We have a special treat for today’s NaFaCaMo post — an excerpt from my beloved friend, the writer Tanya Ward Goodman’s book Leaving Tinkertown,, a memoir about many things but, particularly, the time Tanya spent as a caregiver for her father who had early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Here’s a brief bio for Tanya followed by the excerpt.
“Tanya Ward Goodman grew up in a roadside attraction in the mountains of New Mexico, an experience she chronicled in her award-winning memoir, "Leaving Tinkertown." After completing her first book while parenting two elementary aged children, she partnered with a friend to co-create an after-school social-emotional skills workshop for kids, teens, teachers, and parents. Using poetry, art, mindfulness and group conversation, the groups encouraged participants to "Think, talk, write, do, be."
Parenting and caregiving provide rich topics for her contributions to the Orange County Register and Literary Mama, while her work in Luxe, Variable West, and Another Chicago Magazine focuses on artist interviews. Her deep love of the natural world is evident in much of her work, including the essay, "What Life Does," which was listed as notable in the 2019 Best American Science and Nature Writing. A fortuitous journey to Antarctica just prior to the pandemic lockdown was the subject of an essay for The Washington Post, where she has become a frequent contributor in both the travel and lifestyle sections. She is currently at work on memoir about mourning, motherhood and the way travel cultivates a willing acceptance of uncertainty.”
Gran has been living at La Paloma Blanca for a little over six months. The name means “the white dove” and is supposed to conjure up images of peace and calm. Dad calls it “the bird house,” which brings to mind the constant rustle of feathers, the scrape of beak and claw. The place is big and white with a series of long, linoleum-covered hallways radiating out from a central nurse’s hub.
Any person fit enough to drive up to the place is going to feel the uncomfortable grip of mortality clamp down the second they step through the door. I rarely meet another visitor, and I understand why. I think about the aides pushing hampers filled with soiled sheets through the hall. I wonder what it is like to fall asleep and wake up in a place filled with strangers. I begin to think that confronted with the same situation, I might begin to hit people, too.
Though she has forgotten that I am her granddaughter, I am still a familiar presence and so when I visit, Gran greets me with a smile.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi, yourself,” she returns.
She stands, all business, and walks to a large, red metal file cabinet.
“You hungry?” she asks. “Let’s see what we’ve got in the icebox.”
She pulls on the drawers of the cabinet, but they don’t budge. The cabinet is locked.
“Something’s wrong,” she says. “It’s broke or something.”
“You know,” I say, “I meant to call the guy about that. What do you say we take a walk and see if we can find something to eat?”
“Sure,” she says. “Maybe that place across town. You know the one.”
“I do,” I say and take her arm so that we can walk down the hall together. As we walk, she nods at the nurses and other residents. We pass a man in a wheelchair, and Gran slows for a minute. Her face softens and her eyes grow bright. She leans in conspiratorially.
“He was there again last night when I got home, sitting out on the lawn.”
She tries to hide a smile, clearly pleased. I wonder if she’s remembering my Grandfather.
“Was it Everett?” I ask.
She ignores my question and walks on. I let it drop. Alzheimer’s disease is like a slot machine. You pull the handle and, with a little luck, sometimes things line up. When they do, it’s hard for me not to play along. In today’s jackpot, file cabinets are refrigerators, the halls have become streets and Gran is nineteen again and playing at being a heartbreaker in her old hometown. Though the disease can be violent as a tornado, wiping out everything in its path, with Grandma, right now, it seems to be blowing softly, coaxing to life a spark long gone cold.
On another visit, I bring Dad. The three of us sit in the common room and watch a cage of finches chatter and hop from branch to branch.
“What do you think of those birds?” I ask, but today Grandma is silent. She takes the fabric of my coat sleeve between her fingers and examines it.
Dad sighs heavily, slides his sleeve up, looks at his bare wrist and says, “We should hit it.”
“In a minute,” I say.
“It’s getting late,” he says. He leans over and pats Grandma on the knee. “We’ve got to get going now, Ma.,”
She looks up at him. “Why didn’t little Ross come?” she asks.
“All right, enough’s enough,” he says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I kiss Grandma on the head and follow Dad across the room, down the hall and into the clear air outside. When we reach the car, Dad stops and stares at me hard. “Can you believe that? Little Ross? I’m Ross. She doesn’t get it. I’m never coming back to this hell-hole.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I say. He is angry today because his mother didn’t remember him. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel when he doesn’t remember me.
“Is this our car?” Dad asks.
“Sure is,” I say. I unlock his door and help him in, reaching across to fasten his seatbelt. Things like latches and seat belt fasteners have begun to baffle him, so it’s easier if I do it quickly before he gets frustrated. I’m wondering if it was a good idea to bring him here today. Though we all try to talk around it, Grandma’s stint in La Paloma Blanca is a kind of dress rehearsal for what we will encounter with Dad. When I think about this for too long, I get a tight feeling in my chest. I unlock my own door and climb in beside Dad. He’s rummaged around in the glove compartment and found a pen and a few napkins. Using his knee as a table, he hunches over the napkin, sketching out a scene. With a few strokes of his pen, the desert sky stretches vast and endless over a narrow highway, curving briefly over the sand before becoming lost in the horizon.
Thank you, Elizabeth!P
What a great writer. How sad this is. Alzheimers is a wicked disease