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When you have a family member with Alzheimer’s, there are no good options. There are no easy choices. It’s all just a series of progressively shittier situations.
By the time I make it back to her room, all I want to do is say a quick hello, confirm what I already know—she won’t recognize or remember me—and then get out.
Five minutes, tops, in and out.
I know my hopes were misplaced the second I enter the private room and see the woman there with her.
It’s the woman from the lobby—Hot Mess Princess Leia.
I have no idea who she is, but that’s how I’ve been thinking of her ever since I saw her. Not that I’ve been thinking about her.
But she did make quite an impression.
She is, to use her own words, a hot mess.
She’s younger than my thirty-four years by at least a decade. She’s dressed in baggy cargo pants and a T-shirt that reads “May the flock be with you.” The shirt is worn and just tight enough to show off a very perky pair of tits. Which makes me genuinely sad that I’m too tired to appreciate them.
She’s not particularly short, but there is a delicacy to her frame and her heart-shaped face that gives the impression she’s fragile. Her hair is brown and up in two messy buns on either side of her head, just like Princess Leia.
Which is even weirder since she yelped the words “Princess Leia” when she fell on her ass.
If I wasn’t so damn tired, or in a better mood, and didn’t feel like I had been tortured for the past hour, the incident in the lobby probably would’ve been amusing. I might have even noticed how undeniably attractive the woman is.
But today being what it is, I put her out of my mind until I walked into my grandmother’s room and found her there.
“Who are you precisely?”
She seems to have trouble understanding my question, looking from me to my grandmother and back again over and over like she’s stuck in a time loop.
She frowns and gives her head a little shake. “This can’t…” she mutters before trailing off.
“Are you some kind of a candy striper?”
Do they even have those anymore? Did they ever have those or was that just something you saw on TV shows?
“No, I’m not a candy striper!” she blurts.
“Some kind of nurse’s aidee?” I ask, since she was clearly offended by the suggestion that she’s a candy striper. She’s way too young to be a doctor. “Maybe a volunteer?”
She’s still frowning. Still wearing that stunned and confused expression. Which is when a horrible thought occurs to me. Precious Meadows specializes in caring for Alzheimer’s patients, but not exclusively. Some of their residents are younger people who aren’t able to care for themselves. Given her obvious confusion …
Fuck.
No wonder she looks so distressed by my presence.
I’m not a small guy. And I have it on good authority that I’m a grumpy asshole even when I’m not physically and emotionally exhausted.
I uncross my arms and let my hands drop to my sides, purposefully letting my shoulders drop so that I look a little less scary. Then I say, in my most gentle, soothing voice, “You look worried. Can I help you with anything? Do you need someone to take you back to your room?”
“My … what?” Her features pinch in confusion before settling into a glare of indignation. “I don’t have room here. I’m not a resident.”
Which might well be what she would say if she was.
“Okay,” I hold out my hands, palms out. “No worries. Let me just get one of the aides.”
But before I can even take a step back towards the door, Hot Mess Princess Leia marches over to me and pokes me in the chest with her finger.
“I am not a resident.” She punctuates each word with a jab. “I am a PhD student specializing in somatic therapy.”
