Purple Irises

I’ve been waiting by the front desk in the reception area, a cove with lemon-yellow armchairs, a dark purple love seat, and a coffee table. There’s a copy of The Boston Globe along with fresh flowers on the table. There are always fresh flowers here, this time pretty pink carnations—claveles, my mom’s favorites—with baby’s breath in a thin glass vase. I’m close to the entrance, so every time the buzzer sounds and the door opens, a cool breeze enters. The summer must be leaving us—new seasons come on all of a sudden these days. 

A half wall separates most of the waiting area from the dining room, but from where I sit on the edge of the love seat, there is no wall, and I can see all the residents. Most have just finished their lunch. The smell of overcooked vegetables mixed with disinfectant lingers, and I can hear Natalie yelling again in that raspy, deep voice of hers—a little like Lauren Bacall’s but with a bad cold and without the sexy part. “I wanna-go-to-my-room,” she bellows over and over as if it’s one word, the emphasis on the final syllable room, her voice resounding throughout the common area and down the hallways. You can’t miss it—a voice for the ages. It isn’t desperate nor mean though; she’s merely stating a fact and probably thinks people can’t hear her because she can’t hear much herself. Or maybe she forgot someone’s coming. While I’ve been here, at least one aide has walked up to her, patted her arm, and told her loudly but gently several times, “We’ll be there in a minute, Natalie. We’ll be there soon,” to which she says, “Okay.” Then she’s quiet for a while, a few minutes maybe, her small frame hunched over her lap like a question mark (who isn’t hunched around here?), her red hair (she’s one of the few who still gets it dyed) looking like the curl at the tip of the mark. 

It must be a drag to wait. To be not only stuck in a wheelchair but also unable to go where you want until someone else has time. 

When I get here, I usually go straight to my mom’s room. Lucky 43, my mother calls it, not just because the numbers add up to seven but because she also got the room next to a big pine. When the weather gets warm and we open her window, she can breathe in the sap and pine needles baking in the sun. “It makes me feel alive,” she tells me. 

But this time, when they buzzed me in, that nurse—Dalia, I think she’s called, the one with poofy hair that makes her look like the flower she’s named after—told me to wait here. They’re taking my mom’s blood or something, a “routine procedure.” Which reminds me, I need to check about my mother’s blood thinner medication. My brother, Joaquín, told me we need to switch it. My mom does whatever we advise. She can’t keep things straight anymore. Luckily for her, we’re good people. And she trusts us, thank God, because she doesn’t really have a choice. 

Because Joaquín’s the one who lives nearby, he takes care of Mamá. He sees her almost every day, God bless him. He works so hard: pays bills, talks with nurses and doctors, takes her to appointments. When I come to Boston, I spend as much time with her as I can, mostly because it makes her happy to clasp my hand and talk with me—she always says my skin is so soft. Sometimes we go down by the river and sit in the sun, drink prosecco, her favorite. But I also visit to give Joaquín a break. I wish I could do more, come more often; I hate being so far away in California, but I have my job and my dear husband Tomás and sweet Marcos–Marquito–who just graduated from college and lives near us. It’s hard to be away from them. I feel so alone—tan sola—when I’m not with them. 

*

I don’t mind sitting in this nook by reception. I can see everything from here. They do keep the temperature cool, though, probably to keep the odors down—some residents can’t control their bodies and most need help bathing. The aides try to get to them as soon as they can, but they’re occupied, always running around like they are now. 

In fact here’s one, walking toward me. It’s that nice, heavyset man who speaks Spanish. Maybe he’ll know about my mom’s blood medicine. 

“Hola. Qué día lindo ¿no Señora?” He’s touching my arm. I’m about to say, Sí, pero un poco fresco, a little cool, but before I know it, he’s gone. I didn’t get to ask about the medicine. But he always makes me smile, that Roberto. Or is it Ricardo? Tan simpático. 

