That Went Well: Adventures in Caring for My Sister (16 page)

I
constantly seek bridges to Irene’s soul, and I usually just come up with more rivers between us. But I never give up.

All our lives, Irene has pointed to mobile homes and said, “Let’s get one of those.” I understand that she wants to lie down and watch TV or sit at a table and eat and watch the world go by. And all my life, in my endless quest to make her happy, I have had that on my list of things to do.

So when my son-in-law Craig said, “I’m between jobs. Grab me while you can and I’ll drive the motor home to Vegas,” I jumped at the chance. Irene loves slot machines, which she plays with gusto in Wendover on overnight jaunts with her helpers, so we planned this big surprise for her.

I pictured the following: I would call her and tell her we were going on a trip that very morning. Her helpers would have packed her bag the night before and hidden it, so she wasn’t planning on anything special. Then I’d tell her to go stand in
her driveway, and when she saw us coming around the corner to pick her up in a mobile home she would be out of her mind with joy.

Well, she wouldn’t come out of her bedroom when I called. We arrived in her driveway, and she finally came out and stood looking at the RV, sort of stunned. “Irene, how about climbing in with us and going to Las Vegas today?” I said. She just stared.

“Listen, surprise! Your bag is packed, I’ll go get it. What do you think?”

“I’m going in this?”

“Yes!” (I am still waiting for her to clap, but she is not jumping for joy.) My two granddaughters, ages eight and ten, climb out, hug her, and tell her to get in and they’ll show her around (they have been having a ball in it since the night before). She slowly climbs in, still looking a little stunned.

I load her bag and we go. She doesn’t even speak for fifteen minutes, and then she says, “What about lunch? Kay was going to get my lunch today.” I have disturbed her routine. Damn!

My daughter grabs her picnic basket and shows Irene all the snacks we have to eat on the way down, all day long, and we can stop for lunch, too, she tells her. Irene reaches for peanut butter and crackers, then looks thoughtfully out the window.

It is a hundred miles before I get over the disappointment of her not clapping for joy.

The ride down didn’t meet my expectations either, as the DVD player was inaudible and kept stopping because of the rough road. But we played slapjack and go fish and had a nice seven-hour trip. Irene did indeed clap her hands for joy once, when I brought her a
little package of wrapped cheese and crackers out of the gas station, but we could have just run down to the gas station a few blocks from her house for that, without renting an RV and driving all the way to Vegas.

Since there wasn’t room for all of us in the RV, I had reserved rooms at the Bellagio, which are pretty reasonable Sunday through Thursday. When we arrived in our rooms, Irene’s eyes immediately went to the courtesy bar. Now, most bars have the stuff inside—mini bottles, and little bags of nuts at exorbitant prices. The Bellagio goes a step further. They have the goodies on top of the fridge on a tray: M&M’s, cashews, pretzels, fudge, etc., all beautifully packaged in bags the size of half a shoe box. And each package is $15. What you don’t realize is that under each package is a microchip that tells the computer
the moment you pick it up
and it is immediately charged to your room. Craig came charging into Irene’s room to warn me, as his daughters had simply picked up a package to examine it, and he saw the microchip and called the front desk to say, “Not so fast.”

I told Irene not to touch any of them, as they were too expensive. She said okay. And all through the trip, she left them completely alone.

We swam in the pool; we shopped at Caesar’s Forum Shops, where we found the famous toy store FAO Schwarz, which my granddaughters had never seen. Anna, the eight-year-old, wanted a doll, and so did Irene. Irene’s was twice as expensive as Anna’s, but we bought them because what-the-hell-we-were-on-vacation. Once again, Irene clapped her hands for joy. So I got one thing right. We got dressed up and went out to dinner
and then to Mystère, the spectacle by Cirque du Soleil, which I knew my children and grandchildren would love.

