After some clandestine maneuvering, which involved the assistant director, the back-garden pathway, and a master key, we did eventually escape the facility, but I had trouble escaping the guilt.
Memory camp.
Mom had trusted me!
Was I a terrible daughter?
My husband reminded me again and again that we really had exhausted every other option. But still, there was guilt. After the required first week of no contact, he and I began what would become two years of visiting her almost every day.
In the beginning, visits would take hours. We would make sure she got a walk, we’d sit and eat with her and participate in activities. There was no “slipping out” until she was ready for a nap. In the moment, she knew exactly what was going on, but half an hour after we’d left, she wouldn’t remember that we’d visited. But she also, thankfully, didn’t know how long she’d been at camp. When she was asked, her guess was “Two weeks?” when in reality it had been months.
At some point during our visits, my husband and I would “do the rounds”—have a quick visit with other residents in the common area. As Mom’s condition progressed and she spent more time sleeping, we spent more time hanging out with the other residents, and, not seeing their own families—or not having family to see—they adopted us.
There was the woman from Oklahoma who thought I was her daughter and told me the same thing every single day: “Y’all drive safe, y’hear?” There was the woman who had met Frank Sinatra and would recount the experience again and again like it had just happened. There was the woman who loved me “to pieces” and asked me every day, “Do you belong to me?”
And then there was the woman who had absolutely no interest in me but lit up when she saw my husband. “Yoo-hoo!” she’d call to him from across the room, and if he got too close, she’d give a wicked grin, grab his backside, and squeeze.
At ninety-two, she still had it going on.
As time went by, I witnessed so many things at this place. I saw my mom in a walker war with another resident, both women yelling and yanking from opposite ends. I saw her flirt with a new roommate from her hospice bed, mistakenly thinking the new resident was a man. I saw accidents of all kinds, watched dentures fly, tempers flare, and residents appear from their room overjoyed by the freedom of being buck naked.
Perhaps most amazing to me was seeing that people who can no longer read or do simple arithmetic or dress themselves can somehow remember with frightening clarity who gets to sit with them at meals and activities and who doesn’t. Even in a memory care facility where nobody remembers a thing, mean girls still rule.
It was also a little mind-blowing to reconcile the residents as they were now with the stories that unfolded about them. The lives they’d lived. The careers they’d had. The academic degrees they held.
During all our time there, we got to know and really appreciate the caregivers, too. What a job. Lifting residents, changing their diapers, bathing them, doing their laundry, feeding them, mopping up their messes…all while trying to stay upbeat and calm when food or teeth or tempers went flying. It didn’t take long for us to be in awe of the way they could defuse a tense situation, redirect a resident away from tears, or wield a lipstick and cooing compliments to make a senior feel beautiful.
When my mom passed away, she seemed to be at peace with her environment, which is saying something. The staff there had a lot to do with that, and I developed an abiding gratitude for the way they helped us transition through a really emotional and difficult time. But it wasn’t until the week after Mom died and I was delivering a thank-you lunch to the staff that I realized how much I had learned and felt during those two years. Perhaps it was that final goodbye and reminiscing about Mom and the things we’d seen and been through together, but I left that day thinking that maybe I could say thank you in a way that was more meaningful than a lunch.
I also started to consider that, despite this having been a mostly adult experience, despite the sadness that surrounded it, there was a broader story here. One that could, perhaps, open a window into this secluded world. One that might let some fresh air and sunlight in for people who’d been through something similar.
And, maybe more important, for those who hadn’t.
Humor was the life raft that kept us from drowning in the stress, helplessness, and heartache of Mom’s decline. Humor also served to make things less traumatic for our kids. Old ladies fighting over a walker became dinnertime tales of “walker wars.” Flying dentures and senior food fights and mean-girl antics got spun into stories with a humorous twist. The residents got nicknames; so did the caregivers. Even when they hadn’t been able to visit Mom for a while, our sons knew all the players, as well as their personalities and quirks. So when they did visit, they were up to speed on palace intrigue and knew what to watch for.