It’s good to know people here are kind, that my mom is in good hands. The residents are friendly too, but few say much since most don’t remember who anyone is. I’ve gotten to know many of them during my visits even though some aren’t here the next time I come (we all know what that means). We rarely talk, the residents and I, but we smile. And while I chuckle at their quirks and hate witnessing their disabled minds and bodies—I cringe at imagining how Tomás and I might end up—I admire how they carry on. There’s Natalie with the Lauren Bacall voice and red hair; James with the kind smile who always looks like he’s about to say something but never does; and Helena, my mother’s hundred-year-old roommate who remembers everything and still walks. Every morning, she shuffles with her walker over to my mom, the ninety-two-year-old young one, to give her a kiss. I hope I, too, will be able to keep walking and stay sharp. I hope I will always have someone to kiss.

There’s also that man with his long legs stretched out and elevated in front of him. I think he’s mostly paralyzed. He looks as if he used to be an athlete, thin yet tall and big framed. Now he can barely talk or move. Every day, his spry, petite wife, who lives in the independent living facility next door, walks over and feeds him, gently wiping the side of his half-open mouth. While she strokes his arm or cheek, she leans in to speak to him, even though I never hear him talk back. I hope Tomás and I can live at home to the end but, if not, I know we won’t leave each other’s side. The other day I said to him, “You know, the end probably won’t be easy.” He knows, of course, but told me, “Well, we’re not there yet, honey.” He grabbed my hand, said “Let’s go,” and scooted me out the door as we left for the store, maybe the park—I can’t remember now. He’s always so active. So positive. I wish he were here with me.

Where are those nurses or aides? I need to make sure they’re giving my mom the new medication. 

Oh, and there’s Daniel—Daniel with that full head of gray hair, big shoulders, and booming masculine voice. He’s planted himself in front of that poster again on the far wall of the dining room. It’s of an abstract painting that looks like a bad copy of a Diebenkorn—the lines not as subtle, the colors not as soft. Although he’s in a wheelchair, he can pedal himself wherever he needs to go. In fact he moves so fast they had to put signs in the hallway that say, “Slow Down.” There are also signs with arrows that say, “To Daniel’s Room,” since he gets lost sometimes. 

Daniel is always trying to locate information within time and space. The first time I saw him gazing at that poster, my mom and I were eating lunch, Daniel sitting across from us, the poster behind us. As he stared at it over our heads, he leaned back and mumbled (to no one in particular), “Interesting. That’s a photograph of Humarock Beach. From the 1940s when I lived there.” Then he circled his arms in front of him as though spinning yarn and continued, “Yes, there’s the bluff and that’s the inlet. There’s the reef. And that’s my house. It’s blue, like the sea. Later they painted it red. Yes, that’s Humarock Beach in Scituate, Massachusetts. 1942–1948. I’m sure of it.”

I told him, “That’s a painting. It’s not a real photograph.” He glanced at me and said, “What?” So I repeated myself, but he pushed his hands on the armrests of his wheelchair to lean upward and forward to get a better look. With his loud voice, he announced—again, to no one in particular—“That’s Humarock Beach.” Then he added, “I’m sure of it!” He ends with that line every time. 

When you live in a place where everything is the same day in and day out, it must be hard to know your place in the world, what day it is—much less keep track of the hours. But Daniel keeps at it. He reminds me of Tomás, who always makes sure we leave on time and knows exactly where we’re going. I wonder how Tomás would feel if his faculties started to slip. I bet, like Daniel, he’d fight to the end. 

Daniel sure likes his spot by that poster. But I don’t remember seeing such a large TV next to it before. And it looks oddly flat. Daniel’s a bit crouched today, and his hair looks thinner than usual but also strangely darker (maybe he decided to start using Grecian Formula—give things a go again). One of the aides is now walking up to him. She whispers something in his ear and rolls him away. I guess he’s not up to pedaling today.  

*

Natalie’s no longer in the dining room. They must have wheeled her away too. I think I heard someone ask her who the president is and what year it is. Or maybe they asked someone else. Sometimes I feel like they’re asking me, they do it so many times around here. I wait anxiously for the residents to answer, rooting for them to get it right. It’s 1995; it’s Clinton, I say in my mind, hoping that will somehow help them remember. 

