soap. I almost slipped again doing it, but I didn’t want it to harden onto the bottom of the tub, ready to sabotage me next time. I took hold of the back of the wheelchair, and pushed my way out. I parked the loaded wheelchair out of sight in the closet.
Already tired, I slumped into my bedroom and sat at my dressing table. I pulled the dishtowel off my head. My hair has never been my best feature. It is schizophrenic: simultaneously wispy and straight, curly and limp. With the help of a decent cut, bobby pins, and hairspray, I can normally plaster it into a reasonable appearance. But that morning, by the time I got into my bedroom and began to get ready for Iris to pick me up, it was half dry and settling into the worst version of itself … sticking out in some places, flat and flyaway in others. I tilted my head at my reflection and sighed.
In spite of my hair, when I was younger I didn’t avoid the mirror. Though I was never given to much experimenting with makeup and hairdos and all of that, I’d had my share of vanities. People always commented on my long eyelashes, which I augmented further with mascara, and my smooth skin, which I supported with expensive moisturizer (an expense I have fought with myself about my whole life). When I laughed, I looked like I meant it, because of my dimple. I used to draw attention to my smile and my white teeth with deep red lipstick.
But I am not crazy about the view in my mirror now. Even the most expensive moisturizer doesn’t keep skin from creasing or lines from forming around one’s eyes. Those lashes I was so proud of have grown thin and sparse. My teeth are still my own, so I guess that’s good, but I had to switch from my old Scarlett Promise lipstick to something milder, since it ends up blurring into the wrinkles around my mouth. Supposedly human noses continue to grow throughout life. In my case, it must be true, since mine has begun to take up rather more than its fair share of facial real estate.
I am accepting of all these changes, or at least resigned to them. Better wrinkles than some other effects of getting old, like pain or dementia. Thank goodness I have never made my looks the measure of my self-worth. But sometimes I catch sight of myself unexpectedly in a mirror or window and I wonder, who is that? before the realization sets in. The picture doesn’t line up with my inner image.
I sometimes think it would make a good research project for a psychology student to ask old people what age their self-image defaults to. How old are they in the picture of themselves they carry around in their mind? Do they hold the image of when they were a prom king or queen, with unsullied skin and shining eyes; or that graceful and sexy twenty-something dancing at the wedding? Do some people see themselves frozen at a happy and fulfilled moment—when their kids were young or they got their first big raise? Or do we simply carry around an idealized version of the self we are now—maybe fifteen years younger, healthier, stronger?
Whatever it is for other people, all I know is the person who looks back from my mirror now is somehow not exactly me. But of course, that old woman with the wrinkles is me. Exactly me.
And at the moment, an old woman with messy, disordered hair. I grabbed bobby pins and some Aqua Net and went to work. I like to look put-together when Iris arrives, and it is even more important for me to appear on top of my game when we go to the doctor. At my age, I approach every trip to his office with foreboding, and the slip in the shower had rattled me. I needed all the self-confidence I could muster.
The clock chimed ten. Shoot, I hadn’t even eaten yet. I rushed, pulling on a dress, one with buttons down the front to make changing at the doctor’s office easy. In the kitchen I smeared some peanut butter on a piece of whole wheat and forced down an orange. Then I sat. I took out a mirror from my handbag and reapplied my lipstick. I inhaled and closed my eyes, cultivating a mindset of calm and poise.
Iris knocked right on time, which is to say, a half hour earlier than she needed to be. “Come on in, honey,” I called. She let herself in with her key.
“Hey, Mom.” She bent to kiss me. Then she said “Oh, my. It smells nice and clean in here. I thought the cleaning service came tomorrow.”
“I, ah, my shampoo tipped over and half the bottle spilled in the tub. Can you believe how fragrant it is? It’s making the place smell like a hair salon.”
“I’ll clean it up for you.”
“Nothing to clean up. I just rinsed it all down the drain.”
But before I could stop her, my well-meaning daughter charged into the bathroom.
“Mom?” I heard from behind the door. “What’s with the towels?”
