Aunt Ada had been ‘mis-behavin!’ and apparently, swearing her head off! "F#*n this" and "F#*n that!" Making up lies about Jean being in love with my dad! Can you believe? Telling every one, and even crying about it! I guess it didn’t occur to her that Dad lived in Australia, or how mortified it made Jean feel. But that's not the worst thing. She sometimes hits her carers with her walking cane! She hides away her money and refuses to pay for things she needs. She'll give Jean $20 to get a week’s groceries. (Way to uphold a Jewish stereotype). Apparently she's as paranoid as a schizophrenic on space cakes.
Not quite what you’d expect from a 86 year old lady, who has been nothing other than sweet as pie to me. I have heard that the onset of dementia can bring out your inner bitch. Of course, it doesn’t help if you are already a bit of a bitch to begin with.
In a jet-laged haze, I started to understand that despite her good behaviour around me, sooner or later Ada would drive me mad. I’d been warned by others. I settled onto the couch for the night, again feeling grateful for my short legs. Thoughts about finding other accommodation consumed my mind briefly before I fell into a deep sleep. At about 4am I heard a stirring. Ada was shuffling across the floor with her cane towards the kitchen. I kept still hoping she wouldn’t notice me. She looked slightly crazed, then I heard the fridge door open, and rustling and eating sounds for about ten minutes. All of a sudden I realised my food addictions might also be genetic. She closed the fridge door and shuffled quickly back to bed. Miraculously, she didn’t need to use her cane, I wondered if she was a bit like Andy from Little Britain around her carer.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/littlebritain/characters/louandy.shtml
It took another day of confusion before Ada awoke the third day, and seemed back to her old self. She knew who I was, and asked how long I was staying. She was very happy I was there, and we spent the morning trying on her millions of beret’s and scarves, which she would tell me I could have. I would refuse, but she would insist. Then she’d see them on the bed, and she’d get a worried look on her face, and decide to keep them all. I wanted to show her my jewellery, but when I did, she thought it was hers and that I was taking it.
Oh dear.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Arrival
It was a cold, dark, rainy night that greeted me as I exited the terminal. I took a taxi from the airport to the Upper West Side, and was both relieved and disappointed that the taxi screen made it difficult to converse with the driver. Luckily 30 Rock was paying on the flat screen in the back – a good sign!
My flight over had consisted of back-to-back movies, snacking, and sideways glances as the cute guy covered in tattoos on the seats opposite me. I figured he must be from a famous band in LA, as he had the whole middle row to himself.
It was a welcome distraction from the thoughts that kept creeping into my mind. Why was the live-in-carer not letting me speak to my great-aunt Ada? What did she mean when she was saying Ada was ‘mis-behavin!’? Did my aunt not want me to stay with her in NY? Was she doing a take back? Where would I sleep tonight?
The taxi pulled up, and I tipped generously as a scared tourist does, when over compensating for a lack of mathematical ability. It turns out the cute tattoo boy, whom I stalked through customs in LA, is a Canadian citizen and a slow walker. (the worst kind.)
The door to the apartment was ajar, and I walked in to find my great-aunt sitting on her chair. She seemed unchanged since the last time I saw her. Glamorous white hair down to her shoulders, one eye enlarged and droopy, black stockings with a white nightie and several strings of beads. She looked confused, but smiled and greeted me warmly. I told her who I was, and she registered, then immediately forgot. It took a good ten minutes of explaining and yelling from Jean, the beautiful big carer from Trinidad, to get her to understand.
I sat with Ada and talked (which meant having the same conversation over and over and over) until she fell asleep. Later Jean came over, smiled her huge set of glowing white chompers at me and laughed. “Let me tell you about Ada!” she said.
My flight over had consisted of back-to-back movies, snacking, and sideways glances as the cute guy covered in tattoos on the seats opposite me. I figured he must be from a famous band in LA, as he had the whole middle row to himself.
It was a welcome distraction from the thoughts that kept creeping into my mind. Why was the live-in-carer not letting me speak to my great-aunt Ada? What did she mean when she was saying Ada was ‘mis-behavin!’? Did my aunt not want me to stay with her in NY? Was she doing a take back? Where would I sleep tonight?
The taxi pulled up, and I tipped generously as a scared tourist does, when over compensating for a lack of mathematical ability. It turns out the cute tattoo boy, whom I stalked through customs in LA, is a Canadian citizen and a slow walker. (the worst kind.)
The door to the apartment was ajar, and I walked in to find my great-aunt sitting on her chair. She seemed unchanged since the last time I saw her. Glamorous white hair down to her shoulders, one eye enlarged and droopy, black stockings with a white nightie and several strings of beads. She looked confused, but smiled and greeted me warmly. I told her who I was, and she registered, then immediately forgot. It took a good ten minutes of explaining and yelling from Jean, the beautiful big carer from Trinidad, to get her to understand.
I sat with Ada and talked (which meant having the same conversation over and over and over) until she fell asleep. Later Jean came over, smiled her huge set of glowing white chompers at me and laughed. “Let me tell you about Ada!” she said.
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