I’m getting nervous about my mom’s blood thinner medication. She could get a clot. It seems they’re on top of things here—they’re all so nice. But you can never really know, can you?

Everyone has left now. It’s quiet. Except for the buzzer at the front door. Every time someone comes in or leaves, a worker needs to buzz them in or out. I’ve been looking up to see if I recognize anyone, like that other daughter I met here recently. We had a nice chat about caring for our parents, giving them all they gave us and all that. It’s nice talking to someone my age. I’d love to see that daughter again—what was her name?—but the front door has buzzed so many times since I’ve been sitting here, I don’t even bother to look up anymore. 

Someone just patted my arm and said something, but I didn’t catch it. And now they’ve walked away. It must have been Dalia or an aide telling me my mom would be ready soon. Again, I didn’t get a chance to ask about the medication. 

I’m not sure how long I’ve been waiting here exactly. They don’t have any clocks, and I must’ve forgotten to put on my watch this morning. Maybe it’s in my purse, but it’s too much trouble to dig out. I think to grab The Globe—its headlines probably about the Red Sox, harsh New England seasons, or that major construction they’re doing in Boston (the Big Dig, they call it), which will go on forever, it seems. But then I remember how long the articles can be and that the print is small—so smudgy and dim. I’ve been watching TV for the news these days.

*

I can’t say it’s easy coming here, watching your parent age, become less and less able. My dad died years ago. Suddenly. That was hard, but at least we didn’t have to watch him decline. My mom, an intellectual in her day who always carried a book wherever she went, has stopped reading. Everything. Even magazines. Then she did Word Search puzzles. Doesn’t do those anymore. Just watches TV for the news. I read all the time. But I somehow forgot to bring my book today. And I do crossword puzzles (they say that keeps you sharp). I do cheat a little, though, by looking at the answers sometimes.

My mom started moving less and less over the years, her back increasingly curving like an S. Now she no longer walks. But, unlike me, she’s heavy, obese even, and has scoliosis. Those things must’ve done it. I stay active: take my dog out, go to the gym. I pray I’ll walk until my dying days. I announce this to my friends as if doing so will make it true. 

My lower right hip does hurt, though, when I climb up the stairs, and when I’m tense (which seems like always), my upper left shoulder tightens into my neck. Sometimes I think my shoulder and neck bones are lodged together, they’re so stiff. I’ve gotten X-rays on my back to make sure I, too, don’t have scoliosis. It would kill me if I did. 

What time could it be? I wish they had clocks around here. They must be done with my mom by now. What if they’re not taking such good care of her after all? What if Joaquín missed something? He’s always so busy. I’ve heard stories about these places.

*

I’ve noticed my hands and fingers ache more lately. They ache now, actually. At least I’ve never been heavy, but when I look in the mirror, I have to say the wrinkles and sagging skin get to me, and I know it’s only going to get worse. I spend way too much money and time on lotions and those things they call serums, hoping to stave things off a bit. But I know those creases on my brow and wrinkles around my lips, which seem isolated now, will soon join others until my face looks like a spiderweb. Like my mom’s. And the looseness around the jowls and neck is the worst, pulling the whole face toward the ground. I’ve found that the best thing to do is avoid mirrors as much as possible. But I still see the skin on my arms getting more and more crepey, the veins on my hands and ankles popping out more and more. It’s best not to think about it too much: mejor no pensar, as my mother says—more frequently than ever these days. 

My mom first came here for rehab but eventually couldn’t stand anymore, so she never left. She basically stopped moving. She still lifts her arms and wiggles her feet, but that’s it. They use a crane—a Hoyer lift, I think it’s called—to move her from the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the bed. I never want to get to that point.

On the upside, her brown eyes still sparkle and her cheeks are rosy. And she still feeds herself, even though we have to unseal the foil on juice cups, rip open packets of sugar, and move the food to the edge of the tray against her chest so she can reach it. As long as we put a napkin—a towel, actually, which is more like a bib—she does okay. She used to never be a sweets person (she always liked lo salado), but now dessert is her favorite part. Sometimes that’s all she eats, and she always gladly accepts the cookies or ice cream they offer in the afternoon right before activity time.

