The Long Dying

By Carol McEachen

Seventy-seven-year Maggie Campbell is stricken with dementia. This is the story of how her proud, independent way of life is inexorably eroded until she finally finds herself completely dependent on others. It is also the story of how her two sons: Scott and Ian suddenly have to shoulder the burden of their mothers care, while at the same time dealing with their own shock and grief. When Maggie is moved to Scotts home in Fredericton, Beth, his wife, becomes her mother-in-laws caretaker. Because of Maggies inability to accept needed help and Beths rigidity, the situation gradually becomes untenable, and Maggie is placed into three, separate institutions, resulting in more pain and confusion. The story is complicated by the fact that Ian, Maggies younger son, although very devoted to his mother, is not close to either Scott or Beth. Although, this is a sad, sometimes heart-breaking story, it is often lightened with humour and glimpses into Maggies rich past as a Saskatchewan woman coming of age during the forties and fifties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467036245

Carol McEachen

I am a sixty-five-year-old woman who has lived in Fredericton, Canada for over twenty years. Previously to that, I travelled around the country with my husband and our two daughters. I also am a retired nurse whose speciality was gerontological nursing. After my retirement, I began to write and happily discovered that I had a passion for it. I find writing very fulfilling and an excellent way to make sense of myself and the world around me. I have written several non-published short stories and one novel: The Banshee’s Daughter, which was published in 2009 by Poppy Press here in Fredericton. I live with my husband, Murray, six cats and a large golden retriever named Juicy Gumdrops. Besides writing, I enjoy gardening, knitting, and hanging out with my friends.

Book preview

Chapter one

THE MORNING SUN’S SLANTED RAYS reddened the snow-covered, southern prairies. It also lit up the high-rises of Regina, Saskatchewan, that improbable city that had grown up alongside a wandering creek and a pile of buffalo bones.

A cold morning, probably close to thirty below, Maggie Campbell thought, looking out the window of her sixth-floor suite. But it’d be dry cold, not like New Brunswick where Scott and Beth lived.

As she did every morning at this time, Maggie savored the panorama spread out below her. This was her city, and she loved every bit of it. All of her life, seventy-seven long years, had been spent in this place, and it was choc-a-bloc full of her memories.

Although, she could not see it from her window, there was the little house on Rae Street where she was born and grew up with Father, Aunt Mary, Moiry and Johnny. All gone now. An old, familiar wave of sadness washed over her and then receded. Someday, she’d be with them all.

Her gaze shifted to a landmark she could see quite plainly: Taylor Field, where her beloved Saskatchewan Roughriders played. Not much action there now, but spring was just around the corner. Her heart raced at the thought of it. She could almost hear the roar of the crowd and see the green and white pompoms.

Not far from the stadium was another house full of memories: Thirty-thirty, Assiniboine. Now there was a happy house if ever there was one! She and Al had raised their two boys there, and then sent them off like tumbleweeds to make their own ways in the world. Another smile—she knew was smug but didn’t care—spread across her face. And their boys had done well for themselves, hadn’t they? Scott was a retired senior officer in the Canadian Armed Forces and Ian, a successful opera singer with the Oldenburg Opera Company in Germany.

Another wave of sadness washed over Maggie, this time stronger. If only Al had lived longer to see . . . Lifting her chin, she swallowed hard. There was no point dwelling on the past; you just had to get on with the life God gave you.

Breakfast finished, she arose from her chair and entered her kitchenette, a room so narrow, it was all she could do to squeeze her round, little body between its cupboards and fridge. Then using just enough water to wash the crumbs away from her cereal bowl, she placed it carefully back into the cupboard beside her Queen Elizabeth Coronation coffee cup.

Grace Penny wouldn’t like me doing that, she said to a large orange cat sitting at her feet. She’d be telling me to use lots of hot, soapy water to get rid of the germs. Maggie tched. That’s just because she’s a retired nurse and thinks she can tell people what to do. But I don’t care about germs. Father always said everybody has to eat a peck of dirt before they die. Lifting her chin, she added. Besides, I’m not wasting expensive dishwashing soap for just a cereal bowl and a cup.