Especially “Yoo-hoo!” from across the room.
What also helped us, I think, was the frequency of our visits. I know people who say they don’t do hospitals. Or old folks’ homes. Then they go on and on about the smell and the trauma of being surrounded by death.
And yeah. There is all that. And yeah. It’s hard. And yeah, the first time you go, all you’re thinking about is leaving. But being there is actually not about you. And if you “do” hospitals and you “do” old folks’ homes enough, your role as someone who brings comfort overrides the discomfort of being there.
When a story suitable for young readers set in a memory care facility began forming in my mind, I replayed the evolution of my own understanding and attitude, as well as those of my kids. And what kept bubbling to the surface were two basic things:
First, finding humor in the situation was essential.
And second, conveying this one crucial concept was key: People in elder care don’t want to be in their condition. People in elder care once led active, vibrant lives. People in elder care were once children, too.
When I’d summoned the courage to not leave the past two years behind, what poured out of me was The Secret Life of Lincoln Jones—the story of a sixth-grade boy who has to spend his after-school hours at a dementia care facility where his mother works as a caregiver. Lincoln is already at a disadvantage because he’s the new kid at school and already harboring secrets besides that his mother has a job “changin’ oldies’ diapers.”
As I did writing How I Survived Being a Girl, and as authors often do, I incorporated fictionalized versions of events and personalities into the story. But, as stories always do, Lincoln’s story morphed into one he experienced, not me. The events and setting are seen through his eyes, which became a whole new and fascinating perspective to consider. What would daily visits to a dementia care facility be like for a sixth grader? What would his presence be like for the residents? What would it take for Lincoln to truly get that these “oldies” were once sixth graders too?
People have asked which character in Lincoln Jones is my mother, but it didn’t work that way. My mom’s personality, feistiness, stubbornness, quirkiness couldn’t be contained by one character. There’s a little of her in several of the characters, including (forgive me, Mom) the Psychic Vampire in Room 102.
And that’s all I’m gonna say about that.
Now, while I divvied my mom’s traits into several characters, Lincoln’s mother is a composite of the people—the angels, really—who cared for my mom during the last two years of her life. There are many facets to The Secret Life of Lincoln Jones, but one I really hope shines through is the tribute to caregivers for the hard job they do.
So sometimes a story can build inside you without your even being aware that it’s there. Sometimes you collect pieces and subconsciously store them away, totally unaware of how or why they belong together. Sometimes you can’t see the story because you’re too busy trying to hold the real world together. And sometimes you don’t notice it under all your baggage.
/> But always when you find it, it will teach you to look at the world with new eyes, and in the process, it will show you ways to let that baggage go.
Family vacations when I was a kid consisted of camping. I’m sure economics had a lot to do with that. And since gas was cheap back then, camping was the end part of long days on the road in our parents’ International Harvester—a large, chrome-bumpered precursor to today’s SUV. With its V-8 engine and heavy steel construction, it probably got a whopping twelve miles to the gallon on the highway. Add six people, a good-sized dog, a top carrier stuffed with supplies, and more necessities wedged into traditional and created spaces inside (like under Dad-built backseat benches placed where legs were designed to dangle), and that mileage had to be somewhere in the single digits.
On road trips we often headed east from our home in the Los Angeles area. Later, we also spent time backpacking through the picturesque Sierra Nevada mountains, but what I remember most from my ten-and-under years are long, hot stretches of desert as we drove around Southern California, Arizona, Utah, and Nevada without air-conditioning.
This was pre-internet, and pre-GPS, and pre-men-not-being-opposed-to-asking-for-directions.
This was also pre-screen-entertainment, so we kids did a lot of spotting out-of-state license plates, shared a rotation of already-read comic books, and ignored instructions to “look at the beautiful scenery.”