“Señora.” It’s Ricardo (or Roberto?) again. “We’re having ice cream before Bingo in the main room in just a few minutes.” 

How did he know I was just thinking about that? “Sí, gracias,” I tell him and smile, thinking I’ll be sure to let my mom know—if I ever get to see her. He turns away and is walking down the hallway. I forgot to ask about the medication again. Or rather he didn’t let me. I’ve got to talk to Joaquín about this. Something doesn’t seem quite right. 

I wonder when they’ll be done taking my mom’s blood. Maybe they decided to bathe her as well. At least my mom’s not in much pain. Her main complaint is that she’s constantly waiting for someone to take her back to her room, especially after lunch. Like Natalie. Sometimes they move her here, right outside the dining room by reception so they can wipe tables and sweep the floor to get the room ready for afternoon activities or dinner later in the day. Then she waits again for someone to roll her back into the dining room or outside—wherever the events are that day—or take her back to her room. “Estoy muy limitada,” she tells me. “Sometimes they don’t come for a while.” When I ask, “For how long?” she says something like “I don’t know. A while.” 

I really need to check about that blood thinner medication. If I don’t watch out for my mom, who will? Dalia must know. She just rushed by and I tried to flag her down, but she turned and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute, dear.” I’ve never heard her call me “dear” before. 

*

It’s gotten so quiet. Everyone has left the dining room. Even the staff. I think they already cleaned up. But I don’t think it’s quite activities time yet.

Wait—I feel someone standing right next to me. 

“Hola.” Joaquín leans down to give me a kiss. My brother. What’s he doing here? He doesn’t need to come when I visit. He’s supposed to use this time to get work done. Or spend time with his family and friends. 

“Qué haces aquí? I thought it was my turn today.” 

He’s getting older. Like me. I see some gray hair, and that crease between his eyes, the one closer to the right eyebrow, is quite prominent today. He’s still good-looking, though, a full head of curly hair that matches my own, that irrepressible family hair gene we both passed on to our children. He’s always been fit, a bit barrel chested but no belly. But there’s something in his eyes today as he looks at me. It’s as though he’s searching for something. It must be seeing our mom get so old. It is hard being here.

Dalia is next to him, touching his arm. I’m about to ask about my mom’s medicine, but she’s talking to my brother. 

“She’s been a little confused lately,” she tells him and then says something I can’t really hear. We all know my mom’s been getting confused. Who can blame her? Every day is the same here. Apart from some afternoon activities, there isn’t much to do but wait to be wheeled into another room, stare at posters, watch TV. 

I’ll never forget when they put up a Christmas tree in the dining room in the middle of summer, in July. They were showing Christmas in July from the 1930s or ’40s, a popular film with this age group. It was a fun idea, but jeez, I thought, this will really confuse them. Anyway, I wonder if my mom’s been more confused than usual. 

“Excuse me,” I say to Dalia. “Do you know if they changed my mother’s blood thinner medication? They were supposed to, and we just want to make sure.” 

She smiles. I wonder why she’s smiling. She pats my arm and tells me she’ll be right back. I think she said “dear” again. Why does she keep saying that? And patting my arm?

That ache in my left shoulder and neck is hurting a lot today. Maybe it’s from sitting here so long. I look down at my hands, the veins popping out more than usual, my fingers more twisted than I remember. 

I look over at the coffee table, and I see that the pink carnations are gone. They’re always replacing the flowers here with fresh ones. The thin glass vase now holds purple irises, my favorites. Irises never last long. But they’re so beautiful while they do—deep purple  with splashes of lemon yellow, long and whimsical, full of life. I know within a couple of days, though, their petals will curl, turn brown, wither.

Dalia is whispering to Joaquín again. But this time I catch part of what she says: “It’s good you come so often. It keeps your mother going.”

As she’s leaving, I hear Joaquín tell her, “I can take her back to her room.” I’m about to tell him our mom’s already in her room, that I’m waiting out here because they’re doing some procedure. We need to wait.