The cat slowly blinked large, golden eyes, gave a squeaky, little meow then stared fixedly up at the cupboard above the sink.

I know what you want, Charley-Cat, she said, reaching up into the top cupboard for a can of Fancy Feast Seafood Fancy.

To Maggie’s dismay empty margarine tubs rained down on her head like prairie hailstones. Oh darn, she said, rubbing the top of her head. Now I’ll have to pick the darn things up and put them all back. She tched again. Lonnie keeps asking me why I don’t throw them all out. When I told him I wasn’t going to do that, he just laughed. She lifted her chin. You know, Charley-Cat, Lonnie’s a nice enough fellow but a little thick at times, don’t you think? Frowning at her own rudeness, she hastily added: It’s not his fault, don’t you know. The poor boy probably doesn’t have a lot of schooling, or else he’d have a better job than being an apartment block superintendant . . .

Charley-Cat meowed and stared at the Seafood Fancy Feast can.

Maggie wagged a forefinger. Oh, hold your horses, she said. It’s coming.

Gritting her teeth, she worked at the can’s tab until it finally broke free. Then she carefully measured out a tablespoon of the smelly mess onto a saucer. With one hand supporting her left hip, she slowly bent down to the floor.

There you go, she said. Just a teaspoon for now, but I’ll give you more after a bit, okay?

Charley-Cat sniffed all around the saucer and then gulped down its contents in two mouthfuls. Again, he stared fixedly at the can.

Oh, alright, she said, doling out another tablespoon.

Charley-Cat licked the saucer clean and then washed his face.

Maggie was happy nobody could see the idiot grin she just knew was spreading all across her face. Especially Grace Penny who always said she preferred dogs to cats because you could train dogs. The woman had no imagination. Pets were to be loved and spoiled, not trained!

Giving Charley-Cat another fond look, she asked: Want to go out on the patio and see what the weather’s like this morning?

Giving her a knowing look, the cat led Maggie out of the kitchenette into an L-shaped combined dining and living room. As every morning, she stopped momentarily to examine herself in the oval mirror hanging in her dining section. As always, Maggie patted her short grey hair and traced out the wrinkles fanning out from her eyes. Al once told her she was the spitting image of Jean Marlowe.

How the mighty have fallen, eh Charley-Cat, she murmured.

The cat blinked again and tail in air—a pinky-orange bottlebrush—made its way towards a east-facing patio window. Golden sunshine poured through the window and then onto an ivory brocade sofa and matching armchair. Beside the armchair, there was a small, polygonal, oak table on which sat a dusty-rose, desk telephone and flip calendar.

At the patio-door, the cat stopped, turned and gave an ‘I-want-out-look.’ Hurrying to obey her cat’s command, Maggie felt a sharp pain grab her lower back.

Oh Charley-Cat, she said. That hurts! It feels as if some red-hot poker’s been rammed up my backbone. Time to see Bill again, I think.

The cat continued to stare at the sliding door, but Maggie no longer paid attention to him. Her heart was thumping out a song of fear. Do I have an appointment with my chiropractor, today? Or have I forgotten, again? Better check the calendar quick.

Hobbling over to the oak table as fast as her sore back would allow, Maggie peered at the February 16th, 1997 page of her calendar. She let go her breath in a whoosh. There was nothing written on it about an appointment with her chiropractor. She’d better double-check to be sure though; Maggie didn’t want his snippy little receptionist calling her up and asking if she was coming.

Taking out Al’s old magnifying glass from the table drawer, Maggie, again, examined the page. This time, she saw ‘laundry at 9:30’ written in small crabbed letters in the page’s corner. Checking the time on the small golden wristwatch that Al had given her the Christmas before he died, she gasped. Eight-thirty. She peered at it again, squinting this time because the numbers remained blurry. Still eight-thirty.

Ohmygod, she exclaimed out loud. I’ve only got an hour to get ready, and I’m not even dressed yet. And where did I put my loonies and quarters for the machines?

Charley-Cat meowed.

You’ll just have to wait, until the laundry’s done, she said.

Maggie never left her cat alone on the balcony. Not after Scott told her it probably wouldn’t survive a six-storey fall.