Shoot. I thought I had put the bucket full of wet towels in the closet. My mind raced for an explanation when Iris emerged holding a shampoo bottle. She waggled it back and forth, and thank goodness, it really was nearly empty. “We can pick you up some more of this after the doctor’s appointment. But I think you need to call housekeeping and have them do your laundry. Your towel cabinet is empty.”
“Oh, right. Thanks for noticing. I’ll phone them as soon as we get home.” I pushed up with my cane, feeling suddenly pleased with myself and ready to face the doctor. “Let’s go. Maybe we have time to hit the drive-through and get one of those Frappuccino things.”
“Mom, Dr. Rudd wants you to use your walker. You know that.”
I waved her away. “Come on, Iris, don’t start.” I smiled at her, suddenly full of gratitude for this irritating, loving daughter. “I want to lean on you today.” In my best Hollywood Western imitation, I said, “We don’t need no stinkin’ walker.” She sighed at me, but indulgently. She tucked my arm around hers as we walked out the door.
Dr. Rudd’s office did not have the most welcoming reception room. A television glowed down at us with the sound turned off. For some reason it was tuned to the weather station, so pictures of neon-colored fronts whorled across the United States, while at the bottom, crawling text kept us informed about the temperatures in Utah. Outdated copies of Golf Digest and National Geographic completed the options for patients trying to distract themselves while they waited. In the corner there was a forlorn kid’s play table. Long habit made me wonder how often it got wiped down with disinfectant. But it must be the other doctors who were seeing younger patients. Alex Rudd had been my doctor for a long time, and most of the people he cared for were oldsters like me. He stopped taking new patients about three years ago and was talking about retirement. I was not happy about this. I didn’t want to have to break in a new doctor, and I was planning on being around for a while yet.
When my name was called, I rose, sprightly. Iris stood to join me, but I gave her my look. We’d been through this before. “Iris, I don’t need you to come with me.”
“But …” She lifted her eyebrows, frustrated. A couple years ago, after my first fall, I took the doctor’s advice and gave Iris medical power of attorney. Since then, she seems to think it has entitled her to all information.
“No. You can ask some questions afterward, but that’s all.”
She exhaled at me and crossed her arms. But she sat back down. I walked tall into the examining room, not even leaning on my cane.
The nurse had me remove my dress, even though, as I pointed out, when unbuttoned, it offered at least as easy access as one of those stupid tie-on gowns. But she made me put on one of the stupid tie-on gowns anyway. She noted my weight and blood pressure, asked me the same questions I had answered on the forms in the waiting room, and left. Then there was a knock at the door, and Alex came in.
“Hello, Francine. Good to see you. How are you feeling?” He checked my blood pressure again, thumped my back and chest, examined my toes and feet, asked me about my daily routine, lectured me about eating right, looked into my eyes and ears and throat, studied my nails, had me stand first on one foot and then the other to demonstrate balance, and asked me about the knee I injured when I fell, about my meds, my sleeping, my bowel movements, my routine, and everything else under the sun.
Then he said, “You seem to be in pretty good shape. Can we call Iris in now for a quick check-in?”
“Can’t I just tell her I’m fine?”
“Are you?”
I rolled my neck. “What do you mean? You just said everything looks good.”
“It does, except for the bruises.”
I swallowed. “Bruises?”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. “When did you fall?”
“What? I didn’t.”
“Well, if you didn’t, then I’m really worried. We’ll definitely have to get her in here, because I’m going to have to run a lot of tests to rule out lupus, Hodgkin’s, leukemia …”
I held up my hand. “Okay, okay.” I sighed. “But I didn’t exactly fall. I sort of slid down the wall of the bath while I was reaching for a bar of soap. I dropped it, tilted sideways when I bent over, and just … gently curled into the bottom of the tub. I didn’t land hard or anything. Really, I’m surprised I even have a bruise. I didn’t see one when I checked.”
“It’s on your backside. Just beginning to show up.” He indicated my cane with his chin. “And I see you are refusing to use your walker.”
