Gray Walls with Boxes
Once I knew words that fit together.
Now my mind still has the answers,
but rarely lets me in to find them.
People who seem to know me
bring pizza in a box
and we eat it in front of another box I’ve forgotten the name for––
a small world with other people moving in it that I don’t know.
Sometimes words appear in a ribbon on the bottom edge of that box
and I wonder if I understood them
if they ‘d tell me what I’m supposed to do.
On the walls are other flat boxes
with people frozen in them
and I think it is my fault.
There is something I am supposed to be doing.
There is something I am supposed to be doing.
“They are your pictures, Mother.
They’re there for decoration—
for you to enjoy,”
a woman tells me
when I ask her
if she’d like to take them
home with her.
I don’t belong here.
My high school boyfriend
must be wondering
where I’ve gone
and my daughter is as confused as I am,
claiming to be her own child;
and then one day my sister comes
and I have to laugh because they all
look so much alike—
my sister and her niece and her niece’s daughter
whom they try to convince me
are my daughter and my granddaughter––
so many layers of daughters
that it is too hard to keep them
all in mind.
But then that floats away
and I am trying to remember
when I am leaving this hotel
and I feel I’m not suited to run for president
although all those people
cheering at that big convention in that little box
want me to––
that little box they turn off and on each day,
sometimes before or after I’m ready
to have it turned off.
And they take me to that large room
where all those silent older people sit.
I do not want to go into this room,
but I am lucky, and we move through it.
Someone’s daughters have come to put me
into a box that moves us through the world
without walking. At first, I am so surprised by it,
then I remember what it is
but can’t remember the word for it.
As we sit in it, the world moves by
too fast, scaring me, and I try
to weep unnoticed.
But then they take me out of it,
give me popcorn
and lead me into a very large room
with many people sitting down
and an entire wall with larger people
moving on it, and it is so confusing, like déjá vu,
for I remember being in a room like this before,
but I don’t know if I’m supposed to
make them do something other
than what they are doing
or if I’m already controlling them with my thoughts
or if I’m supposed to be
up there on the wall with them.
I can’t remember whether these people
on either side of me are my sisters
or my children or strangers,
sitting chair after chair down the long aisle.
Most days, I am so sad all day long,
but sometimes my real self
comes to visit and I think,
how did I become a martyr like my grandmother
and why can’t I stop myself from crying, just like her?
One gray wall meets another at the corner
and I’m sure
that I am being punished
for things I did but can’t remember.
That blank face
in the mirror
has me in it,
but I can’t get out
and for a moment I know, then forget
that this is why I cry
and cry and cry
and cry.
I think the deep stage of bewilderment that Alzheimer’s brings us to is the biggest fear of many of us who are over the age of sixty. I’ve written poems about earlier and later stages of this dread disease, but this poem describes as closely as was possible for me the way my sister Betty seemed to be feeling at a couple of different stages of her dementia. Her delusion that it was she who was running for president the year Obama was elected, her befuddlement over the television and later over the art on the walls, over the identity of family members, and finally her astonishment over being in a moving car and at the movies. This may have marked the last time we took her out of the care facility where she still resides. I went to see her a few months ago and still plan to write about her present state. Anyone who has a loved one in some stage of this heartbreaking disease will know haw hard it is to imagine how they may be feeling and how equally hard it is to write about it. That is why I keep putting it off. I’m running this poem again after five years because it seems to fit today’s prompt, which is bewildered.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
It’s so hard to tell just what goes on in someone’s mind when they have dementia or Alzheimer’s, but I think you’ve written a close account in this poem.Very poignant.
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Thanks, Christine. I was trying to be very aware of all of her clues.
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Before I run for my box of Kleenex, let me say how heartbreakingly beautiful this is.
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It is exactly what was going on with my sister (from my limited point of view) during two of my first visits to her after she went into managed care. I must write about the last one, a few months ago, as it was incredible. I live in Mexico and she is in Minnesota, so once a year I go to visit her and usually get to see her three times per visit. I think this reading of someone one chapter per year gives a certain vision and yes, it is heartbreaking. I hope her interior world is rich.
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This is very poignant. I spent sometime volunteering on an Alzheimer ward and the confusion was so palpable – minds trapped on replay, missing context and recognition.
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I want to write one about the last time I visited and I’ll be very interested in your response, given your background with Alzheimer patients..
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I’ll be interested to read it.
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So sad, but so well written! A real in-depth look into the disease, and the feelings associated with the process. You are a gifted poet! Thanks for sharing! 🙂
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Thanks, Patty. A subject very hard to read about, I know.
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A brave and beautiful poem, Judy. I just pray that God never does anything like that to you. Take care. Anton
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Me too, Anton.
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What a very poignant look at the “long good-bye!/” The confusions that are a parat of the disease are so very difficult for anybody, whether the patient experiencing them or the car-giver or loved one observing them! How very sad!
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Garry’s mother, several of my aunts, not a few friends. I often wonder about ME and if the loss of memory is the sign of something much worse on the way.
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Nope.. You’re still damn sharp. Just overlooking the less important things.
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sorry for your sister but you write it well … they only have moments of lucidity in those first few years. Once the alzheimer’s is full blown they really have no idea, and the real suffering is that of the family and friends that she has forgotten 😦
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But I wonder if they are all having rich interior lives thinking of their past. Just so into it that they lose touch with the less interesting present.
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that would be wonderful but I rather fear that they seem to be in some more vacant space, let’s pray that they are reliving their earlier days.
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Powerful…
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Wow. You climbed inside your sister’s confusion. Beautiful, sad reality. You’re a gifted writer.
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Thanks. I kept notes every time I visited, wanting to remember them.
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Beautiful writing…
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Reblogged this on Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie and commented:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2018/02/07/bewildered-gray-walls-with-boxes/
WOW. Powerful words.❤
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