There were only two more doors to go until she reached the laundry room. It might as well have been a hundred. Even though, Maggie had taken two Tylenol capsules, her back still felt sore as a boil. To ease the pain, she became a little Tower of Pisa.

The thought hit like a slap to the face. Did I remember my keys?

Shifting the laundry basket to her other arm, Maggie quickly patted the pocket of her grey Wal-Mart slacks and felt their comforting hardness. Again, she let her breath out in a whoosh. Twice now, Lonnie’s had to let her into her suite because she forgot them.

Dorothy, who lived across the hall, once told Maggie she’d have to start tying her keys around her neck. She just kept on smiling when Dorothy said that but later Maggie allowed herself a good cry. She’d been made to feel like a kid who’d lost her mittens.

Now at the laundry-room, Maggie placed her basket on the floor and pushed at the door with all her might. Holding it open with her body, she picked up her basket and walked in. A tall, burly woman looked up at from the sorting table.

There was something about the stranger’s eyes Maggie didn’t much like. They were small and mean-looking; eyes that weren’t likely to overlook an old woman’s slowness and forgetfulness. Still, Father would want her to be polite.

Hello, my name’s Maggie, Maggie Campbell, she said. Welcome to the Southwood Apartment Building.

Never mind that, the stranger snapped. Where are the towels and facecloths you stole from me last Wednesday?

Maggie felt as if someone had thrown a pail of ice water in her face. W-what do you mean? She stammered. I’ve never taken anything that wasn’t mine in my whole life.

Oh, it was you, alright. Don’t you remember us washing together last week? I went out to take a leak and when I got back, you and my stuff were gone.

I d-did no such thing, Maggie sputtered. In fact, I’ve never seen you before.

The woman’s sneer made her plain face even courser.

Oh, I get it, she said. You’re one of them who’ve gone all gaga and can’t tell your ass from your elbow.

Maggie opened and closed her mouth, but all her words had dried up. She had to get away from this horrible woman. Why was she telling such lies? What had Maggie ever done to her?

Sick to her stomach, Maggie somehow managed to get back to her suite, find her key and then open the door. She made it to the bathroom just in time to vomit her breakfast into the toilet bowl. After washing her face and rinsing her mouth, she grabbed a towel from the cupboard.

Its softness and fuzziness took her by surprise: it didn’t feel like her old, nubby ones at all. She looked at it closer and gasped. It was yellow. She’d never buy a yellow towel: not when her bathroom was decorated in dusky-rose. Where did it come from? Again, Maggie’s heart pounded out the rhythm of her fear.

A furry head rubbed against her ankle. As she bent down to pet it, her blind panic ever so slowly subsided. She was not alone after all: she had her Charley-Cat. Between the two of them, they’d somehow get through this awful mess.

We’re not going to worry about that yellow towel, Charley Cat she said with a firm nod. It’s probably just one Beth bought at the Wal-Mart and then forgot to pack. It’d be just like her.

Remembering the awful woman in the laundry-room, she added: I’ll just start washing out our few things in the sink, and we’ll make out fine, just fine.

The cat blinked and walked briskly towards its food dish.

As did his mother, Maggie Campbell, Scott, her elder son, loved Regina and all things Saskatchewan. He liked his summers hot, but not humid: his winters cold but not stormy. In fact, it had always been his intention to move back home after his military career in the Canadian Armed Forces ended in Base Gagetown. But as his mother always said: Man plans while God commands. Instead of getting a job in Regina, Scott was hired by the University of New Brunswick, UNB, to be its Project Manager. Much to his surprise, he now lived in Fredericton along with his wife, Beth and their two daughters: Holly and Heather.

It was another hot, sticky day. A warm front had boomed up from the States, and it was like a steam-bath outside. But for once, Scott was oblivious to the weather: his beloved Saskatchewan Roughriders were playing the Edmonton Eskimos and that was all that mattered. It was an important game for the Green Roughies, and he had looked forward to it all week.

They needed a win. It was already the end of July, and they were three games down. Leaning his short, powerful-built body forward on the squashy, green sofa, Scott stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth, followed by big slurp of Moosehead beer.

