Sunshine: A Love Story

By Barbara Zimmerman

After losing her husband of 61 years of marriage, Thelma resists leaving her home until her children make the decision that it is too dangerous for her to live at home alone and move her into a nursing home. She is subsequently diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia, a debilitating neurological disease, that progressively robs her of her physical health and mental clarity.
Interweaving present events with intimate memories and reality with hallucinations, Thelma narrates a beautiful story of the love between her and Ed, Dad, Papaher husband, the father of their children, the grandfather of their grandchildrenand their deep love for their family. Sunshine is heartbreaking and disturbing yet ultimately heartwarming and uplifting.
Thelma will become a beloved family member as you experience with her the loss of her husband, her memory, her physical health and eventually her life.
And now faith, hope and love remain, but the greatest of these is love. I Corinthians 13:13

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491725474

Barbara Zimmerman

Barbara Zimmerman resides in Pennsylvania. Her mother provided her the inspiration to fulfill her dream of publishing a novel.

Book preview

Prologue

S he sat at the table, her eyes closed, her hands propped on the arms of her wheelchair. She looked as if she were peacefully sleeping. The dining room assistants were removing her remaining food from the table, food blended, easy to swallow. I looked at her, her face barely having a wrinkle, her skin as smooth as cream, her lips dry from biting them.

Mom? I said quietly.

She slowly opened up her eyes.

Annie? she asked.

Yes, Mom.

Where have you been?

I’ve been here. Do you want to go for a walk?

Yes, please take me anywhere away from here.

Do you need the legs on the wheelchair? I asked.

Yes, she answered. It’ll be easier.

The certified nursing assistant put the legs on her wheelchair.

We slowly went down the hallway.

Where did they put the baby? she asked.

Whose baby?

My baby. Where did they put my baby?

I don’t know, Mom. But you don’t have a baby.

Why do I always think about my baby? she asked.

I stopped the wheelchair and squatted down in front of it. I couldn’t talk with her any longer while pushing her in the wheelchair. I needed to look into her eyes.

Are we going to get the baby now? she asked.

Mom, there is no baby.

There is no baby? she asked.

No baby except me. And I’m now 56 years old.

I stood and we continued to the Olive Branch, the community dining room that was now empty because it was between lunch and dinner.

I sat beside her at a table overlooking a garden with spring flowers blooming. She stared out the window, gazing into the garden.

I walked to the food cart to buy us ice cream. They had crunchy nut ice cream sandwiches. She could eat only smooth food.

I sat beside her again. She turned to me.

Do you think they think I’m crazy? she asked.

Who would think you’re crazy? I asked.

They would because of the baby.

Are you telling people about the baby?

She looked into my eyes. No, I’m not telling anyone about the baby, but why do I always think about my baby?

I don’t know why you’re thinking about a baby. But I know you’re not crazy.

I pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose.

I just want you to let me know when I’m crazy, she said.

I’ll let you know, Mom, but, by then, I’ll probably be crazy, too. We laughed.

Do you want to go see Sunshine? I asked.

Yes, but I think he went upstairs.

Upstairs where? You mean upstairs here?

No, I mean upstairs to heaven.

Let’s go check on that, I said.

I paused before we left the Olive Branch.

Can I write about you and Dad? I asked.

Write about me and Dad? Do you mean Papa? she asked.

Yes. I started something and only Dan is reading it.

Dan?

Yes. Danny.

Is he Ellie’s son? The one who died?

No, Mom. He’s Danny. I pulled out my wallet and showed her a picture of Danny. I then showed her a picture of Sammy I also had in my wallet.

Sammy is the one who died. You remember Sammy, right?

Yes, Sammy, she said, closing her eyes.

Danny is the one who speaks Spanish.

Yes, Danny.

Mom, do you want me to write this story about you and Papa?

Her eyes still closed, I reached down to hug her.

Yes, I want you to write it.

Are you sure you want me to write it?

Yes, Annie, I’ve read everything you have written. It will be beautiful.

Okay, if you’re sure.

I’m sure, she said, her green eyes now open, looking into mine.

Let’s go see Sunshine.

One

I t was late at night. I was sleeping on my electric lift chair in the living room when I heard the phone ringing. I looked around for him. Where was he? Where was Papa? I had called him Papa ever since the first grandchild named him Papa. Before that, I called him Dad when our kids were growing up. And before that, I called h im Ed.

I didn’t see him in the living room, sleeping on the couch where he had been sleeping the past few months, but I heard my one daughter, El, in the kitchen on the phone. She sounded as if she was crying or screaming. I couldn’t tell. I used the control button to lower the leg rest of the chair to the floor. I reached for my walker that should have been beside my chair and realized that it was not there. It was across the room by the couch where Papa usually slept.

I knew I shouldn’t have tried crossing the room to my walker by myself, but I did. I needed to understand why El was crying or screaming on the phone. The walker was becoming more and more difficult to push. I was so unsteady and oftentimes dizzy. I only told Papa. No one else knew. I managed to walk with it through the living room, the dining room and into the kitchen. I looked at El.

