Table for Four

There are three of us who eat lunch together. We’re joined by a fourth for supper. All three are well into their 80s, struggle with memory issues, and have some degree of hearing loss thrown in for good measure. Together we’re a little dysfunctional family of sorts.

Margaret was already here when I arrive 2 ½ years ago. We’re losing her by degrees. Dementia of one kind or another. I worry about her. Lately she hasn’t been sitting with us as much. There are two sittings for every meal and because she hangs around the lobby quite a bit, she often ends up eating earlier. She’s still aware that she’s forgetful and that troubles her. It would bother me too. Tonight, someone’s given her a copy of The Weekender and she’s very distracted, reading that when she should be eating. “Marlene, have you tried your salmon yet? It’s really good tonight because it doesn’t have that heavy sauce on it.” She looks up. “I’m saving it for last.” Even though she won’t remember this conversation a minute from now, I’ve learned when to back off.

Audrey is a proud Miramichi-er. She makes jokes about inviting male residents to her room, and then changes her mind because they aren’t lively enough. Every meal, it feels like we play 20 Questions because of her irritating habit of focusing on a particular thing and then asking the same three or four questions about it over and over and over again. There’s an element of OCD. Apparently I’m her Google, the font of all knowledge. What’s really exasperating is that she still has some short-term memory and is capable of remembering answers if she only made an effort. She seriously challenges my patience.

Mildred joined us for supper three or four months ago. She’s lovely. Soft-spoken, always dresses nicely and her bangs are held back with a glitzy bobby pin or barrette. Her life has changed considerably in eight months. Her husband passed away suddenly last May, and she moved in here in October. When she first arrived I didn’t think she had any memory issues, but I realize now she’s at the top of the downward slide into dementia.

Here’s a snippet from our conversation tonight.

I ask an innocent question. “Did anyone go up for happy hour this afternoon?”

Audrey: “What day is it, Joy?”

Me: “Friday.”

Mildred: “I did.”

Audrey: “Was I there?”

Mildred: “I don’t remember.”

Audrey: “Joy, what’s the date today?”

Me, hoping to get out of it: “Marlene, you have a watch. What’s the date today?”

Margaret: “Pardon?”

Audrey “What did you say?”

Margaret: “Pardon.”

Audrey: “What did you say?”

Margaret: “I said pardon. That’s what I said.”

Audrey: “Oh.” Mercifully, she’s forgotten her original question.

Things go silent for a minute or two while we tuck into our plates of salmon.

Audrey: “What day is it, Joy?”