The Saskatchewan wide receiver, Don Narcisse, caught a pass.

Yes, Scott yelled, spewing beer and soggy popcorn all over his new Rider jersey. Oh shit, he said to the Husky-Rottweiler lying on the sofa beside him. He then wiped up the mess with his wife’s new tea towel. He could get away with this because she was working evenings at the Ashgrove Nursing Home and wouldn’t be home until after midnight.

The Roughriders came out of their huddle, and he quivered with excitement. Another first down and they’d be in field goal range. Just as Kemp threw his pass, the telephone rang.

Damn, Scott shouted. Why would anyone be calling now? Don’t they know there’s a football game on?

He was tempted to just let the phone ring and then changed his mind. It might be Heather or Holly phoning from St. Andrew’s Community College. There’d already been several frantic calls about lost keys or cars not starting. Eyes still glued to the television screen, he got up and grabbed the telephone receiver off the breakfast counter.

Hello, he said.

Hello. Is that you, Scott?

Yes. He tried not to sound abrupt but not too encouraging either.

Scott, it’s Grace Penny calling from Regina.

He raised his eyebrows. What did she want? Scott pictured a trim officious-looking woman whose smile did not quite meet her eyes.

I’m calling about your mother, Grace continued. I’m a little concerned about her—er—behavior. She’s getting quite forgetful, you know.

He felt the heat creeping up his face. But that’s to be expected, he snapped. She is seventy-seven years old, you know

The silence stretched. Then: It’s more than that. She’s been coming to church with dirty clothes. Several people have commented on it, and I’ve seen the same spot on her white blouse three weeks in a row now. That’s not like your mother, Scott. She’s always been a sharp dresser and meticulous about her appearance. You know that.

It’s probably because she doesn’t see too well. He knew he sounded truculent but didn’t give a damn.

Another uncomfortable silence. Then: I wasn’t going to bring this up, Scott, but folks at church were so concerned, they asked me to visit your mother.

Oh.

The relentless voice continued. And I was quite shocked by what I saw, it said. Did you, by any chance, happen to look into your mother’s fridge when you visited her last year?

No. she’s always looked after the meals.

Guess what? I found rotten food in there. Your mother could get botulism if she ate that, you know. And her carpets were so dirty; it didn’t look like they’d been vacuumed in months I’m worried about her safety, Scott. I don’t think your mother’s capable of taking care of herself anymore.

Mum’s never liked to throw out food, but she’s got enough sense not to eat something’s that’s rotten. She’s just a little forgetful. I mean, who hasn’t left food in the fridge too long?

I’m only thinking of her welfare, Scott. I’d hate to see something bad happen to Maggie.

He read between the lines. What Grace was really saying was that if he looked after his mother properly, she wouldn’t have to.

I’m sorry, he said. It’s just hard for me to think of her ever needing help. Mum’s been so independent, you know. He took a deep breath. But I’ll try to make it out to Regina again soon.

Don’t leave it too long.

Scott hung up the phone and returned to his place on the sofa. The dog licked his hand, and, still staring at the television, he gave it an absent-minded pat. Although the Roughriders didn’t get their field goal, they’d recovered the ball. There was still an outside chance for them to win the game.

Scott shook his head: his afternoon was ruined no matter what happened. He shouldn’t have been so been rude to Grace Penny. Mum would be mortified if she knew how he’d snapped at her. He and Ian had always been taught to be polite, especially to church-people.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the whole miserable mess to sink in. What Grace had just told him wasn’t that surprising; he’d known something was wrong with his mother on their last visit. Beth picked up on it right away but he’d brushed her off whenever she tried to bring it up. She and Mum didn’t always get along, and he figured Beth was just trying to get her digs in.

It all came to a head when they found cat-poop in his mother’s bedroom closet. Beth had gone ballistic: lecturing him on the number of germs cat poop had in it; saying it wasn’t fair to the cat if his mum no longer remembered to clean out its litter box. Then she’d looked him square in the eyes and told him straight-out that his mother was in the early stages of dementia.

Of course, he denied it, told Beth she was over-reacting as usual. But it’d made him think. Because it was more than cat poop, wasn’t it? It was Mum’s increasing anxiety, and the fact she kept asking the same question over and over again.