We also did a lot of jockeying for space, which often escalated from jabbing elbows to throwing fists, and somewhere on every trip Dad resorted to the pull-over-and-spank routine.
Burning buns and tears in an overheating vehicle in the desert.
Ah, summer vacation.
What we did have were maps and guidebooks and a quirky mother who liked to get off the beaten path. We also had a dad who didn’t believe signs that said things like BRIDGE OUT or ROAD CLOSED or DANGER. Weatherworn or barely legible, these were obviously old advisories. And even when the paint was fresh and said in no uncertain terms TURN BACK (YES, THIS MEANS YOU, MISTER WITH THE WIFE AND FOUR KIDS AND FURRY DOG), Dad had the, uh, gumption to press ahead, just in case. After all, the crisp new map he’d purchased at the gas station clearly showed this road was fine.
Dirt, maybe, but fine.
Besides, the return route was long and wouldn’t get us to our campsite before dark.
So off we’d go. And when the bridge was indeed out, Dad would still not be ready to throw in the towel. Perhaps we could ford the river. When closer inspection revealed a manageable water depth, boulders that weren’t too big, and—wait, wait, look at that! tire tracks on both sides!—well, why not give it a whirl?
The International Harvester was not a four-wheel-drive. It was a poor, overloaded utilitarian station wagon.
So, yes, we got stuck.
Again.
That time, fortunately, a jeep happened by. It was a four-wheel-drive. And since our vehicle was deeply planted midstream and obstructing their ability to cross the river—or maybe just out of the kindness of their clearly inebriated hearts—they hitched a chain to our bumper and, after much grinding of gears and flinging of mud, managed to pull us back onto the dirt road.
I never needed an official lesson in how to change a tire or use a board or branches to give a wheel traction when it was digging a portal into Stucksville, or how to get down and really push. These were all included free in the vacation package. As were fire-building and latrine-digging and tent-pitching and water-hauling.
I look back in true amazement that we all survived. After all, it’s hard to keep an eye on four kids when you’re trying to rev your way out of a steep ravine, and maybe it’s easy to lose track of the one behind a back wheel who’s still putting her heart and soul into the heave-ho as the car slides back in.
But once we got to camp, all the getting-there was forgotten. We were free-range kids, scampering off in some middle-of-nowhere place to find firewood or just explore.
Or get lost.
But there’s always echolocation to find your way back, right? You holler something. Preferably not “Help,” as your dad has sternly instructed you that “Help” conveys the wrong message when you’re simply lost. So even though “Help!” is really what you want to shout, you call out something like “Where are you?” And when someone finally hears you and hollers back “Here!” you holler “Where?” Then they holler “Here!” but you still can’t find them, so you holler “WHERE?” and they holler “HERE!” and so it goes until you finally find your way back to camp, only to get scolded for not sticking together with your brothers, who may or may not have ditched you, depending on who you ask.
Still. The being-in-a-campground stuff was mostly great. Well, except that time we set up camp at the aptly named Valley of Fire, Nevada, in the middle of July, where the average temperature for that time of year is 106 degrees Fahrenheit. I don’t know if what led us there was an aversion to nearby Las Vegas or that the guidebook boasted of stunning geology and unrivaled views, but please take my word for it: You do not want to camp at the Valley of Fire in the summertime.
Anyway, aside from being ditched or sun-baked, the camping part of our vacation was usually great. And, ironically, the places we wound up because we got stuck or lost were actually the best. There wasn’t an assigned campsite where you had to park and pitch your tent, there were no neighbor campers squirting lighter fluid directly into a burning fire (Mom’s pet peeve), nobody played a radio too loud (Dad’s) or got in embarrassing fights or stayed up ’til “all hours” partying (oh, the things we learned!). After dinner and KP, it was just us in our big canvas tent, tucked in and tired, playing Animal, Vegetable, Mineral in the dark until one by one we fell asleep.
