Stay seated, hands inside the ride please

I don't care about anything anymore, she announced to me today. Deep breath, I told myself.

When I arrived it was nearly lunch time and I could see some of the residents had already taken their assigned seats at the dining room tables when I peeked in to see if she was there. She was not. I signed in and walked down the hallway, all the way to the end where her room is. Her bed was neatly made, topped with the quilt my aunt made for her, knitted from scraps of scarves and sweaters and holiday ornaments.  I walked back down to the nurses station and popped my head in the manager's office, a perfectly named woman: Dolores. She told me my aunt, the same one that knitted the quilt, had taken her up to the salon on the second floor to get her hair done.

Stepping off the elevator I could hear my aunt laughing and didn't have to guess which direction to go in.  My aunt and I helped the hair dresser take rollers out of a few of the ladies hair, and when everyone was brushed and hair-sprayed, we rode the elevator down one floor to have lunch. My aunt had gone ahead with Eileen, one of my grandma's table mates that I am particularly fond of. It was exiting the elevator when my grandma announced she no longer cared about anything. There's really not very much to say when she says something like that. I get it. This sucks and I don't blame her for not caring. Her moments of clarity are painful for her and for me.

During lunch Eileen declared that she lived alone and did not cook anymore, too much work she said, who can bother to cook for one person. Amen Eileen, I told her, I totally agree. My grandma told Eileen she wanted a cigarette. Me too, I chimed in. You smoke, Eileen asked my grandma, surprised. I'm 99% quit, my grandma told her. I enjoy this banter they have. It doesn't bother me, having the same conversation three times over soft chicken and strawberry ice-cream (no one wanted the pears for dessert, they never do).

There were moments in the meal that I felt a panic rising up, like I might start crying at the table. I always feel this way, slightly claustrophobic in the large room, this sadness that settles in when I look at her face. I push it down, but one day I'm afraid I won't be able to and I'll just start bawling in front of all of the blank faced old people.

I wheeled her and a friend of her's back to her room and reminded them over and over that no one was to try and get out of their wheel chairs. I put on The Young and the Restless and made sure the volume was correct. Okay, I said, turning to face both of them. Who's getting into bed?! No one, my grandma barked. Good job, I said, that was a test and you passed. Stay seated I said kindly but firmly.

A gentle kiss was planted upon her soft forehead and I left her to watch what the Newmans and the Abbotts were up to.