Irene asked to go home after the first number. Funny thing is, I knew she would. She hates noisy music and crowds. It’s a measure of my strange mentality that I bought tickets for the two of us. I had already seen the show twice. I just wanted so much to share it with her, these incredible acrobats walking up a pole with just their hands, their bodies sticking straight out, defying gravity. But I knew, way down deep, she would have none of it. On the way back to the hotel in the cab, I reflected on my foolishness.

Why did I keep trying to make her love the things I love? The world is so full of things that make me wiggle with sheer pleasure: movies such as Fred Astaire in anything, Spencer Tracy in
Inherit the Wind;
the luscious music and setting of the movie
Brigadoon; Singin’ in the Rain
and its corny and fabulous plot. The wonders of nature boggle me: snorkeling on a clear day on a tropical reef; picnicking in a wildflower meadow or by a rushing stream in a canyon; driving through the scarlet foliage in New England in the fall; planting bulbs and seeing them come up in the spring. These kinds of experiences aren’t half as fun without sharing them with someone. I have needs here, people—really special needs of my own.

Then I asked myself, why should I expect Irene to like what I like when my own family, those with normal intelligence, often don’t share my passions? My granddaughters have been forced to watch my old fifties musicals, sometimes enjoying them, but often drumming their little fingernails and wishing to read Harry Potter instead. My own husband cannot sit through
Finian’s
Rainbow
or any other Broadway musical on film. When I have tried to share a beautiful coral reef in the Caribbean, my grandchild or husband usually says they’re cold and want to get out, or their mask is foggy.

Of course, I am just as guilty as they are. Irene wants me to watch her play Blue’s Clues on her computer, and I last two minutes. Paul looks crestfallen when I tell him that I have no interest in attending
Showdown at Machine Gun Flats
or some such thing.

So we are essentially alone in the world with our pleasures, which we want so earnestly to share with someone. In the case of Irene, and often my granddaughters, I must give up wanting them to love things I love. They have their own things that they love: the granddaughters love rock music and text-messaging. Irene loves getting a Diet Coke and cheese and crackers at the gas station. When I take her to a spectacular, expensive show, she wants to leave. And the truth is, so what? Let it go!

I am cutting them all out of my will, but I am letting it go.

IRENE AND I
went back to the Bellagio in a cab and watched
America’s Funniest Videos
in our pajamas in her room: again, something we could do at home. She chattered at me all the way through it, only watching seconds of it at a time. The rest of the family had a great night, marveling at the Cirque du Soleil show.

The next morning, we were all packed and ready to check out. Irene said, “I’m broke,” holding out her little plastic coin purse.

“Okay, Irene. I’ve got five dollars. We’ll put it on the roulette table and see what we get.” As we left the room, Irene said she had
to go the bathroom one last time. She wheeled her suitcase back into the room with her. We waited out in the hall, and she came out, smiling.

We went down to the roulette tables, where I placed a dollar on the green zero–double zero line. It hit. Irene left the Bellagio with $50 in her purse.

When we arrived back at her house, it was late evening. I left her bag for Kay to unpack the next day. Irene was very polite, thanking me for the trip, eagerly showing me out of her house, saying yes she’d brush her teeth, yes she’d take her pills, good night now.

The next morning Kay called. “Guess what I found this morning. Two huge bags of M&M’s, both empty, and a bunch of other wrappers.”

“The little thief! They were in her room on the courtesy bar. I told her not to touch them!”

“You didn’t remove the whole tray from her room? Well,
duh
! What were you thinking?” After we had left and she had gone back to her room, she had lifted everything on the tray and put it in her suitcase. The bill was over $80.

It could be a funny incident, but Kay takes Irene’s diabetes very seriously. “And now,” Kay said, “she is furious with me because I found them and told you. I think I’m in for a rough day.”

We didn’t know the half of it.

She didn’t want her goodies to be taken away. She threw everything she could get her hands on at Kay. Her temper tantrum lasted about three days. She wore out all of her staff. She had bloodied her own nose so much she looked like Rocky after a fight.

We went for help to the psychiatric professional, who said,
looking at me with a God-give-me-patience expression, “Do you think maybe this disruption in her routine isn’t good for her?”