As we got older, our family switched to backpacking. Likely to get away from the campground crowds. We had some gorgeous packing adventures through the Sierra Nevada mountains, where just the sweet smell of ponderosa pines is enough to keep you going. Tired of hiking? Stop and smell the sappy trunk of a ponderosa. It’s a little whiff of heaven.
When we moved away from Los Angeles, backpacking adventures shifted to treks through the Los Padres National Forest. Don’t let the word forest fool you. The Los Padres wilderness is covered in scratchy chaparral, where ticks and maddening little flies are plentiful and water sources are not. And yet, we hiked it. Year after year. And as we kids moved into adulthood, we continued to backpack on our own—with each other, with Scouts, or with friends. I look back at all the endless miles I’ve hiked with a pack on my back—all the blisters and bugs and discomfort…and I ask myself, Why?
I don’t know if it was a yearning for something, or just habit, but I can honestly say that the years of camping and backpacking did equip me in ways I continue to recognize. And despite the discomfort and the fights and the follies of Bridge-Out situations, there will always be magic in the memory of falling asleep in a big canvas tent surrounded by family, a cool breeze on my face as I looked up at the stars in a middle-of-nowhere sky.
Camping and nature first found their way into my writing in Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things, where our reluctant heroine goes on her first backpacking trip with some overzealous Girl Scouts. Sammy gets exposed to all manner of nasty beasties—gnatty flies, scorpions, ticks, rattlesnakes, and wild boars (welcome to the Los Padres National Forest)—as well as the joys of summer camping in harsh environs, all for the chance to spot an endangered condor. The story is a backdoor approach to environmentalism, with Sammy at first wondering why in the world anyone would want to save an enormous ugly bird that poops itself to cool down and feasts on dead stuff.
Boy, did I have a lot of fun writing that one. (Including getting to see—up close and within smelling distance—the release of a rehabilitated condor into the wild.)
But camping was just the setting there. The chance to put Sammy “up a tree” (in this case one with “sudden oak death,” which, cross my hear
t, is a real and dangerous thing) and throw rocks (and ticks and gnatty flies and scorpions and wild boars and condor poachers) at her.
The role of camping in the story didn’t go any deeper than that.
And then one night…
I was catching up with a friend I’d been out of touch with for a few years and she told me she’d made the excruciating decision to send her child to a wilderness therapy camp.
The wilderness as therapy?
Was that like going for walks in the woods? Maybe with a yoga mat?
Not even close. This wilderness therapy camp turned out to be a minimalist camp in the Utah desert, an immersive program where troubled youths between thirteen and eighteen were isolated and stripped of outside influences in an effort to bring them back from self-destructive behaviors and onto a better path.
I started asking other people if they’d heard of wilderness therapy camps, and to my surprise the answer was often yes. What’s more, several volunteered that they personally knew someone who had sent their out-of-control teen to one.
This was mind-blowing to me. Parents had their kids “kidnapped” in the middle of the night for this? Really? And paid a ton of money for it?
So I started digging, and a picture began to emerge of what teens sent to Utah wilderness therapy camps were in for: six to eight weeks in the desert, forced to cope with Mother Nature’s unbending will, forced to start a fire with friction, construct their own shelter, cook meals over an open flame, purify water from natural sources, dig latrines, and honor the earth.
Wow.
Sounded a lot like growing up Van Draanen to me.
It was then that my often-disgruntled view of time spent camping in the desert shifted. The value of becoming competent in wilderness survival as a way to help you navigate through life and your own internal storms came into focus. If it’s on you to start your own fire, find your own water, build your own shelter…if you have to suffer the consequences of not doing these things, eventually you’ll get hungry enough, or thirsty enough, or weatherworn enough to look for solutions. And once the blame game has gotten you nowhere and you recognize that Mother Nature is unmoved by your tantrums or misery and that your success or failure is the direct result of the effort you apply, you will begin to try.
Hope in the Mail Page 14