“I’m not refusing. I just don’t need it today. I have Iris to lean on, remember.” He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, obviously about to make a point, but I jumped in quickly. “Listen, Alex, I am normally just fine. Really. But the last few days I’ve been worried and I couldn’t sleep. I finally got up today at three in the morning. But I was so tired I took half of one of those sleeping pills you gave me for emergencies.”
“And?”
“And it worked. I went back to bed and conked out. But it must not have been completely out of my system when I got up and took a shower.”
He regarded me for a minute. “What are you so worried about?”
Oops. I opened my hands. “A friend is going through some difficulties, and I’m trying to figure out how to help. I sort of owe her.”
He stood and went to the door. “I’ll go get Iris.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
He tilted his head. “Frannie, she loves you and wants to be kept up to speed. It is hardly a bad thing for her to be involved.”
“But she’ll worry. Please, Alex. You know what she’s been through.”
“Does it ever occur to you she needs someone to worry about, to care for?”
Of course it had occurred to me. I looked down.
He said, “Frannie. It might seem like a little thing, but it could have been bad. And you know that. You can let her in a little.”
I nodded, “Can we … not tell her everything?”
He inhaled. “Leave it to me.”
When Iris entered the room, she looked scared. Uncertain. My heart went out to her. I saw just how much she must dread getting bad news. Bad news about my health would be even worse for her than for me, I think.
“Everything looks pretty good.” Alex began, and I saw Iris’s shoulders relax, “but there is some bruising. I think she might need some vitamin B supplements.”
Iris’s eyes sharpened. “Bruising? From what? Mom, is everything okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Alex interjected, “Her balance is pretty good. Sometimes just a slight bump we don’t even notice can cause it if the B12 is off. I’ll give her some supplements.” He turned to me. “But please use the walker when you’re feeling shaky.”
I nodded, knowing he was doing me a favor. I was in no position to argue.
He was feeling around in the pocket of his lab coat, looking for a pen. “Remind me, where did you move to again?”
“The senior apartments at Ridgewood.”
He looked up and bumped his hand to his forehead. “Oh that’s right! I forgot to tell you. I’m one of their doctors on call now. Filling in for a friend. I could have saved you a trip. I come in once a month to hold office hours and approve meds.”
I felt my mouth drift open. What? That meant he had access to the med room and records. Was this good or bad?
I was still processing this information when he tore off a sheet from his prescription pad and started to hand it to me, but stopped himself. “In fact, Ridgewood has a pharmacy service. They can get this filled for you and keep it in their med room, so you won’t have to go to the drugstore. They’ve got your insurance info, right?”
Before I could reply that I liked going to the pharmacy to get my own medicine, Iris interjected, “That would be great. Save us a trip.”
He made a note in his chart, saying, “Ridgewood is a nice place. I’m glad you’re there.” When he finished writing, he glanced at me very briefly before looking away quickly. He turned to Iris. “Residents can request staff assistance to help them bathe, right?”
What? He was sabotaging me? No wonder he couldn’t meet my eyes, the coward. I said sharply, “I don’t need help. I am perfectly fine on my own.”
But Iris interrupted, “I think that’s a great idea. I’ve been trying to get her to do that for months.”
Alex pressed his lips together and then faced me. “Look, Francine. Some of the meds you’re on can make you dizzy. And you know what a fall can do … it’s the whole reason you ended up at Ridgewood to begin with, remember?”
“No, I will not agree to this. I am capable of bathing myself.”
“Mom, please. At least consider …”
I crossed my arms and stared at Alex, then Iris.
After a second she said, “Okay. How about this? How about if we ask a staff member to be there, just in case? They can stand outside the shower and only help if you need it?”
I wanted to scream. I was looking at two people I trusted, and one who loved me more than almost anything, and yet I was feeling furious, betrayed. And a tiny irritating part of me knew they were right. My outrage at the injustice of getting old and helpless felt like a mountain inside of me, a glacier shearing off and crashing into the sea. To my horror I felt tears behind my eyes. I swallowed and looked away.
“Fine,” I managed to croak into the silence. “But they sit outside. I’d like the dignity of washing my own bottom for as long as I can.”