Then I remembered. Papa hadn’t been at home for the last seven days. He had been in the hospital. I looked at El again. She looked back. I knew what I never wanted to know.

El said, We’ve got to pick up Ann and get to the hospital. El hung up the phone while tossing a scarf around my neck, telling me how cold it was outside.

I did remember the cold. It was January. Now I also remembered that I had been at the hospital in the afternoon to see Papa. I remembered that I told him I didn’t want him to leave us, to leave me, that he couldn’t leave me to go to heaven. Or was that the other day I told him that? I couldn’t remember. But I did remember combing his hair in the hospital.

Ann was with me that day in Papa’s hospital room. He was lying in bed. I asked Ann to comb his hair. Instead, she took the comb from his nightstand, handed it to me, and helped me to the side of his bed. I combed his hair. Lately, I was always combing his hair because he had a new barber who caused a cowlick at the top of his head. I also combed his hair because it was one of the things I could still do. Papa knew that.

Don’t leave us, I said.

I’m not leaving you, he responded, propped up in the hospital bed.

Please don’t leave me, I whispered.

I’ll never leave you, he responded.

Ann, still in the room by the window pretending to read get well cards, interrupted.

Okay, no one is leaving anyone except for me to take Mom down to the cafeteria to get some lunch. Is that alright, Dad? Ann asked.

Yes, I’ll be fine, and I’ll be here when you get back. He smiled, lifting his hand hooked to all of the IV lines. I’m not going anywhere.

Now late this night, I stood before El in the kitchen, my hands shaking on the handles of the walker.

El pulled one of my winter snow jackets from the closet and stuffed my arthritic arms into it. She carefully helped me down the kitchen step into the garage and then into the new car that Papa had recently bought. A nice car, a 2008 Impala. Papa always wanted a new Impala. But we held off for as long as we could with our 1988 Oldsmobile. I always asked him, Why do we need a new car? He never disagreed with me, but he did like to buy new cars.

The garage door seemed stuck. It was barely opening. El muttered something. I thought it sounded like, This damn old garage door. Did she really say damn or was I imagining that? Papa and I never swore. After she got out of the Impala to manually lift the door, I searched through the console for a piece of gum. I knew I needed to chew something other than my lower lip. My lower lip had become so raw the past seven days. I didn’t know why Papa had to leave me. Why couldn’t he have waited for me?

El returned to the driver’s seat, put the car into reverse, and rapidly exited the garage and driveway, turning down the street. I noticed that the lights inside most of the houses were turned off, but some still had their outside Christmas lights on. One house looked very pretty with twinkling small white lights on the bare branches of the trees.

El didn’t talk, and neither did I. She seemed to be concentrating on driving. I chewed my gum and looked out the window. I saw the reflection of my face in the window and imagined Papa’s face beside mine. I wondered if I would be able to say good-bye, to hold his hand, to tell him how much I loved him.

I started remembering when, earlier that day, they sat us in the waiting room outside the cardiopulmonary critical care unit. I remembered that woman. She was telling us about hospice, that Papa would not be able to come home, that he would need to go into hospice after they pulled out the catheter with the balloon that was keeping the blood flowing through his arteries.

They didn’t think I knew what hospice was, but I did. My son-in-law had been in hospice. He later died. They were also talking about me. They were discussing whether I would be able to live by myself after Papa was in hospice. I knew what they were saying. But they didn’t think I knew what they were saying. I always knew what everyone was saying. That was some sort of blessing I had although I never knew if it was really a blessing.

El startled me when she screeched the tires, taking a hard right turn into Ann’s driveway. Ann was standing outside, a hood over her head. She looked as if she was blowing her nose. Ann quickly jumped into the backseat. She was crying.

I turned my head the best I could toward the backseat.

Why are you crying, Annie?

Ann didn’t answer. El backed out of the driveway and again concentrated on driving. No one spoke.

I wanted to tell them that it was okay if they told me what was going on. I could handle it. Even though we had been married 61 years, I would be okay by myself. At least, I would tell them that. After 61 years, I didn’t know if anyone would be okay. But I would make it. Make it to where? I didn’t know the answer to that. But I would make it.

Ann kept sniffling in the backseat the next ten minutes to the hospital. They dropped me off at the front door. Ann waited with me while El parked the car in the hospital garage. I sensed the urgency when El met us at the front door, but my legs had not been working too well lately, and we had to take our time with me pushing the walker through the hospital corridors to the elevator.

I probably should have asked them to take me in a hospital wheelchair, but I still felt a certain dignity in being able to walk even if it was with my walker. After we stepped out of the elevator onto the 12th floor, it was an even slower walk to the cardiopulmonary critical care unit, a very slow walk, maybe so slow because I did not want to know what I already knew.

Ann sniffled the whole way, and I thought maybe it was a mistake that I had not suggested that we stop somewhere to buy her a box of tissues.

The same waiting room outside the unit where we had talked earlier with the hospice woman was full of people. My son, his wife, and his sons. Some people in green scrubs. A man in a white doctor’s jacket. My son and grandsons were crying.

My daughter-in-law, Lacey, was the first to hug me.

Lacey said, Gram, are you okay?