Once when they were shopping in the Wal-Mart, she hadn’t known where she was. He’d been so shocked he hadn’t handled it well.

You’re at the Wal-Mart, Mum, he said. You know that!

She tried to cover it up by telling him she’d known all along, but he saw the blank look on her face.

Squeezing his eyes tight to rid himself of unpleasant memories, Scott turned his attention back to the television. Kemp had waited too long to throw his pass and was sacked. That was the game: Saskatchewan didn’t have a prayer of winning now.

Sighing, he turned the television off and took another long swig of beer. His troubled thoughts returned to Grace Penny’s phone call. It just wasn’t fair! He didn’t need this new complication in his life. There was already enough to deal with: a frustrating job, two kids to support, a wife who worked shift. And now his mother.

Unlike her husband, Beth Campbell loved living in the Maritimes. A daughter of English immigrants, she supposed the region’s soft moist air agreed with her fair complexion and thick, blond hair. A tall, athletic woman, she also appreciated Fredericton’s many walking trails, and could often be seen either walking or cycling them on her days off.

It was the part of the evening she enjoyed the most. All the residents at the Ash Grove Nursing Home were in their beds, the lights dimmed, and it was blessedly quiet. She just had the charts to finish up and then she could leave.

Running long fingers through her hair, Beth stared down at Mrs. Cunning’s chart. Had there been any improvement in her patient’s aggressive behavior? She asked herself. Checking her scribbled notes, she read: Struck out while being fed at supper; Ativan 2mg given at 1715 with poor results; repeated at 2030. She shook her head. No improvement there.

Hearing the click of the nursing desk gate opening, she looked up. It was Jeannette, one of two resident attendants on duty this evening. I hate to be a bother when you’re busy with your own work. she said, but Kathy was called over to B-wing to help Mary.

Mary was the registered nurse in charge of B-Wing

Jeanette looked tired, and the fine lines fanning out from her eyes were more pronounced. Again, Beth wondered how such a small woman coped with all the lifting and pulling a resident attendant was expected to do.

That’s all right, she said. It’s not your fault.

It was worse than Beth had feared. Don Corbett, a large heavy-set man suffering from late-stage Alzheimer’s, had somehow managed—despite his restraint—to wiggle down to the bottom of his bed. Because he’d also pulled off his pad, everything was soaked. Beth and Jeanette had a major clean-up job ahead of them, right at the end of shift, too.

Don gave them a baleful stare. Agh, he said.

Hi Don, Beth said. We’re going to pull you up in bed a little. Is that okay?

Agh.

Not taking her eyes off his face, Beth unfastened Don’s restraints with her magnet. It happened so fast she didn’t see it coming. Suddenly, Don reared out of bed, wind milled his arms, and her nose gushed blood.

You all right, Beth, Jeanette asked, her dark eyes round. Should I go and get Kathy from the other side?

Damn it! Beth sputtered. That really hurt. And look; I’ve got blood all over my new uniform. She forced a quick smile to gain control. But I’ll be okay to help after I’ve cleaned myself up.

It’s not fair. Jeannette shook her head. Dody Sawyer’s been off on Workman’s Comp for nearly a year since she got kicked in the stomach. Word is, she’ll never be able to work here again.

Well, those are the breaks. Beth chose her words. Don has hit out before, and I should’ve been more careful.

Jeanette gave Beth a long look. They both knew she was just saying what management had told her to say.

After washing her face and rinsing the blood out of her uniform, she helped Jeannette diaper Don and change the bed. She finished her shift just going through the motions.

Again, she’d been violated. There wasn’t one shift that some old guy hadn’t sworn at her or attempted to feel her up. The women were just as bad with their pinching and punching. Beth kept telling herself it wasn’t Don’s fault; that he didn’t know what he was doing. She was still pissed off: Pissed off with the doctor who wouldn’t order enough medication; pissed off at the nursing director who pretended staff abuse by residents didn’t exist. One of her most persistent comforting thoughts returned. Maybe once the girls are through school, she’d take her leave of this Popsicle hut.

After sinking into the softness of