Diane craved family even more than food. She had left several pleading voicemails — please come visit me, Sista. I need you — so I drove to see her that Sunday, before my boys returned home from the weekend with their father. I wasn’t keen on visiting; it was difficult to see her among geriatric patients — many in wheelchairs, some with Alzheimer’s, some confined to the bed — I felt an obligation.
It pained me to think this descent would be irreversible. At 45, how could her best days be behind her? Divorced, penniless, childless, battling mental illness, obesity and diabetes. Taking so many medications — one drug prescribed to offset the side effects of another — not one of us in the family could keep them straight. She relied on the care of others in every way.
I helped Diane into the car. We drove into town, sat down for pizza. She asked to bring back a slice for her new friend, Connie; they’d both been craving pizza all week. While Diane could sometimes be demanding and self-absorbed, she was big-hearted like my grandmother who, when visiting Long Island, would give my siblings and me the last of her singles, leaving herself without train fare to get back to the city. Of course, I was more than happy to bring Connie a couple of brick-oven slices, a break from the unappetizing nursing home food.
We returned, and the always rosy nurse manager asked Diane how she was doing. Not missing a beat, Diane replied, “Not too good. I’ve got a lot of psychiatric problems.” I laughed. How she just lays out the truth. Diane scowled at me. “It’s true, Jeanne-Marie. My manic is back, and I’m having trouble sleeping.”
I apologized. This was worrisome — Diane’s sleep cycle was a key indicator of how she was coping.
A dozen years earlier, when I stopped by her Fishkill apartment, she hadn’t slept in several days. “The pills aren’t working,” she told me. When I asked her how many she had taken, she answered, “Four or five. Six?” Her speech was slurred, and her thoughts jumpy. She might’ve overdosed. I called my parents in Florida. Their insisting she get to a psych emergency room wasn’t a complete shock, but I wished my parents could have facilitated it. I had promised my three small children and husband I’d make meatballs and spaghetti for dinner. Diane was not my child, but I was thrust into the role of parenting her yet again. A brief drop in to say hello had turned into a full day.
We gave Connie her pizza and Diane asked if I would stay for a while longer. She spoke in a distressed tone. “I have mood swings. I’m irritable.”
I put my hand on her arm. “What’s going on?
“I told one of the night workers to fuck off.”
“What? Why?”
“She was complaining about me wetting the bed.”
“Di — you can’t do that.”
“Well, I did. I’m afraid they’re going to put me in a hospital. That’s what she said. I’m not going back to St. Francis. I hate it there. Don’t let them put me there. Okay, Jeanne-Marie?”
I returned days later to see how Diane was doing. She seemed about the same. No increased signs of mania or irritation, nor any less. She and Connie were about to go to the weekly ice cream social held in the basement. Sissy beckoned me to join them.
As we waited in front of the elevator, Connie told Diane she was running out of oxygen.
Diane waved off concern. “Oh just come. We’ll get some downstairs.”
I wasn’t familiar with the equipment or how much reserve oxygen might be left in the tank, but the mechanical doors opened, and Connie followed us inside. The room for the ice cream party was down a long grey corridor. I was nervous for Connie, and Diane moved so slowly. Gray-haired or bald men and women lined up in wheelchairs. At the end of the hall, Connie stopped. Leaned against the wall. Said, “I can’t breathe Diane. I’m out of oxygen.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you some,” Diane assured her. She turned and put her hand out to halt a passing aide.
“What is it?” the woman asked. Her ID read: Fran.
“She needs oxygen,” Diane said with the certainty of someone who was once a licensed practical nurse. She pointed to Connie’s tank.
“I’ll see what we got.” Fran stepped into a side office and picked up a canister. “Empty.” Moving with sloth-like energy, she looked under a counter, then sauntered to a nearby closet.
Connie bemoaned, “Diane. Why did I listen to you?”
I wondered too, why she followed Diane so willingly. And where was the hut-two, quick-acting response to a patient out of oxygen? I wanted to scream.
“Okay. We got this one for you,” Fran said, finally. She unhooked Connie’s canister of O2 from the wheeled cart and replaced it with another. I let my breath out.
Connie shook her head, eyes closed. Gasped, “You tried to kill me.”
Diane slapped both arms onto her legs and guffawed. We continued down the corridor to a room set up with two folding tables and a couple of tubs of ice-cream. Diane asked for vanilla, “Non-fat. And rainbow sprinkles.” Connie ordered chocolate.
The cheery woman in the white apron held the scooper and nodded at me.
I was watching a man in a portable bed being spoon fed. Ice cream dribbled from his lower lip. “None for me,” I said, forcing a smile.
It was an eerily quiet ice cream social. Clients who have lost the capacity for speech silently swallowed spoonfuls of ice cream. This, the highlight of Diane’s week. I glanced at my watch and thought about my boys. I had to get going. Diane ate in seeming bliss. My mind raced — I never knew if my ex would give the kids dinner before bringing them home — taking a mental inventory of my refrigerator contents, hoping to avoid a stop on the way home.
When I said goodbye to my sister in her room, she wrapped her arms around me and said, “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, sissy,” I said.
“Thank you for visiting me.” She opened a drawer. “Here — give this to Colin and Quinn. Five dollars each. For their report cards. I’m so proud of them. I know you work hard with them Jeanne-Marie. You’re a good mother.”
“Sissy, keep your money.”
“No, no. Let them buy a treat.”
Itchy to get going, I told her to make sure to get sleep. She wanted to walk me out, but needed to use the bathroom first.
I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to get home to my kids, check over their homework, make sure they’d had dinner. Finish the laundry. I needed to write lessons for the work week ahead.
There was nowhere to sit in her room other than on the thin, urine-stained mattress. Poor Di — this rickety dresser, a chipped nightstand, a few dusty pictures, and some cheap jewelry were all she had.
She stepped out of the bathroom, stretched her bright flowered top over her belly, and washed her hands.
Back down the long hallway. I leaned into Diane, dropped my head, and draped my arm across her shoulders. We strolled like sweethearts toward the lobby. Together. She glowed in this moment of affection. In those dreamlike seconds, I let myself not only receive, but match the immenseness of my sister’s love.
Image by Anastasia Vityukova on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Thank you for sending this is powerful Jeanne Marie . I was right there with you: the wheelchairs, the people being fed, the institutional setting. Reminded me of rehab.
Your love for Diane is obvious and your eagerness to get away and home » so very human and conflicted
Very powerful clean and clear. Bravo lady. Love tiny pic
Perfect. So much sister here!
As usual I am so taken by your storytelling. I saw every moment here, reflected on discussions we have shared regarding out sisters and feeling the deep emotional weight of the love the worry and the care you ooze into each sentence. You are so incredibly talented my friend. Love you so much and thank you for sharing. Keep doing what you do….please, honor yourself too along the way!