I would like to see Papa, I said. I need to talk with him.

The waiting room went silent. It confirmed what I already knew.

Timmy, my son’s oldest son, approached me. I stopped here at 11:00. I asked Papa whether he ever thought about being in Florida. Papa said, ‘Yes,’ and then he died. It was peaceful. I was holding his hand.

Even though I knew before Timmy told me, those were hard words to understand, maybe not so much to understand but to comprehend. He was the only man I had ever known. He was my husband, he was the father of my children, he was the grandfather of my grandchildren, and he was the great grandfather of our new great grandson. He was my life.

Gram, let me help you sit down, Lacey said, gently pulling my arm toward a chair. I remained standing. I didn’t want to sit down.

I want to see him, I said. I turned to El.

El helped me with the walker through the secured doors into the critical care unit. It seemed to take us hours to pass the nurses’ central desk area to the far corner where Papa was. I knew, though, that it only took a few seconds. I could see the outline of Papa’s feet covered by a blanket. The room was dimmed.

We slowly walked into the room. He was lying there, not breathing. I wanted to hold his hand. I wasn’t sure whether I should. El seemed to read my mind.

Mom, you can hold his hand, El said. I trusted her because El, a nurse, worked in hospitals.

I should hold his hand? I asked her.

Yes, El said.

El put her arm around my shoulders and helped me over to the side of the bed. El kept her arm around my shoulders as she took my left hand from the walker and placed it in his left hand. His hand was still warm.

I looked at him. I could not believe that he was not breathing. I wanted to say, Papa, Dad, Ed! Wake up! I wanted to say a lot more, too, but I didn’t.

I simply said, I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye.

El said that Papa smiled when I placed my hand in his. El, the nurse who had worked on non-resuscitate units for years, said she had never seen that before.

Maybe we did say good-bye that night. Then again, maybe we would never say good-bye.

Two

I didn’t remember much that night after holding Papa’s hand. I vaguely remembered El dropping off Ann and later El tucking me into the electric lift chair with my favorite blankets. I also remembered El turning off the TV. I told her to turn it back on, that I wanted it on while I slept. I did not want the silence. Besides, Papa and I always listened to Fox News, and Bill O’Reilly would be on a repeat show.

As I lay on my electric chair lift, I saw the 8 x 10 picture of Papa in his Army uniform. That was when I called him Ed.

Gus had asked me out to go to a church dance. I didn’t really like Gus, but my mother encouraged me to go. She said I needed to meet people. I went reluctantly with Gus. Ed was at the dance with Sarah. Ed offered all of us a ride home from the dance. Ed had a new 1946 Ford Coupe. Sarah sat in the front with Ed. I sat with Gus in the backseat. Ed decided to first drop off Gus. Then he dropped off Sarah. He dropped me off last.

I went to church the next morning. I saw Ed singing in the tenor section of the choir. He was five years older than me, so I didn’t know him in high school, but I did know him from the neighborhood. He was good-looking then, but now so handsome, at least six feet tall, wavy, thick, dark hair. Although he had not talked about anything the night before, I assumed he must have been discharged from the Army. I knew he had been away for four years. I tried not to stare at him. He must have caught me, though, because for a second during The Battle Hymn of the Republic, he looked directly at me. I immediately looked down at the hymnal I was holding, not daring to look up again. But I heard his voice. I lip-synched the words. I was never a singer.

I walked slowly home from church. My mom had not been feeling good. My dad was an alcoholic, hadn’t been home since Friday night, and, if he was at home, I didn’t know what his mood would be. I dreaded returning home to my dad.

I was also overdressed for such a hot day in July. After graduation from high school in June, I was lucky to obtain a job at Pomeroy’s, the only department store in our town. The one benefit they offered was free nylon stockings. Nylon stockings during World War II and still now, one year later, were rare and precious. So, even though it was hot and it was July, I was wearing my nylon stockings. The rest of my clothes were homemade. My mom was an excellent seamstress. I prayed in church that morning that she would start feeling better. I missed her taking two steps at a time up the stairs to the second floor. I also worried about my two younger sisters and my younger brother. I tried to help my mother with my sisters and brother, but it was so hard during high school when my mother pushed me to keep up my grades. Now it was hard to help because of my full time job at Pomeroy’s. Today, though, I would help her.

Lost in my thoughts near the intersection of State Street and 19th Avenue, I was startled when a horn beeped. I stumbled on the sidewalk, my heel turning over. I felt the stocking on my left leg doing a run through the nylon.

It was Ed. He leaned over the passenger seat in the 1946 Ford Coupe and yelled, Can I take you to Hershey Park today?

I first looked down at my leg to see how bad the nylon run was. I had never been vain, but, for some reason, I didn’t want Ed to see a run in the nylon. The run was on the inside of my leg. He couldn’t see it.

I’ll have to ask my mother when I get home, I responded.

I’ll call you, Ed said. He sped away.

I walked home even more slowly, turning onto 19th Avenue toward my house. I held my Bible in my hands. I wondered which scripture might help me. I didn’t know. I quickened my pace past Mr. Jones’ house. He was known for exposing himself. I never liked that.

As I