ROOM 5 Lily

ROOM 6  Lily

Lily lay on her bed.


88 years old and doing well on her Aricept.  She'd been out with her family to a meal the day before and was enjoying the memory.

Her day was routine.  She would wake about 6a and wait for a caregiver to help her sit up, then stand up to her walker.  She could walk to the toilet with the help of the walker but needed help sitting and changing her depends, which she wore as a precaution.  She was continent.  She had to be dressed.  She would only be dressed in the same pants and the same top.  The same sweater, never a different one.  Duplicates hung in her closet.  She knew.  Her clothes had to be washed after bed time and returned by morning.  She knew the duplicates and wouldn't wear them.  She would instruct her caregiver to put her bed socks back into the drawer "because they get lost in the wash."  " Also put my nighty back too," she would insist.

Then it was time to go to the diner and as soon as she pushed her walker out into the hall she knew her way and said good-bye to her caregiver.  She would move like a little box turtle to her place at breakfast.  She would find her place, need help sitting down and need help being pushed in at the table.  All this would exhaust her and she would rest til' lunch in which the same routine would tax her.  Some afternoons she would attend the entertainment in the main hall but more times than not she would stay in her room and have thoughts that the Aricept no doubt made possible.  Every object must be exactly placed for Lily to be comfortable.  Her pillows must be placed just so-her sheet pulled up to her chin, just so far and the blanket with afghan next-just so.  Arranged, just so or she couldn't rest.  "No, that is not right," she would say.  "There, there, I think that is right.

She had a dream one night, that she and her husband were curled up in each other's arms.  She felt wonderful, remembering.