Well, duh, again. Another lesson learned.

But because I am a very stubborn person who never gives up on her, I still open up opportunities for her to travel to nearby places she’s familiar with, like Wendover or Park City, for two nights maximum. The exception is her favorite spot: Sun Valley, Idaho. Here she can stay a day or two longer.

It Happens in Sun Valley

Irene has been visiting Sun Valley in the summertime with our family since she was six months old. She only stays three or four days because she’s anxious to go back to her safe and quiet home. Our parents always vacationed there, and Paul and I built a home there thirty years ago. We invite Irene up every summer.

She loves to go to the familiar spots, which, unbelievably, still stay the same, the way they were since its beginnings in 1937: the round, warm, turquoise swimming pools where you can soak and watch the clouds or stars; the Opera House, where they play movies, old and new; the Ram Restaurant, where she did the hokey-pokey with our parents’ friends; the outdoor porch at the Sun Valley Lodge, overlooking the ice rink where world champions come to show their stuff on Saturday nights; and the Duchin Room Bar in the lodge, where the Sun Valley Trio holds forth and plays “
Goodnight Irene
” when she walks in.

The Beauty Parlor Game

“I want to get my hair cut at the lodge.”

“Irene, the Sun Valley Lodge may give the most expensive haircut in the west. No.”

“I could get it washed?”

“Honey, your hair is so short, you just shower and shampoo and shake it dry. If you want to spend a lot of your pocket money on it, you won’t have any to spend in the store you wanted to go to. And we are going ice skating, too, and that costs money. So which do you want, shopping and skating, or your hair washed?”

“Shopping.”

“Great.” So we went shopping and skating, and Irene took her skates off after ten minutes, saying the skates hurt. Then she said she was going into the lodge for a Diet Coke and would be right back. We all skated a half hour more, and as we were taking off our skates, along comes Irene with her hair cut so short she looked like a jarhead.

“Irene! You got your hair cut!” I was furious.

She looked alarmed. “No, I didn’t!” Like I would never notice.

“You went to the beauty shop, didn’t you?”

“We could go bowling now?”

“Listen to me! You did what I said you could not do! Shame on you!”

“We could go bowling?” No remorse. She is sipping her Diet Coke, very pleased with herself.

I went to the lodge beauty salon and asked what had happened. “Oh, she just came in and asked for haircut, and we had
an opening. She said to charge it to her sister. You are Terrell Dougan, right? And you have this account, right?”

I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my eyes. “Right.”

Getting on the Airplane

I was putting Irene on the plane to fly home from Sun Valley after two days with me. She had lost her Utah identification card with her picture on it. The airlines are very strict about this now. All we had was her bus pass.

Irene had been asking all morning, “Can I take my dolly on the seat with me and not in the suitcase?” We usually make her pack the dolls away; otherwise she makes everyone in the line and on the plane talk to them.

Faced with my dilemma of no government ID for her, I decided to play the disabled card. I would make her as weird and childlike as she can be. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “how would you like to take
two
of your dolls?”

She was thrilled. When we got to the check-in counter, we showed her bus pass. The ticket agent was just about to reject it when Irene held up her doll and started her pitch. “Hi! My name’s Irene! How’s your day? Wanna talk to my doll?”

He looked at me, then looked back at Irene. I could see him sorting us out. “By the way,” I said, “can we have a special escort at the other end so she can find her companion at the baggage claim?”

“And can my dollies ride in the cart?” she asked him.

It took him maybe five more seconds to decide what we have
here is a child, who doesn’t need an ID, at least this particular day, when it was possible that if he didn’t let her on, I would leave her with him, possibly for weeks. Some days I have moments of brilliance.

Naturally, they x-rayed the dolls to make sure they didn’t contain bombs. Irene started to shriek when the dolls
and
her purse went into the tunnel, but I was back with the nonpassengers, and the airline staff calmed her down and handed her stuff to her. Everyone patted her and loved her the whole way home, which is the way it always goes.