I hear him say “Mamá” as he bends down next to me. He leans to the side and does something to my chair. There’s a slight jolt. He leans to the other side; I feel another jolt. My chair swivels so I’m looking straight at him, his eyes a beautiful green. I thought they were brown like mine, like our mom’s. He looks a bit sad. “Mamá,” he says. Didn’t he just say that a few minutes ago? Or is it an echo? It’s so hard to hear around here.     

*

“Mamá. It’s me, Marcos.”

My Marquito? Why yes. It’s my angel boy. Those beautiful green eyes. Why have I never noticed that crease between them before, the one close to his right eyebrow?  

“What are you doing here? You came to see your abuela?” (He’s always been such a good boy.) 

“No Mamá. It’s Friday. I brought prosecco. I can stay late today. Remember? You like prosecco. We can sit outside and overlook the river, feel the sun on our faces.”

I feel a cool breeze. “Isn’t it getting cold?”

“We’re in California, Mamá. Remember? It doesn’t get that cold here except when it rains, which is rare these days. It’s only been getting dryer and warmer.”
Yes, he’s right. I recall the news—it is warm here. They keep saying we need rain; they may even start water restrictions. I’m about to ask Marcos about this, but instead images—a newspaper called The Globe, my mother in a wheelchair, pink claveles—swirl in my head. As soon as I try to grasp one, it washes away, like a chalk drawing on the sidewalk in the rain. 

And here’s that wave. Again. My head and heart are pounding; things are fuzzy and moving. Purple irises dance with each other, or is it the purple loveseat with the yellow armchairs?

Dios mío—it’s happened. Otra vez. 

How long have I been in this nook, in my chair next to these irises, with my nurse Dalia, if that’s even her name, coming and going?

*

Yes, this is my home, this place that sometimes smells of feces and urine and disinfectants. This place full of workers who are kind, but every now and then let slip a furrowed brow, a puckered bottom lip when they see me—that look of pity that horrifies more than my wrinkled face and milky eyes staring back at me in the mirror. This place with people so old, most of them are hunched in wheelchairs always staring at their laps. 

But I lift my head. I look up at Marcos. “Sí, mi amor. I like prosecco. And the sun. So good to see you, angelito.” 

I recall everything now: I no longer read. Later they will bring in that crane—what do they call it, a Hoyer? They will use it to move me into my bedroom for the evening where I watch the news. And when they ask me who the president is, at first they think I don’t know because I refuse to say his name. How did such a man become our president? But when I talk about him putting children in cages, paying off prostitutes, cozying up to that Putin, that hijo de pu . . . , they know I know. 

When I’m not watching the news, I stare at that beautiful pine tree—I even breathe it in if they leave the window open. Sometimes I imagine how it’s going to feel when it’s my time. Will there be unbearable pain? For how long? Or, what if there’s nothing? What does nothing feel like? Other times, I’m just tired. Tan cansada. I make sure not to let Marcos know. And, really, mejor no pensar.

Tomorrow they will take me to the dining room for lunch again. I do hate waiting afterward for someone to wheel me back to my room. In the afternoon I’ll probably go back for a snack and activities: ice cream, a reading, bingo, a movie. I might as well enjoy myself. I’m still here, after all. ¿Qué se va a hacer? 

Maybe we can play that game again, the one where we sit around the big table and hit a red balloon toward each other. I still have it in me, you know. The other day I smacked it straight at that guy who’s kinda cute, the one with big shoulders who still has hair. He’s not bad for an old geezer. I think he likes me too. Tomás wouldn’t mind. It breaks my heart he’s no longer with me, but he always told me, “When I’m gone, honey, you make sure to take care of yourself.”

I’m trying. As my girlfriends and I used to say, it never hurts to feel that little spark for a guy—even if it is a fantasy—to keep you going. It’s one of those things that makes you feel alive again, like the woodsy scent of that pine outside my window, the soft touch of Helena’s morning kisses, the sweet taste of vanilla ice cream. Or when you gaze upon deep purple next to bright yellow on the petals of freshly cut irises. Or—best of all—when you look into your son’s green eyes, listen to his strong voice while you sit with him by the river, clasp his soft hand, feel that warm sun on your skin—loose and thin and wrinkly, as it may be.