The White Coin Purse: Her Treasure Sleeps in Her Tiny White Coin Purse …Until She Gets Alzheimer's

By Connie Lemonde

The outcome of Camille's teen-age pregnancy follows her
for decades. It negatively affects her relationship with her father
and the soldier she loves dearly. When she gets the news that he is
"Missing in Action," she becomes very depressed and has a near-
fatal accident that, she believes, was prevented by her deceased
mother. This brings her hope. Alone, and through times that
change drastically, she succeeds at building a new and fulfilling life.
Then Alzheimer's strikes, and she is left with nothing but
"on and off" memories--and her tiny white purse where she has
been safeguarding a very precious treasure for almost fifty years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796078152

Book preview

ONE

RHODE ISLAND

Nursing Home

After delivering flowers to a patient, I was about to leave Rosewood Nursing Home when a nurse asked me to deliver a message to the Alzheimer’s unit supervisor on the 2nd floor.

As I got off the elevator, I noticed a thin, somewhat short woman walking towards me. Her quick gait, smooth, round face, and slightly graying hair, tapered at the neckline and permed into short curls indicated to me that she must be a visitor also. She wore a light blue blouse over Navy pants that seemed a little too loose for her tiny body; and she was clutching a mini, white coin purse, hanging from a gold chain around her neck, as if her life depended on it. The minute she reached me, she touched my handbag and said something so softly that I could hardly hear her.

I’m sorry. I didn’t understand, I said, as I bent into the little woman’s space and listened intently.

I’m…I don’t remember… she said, as tears formed in her big hazel eyes, shadowed by crinkled eyebrows, yearning for an answer.

She’s an Alzheimer’s patient? I could hardly believe it; but here she stood before me, confused, and crying for identity. As I leaned and took her free hand, which felt cold and dry, she looked straight at me and then said softly, Camille?

Shivers went through my whole body, and I felt like pressing her against me and comforting her. Yes, you are Camille, I answered, as I read the small name plate pinned on her blouse. Then I pointed to her purse and remarked, What a lovely pocketbook. Immediately, she pulled it behind her back.

Simultaneously, a tall, plump, male aide with narrow, brown eyes and a head full of wavy, light-brown hair hanging to his shoulders, trotted towards us. It’s time for supper, he said, as he gently drew her hand from mine. I hope she didn’t bother you.

Not at all, I said, as I got up and looked directly at Camille, whose eyes met mine. At that moment, a flicker of light pushed away the pain in her eyes, and she was back in the present. I’m hungry, she mumbled, and looked up at the aide. Chicken today?

He winked at me. Yes. I can smell it from here. Let’s go.

The little lady whirled around, grabbed his hand, and waved goodbye.

I waved back and hurried to my car.

For days, I could not get Camille out of my mind. I kept thinking of the moment that we met and how I sensed something different–or special–about her. Was it her eyes, pleading for identity? How forcefully she hung on to the purse? A kind of aura? I had no answer.

A week later, I had to go to Rosewood again, and as I was chatting with Regina, the full-bosomed, cheerful, first-floor nurse, Harry from the Alzheimer’s section walked by. He recognized me and waved. I excused myself and hurried to him. How is Camille?

She’s fine, he answered, as he kept trotting along. Sometimes a little too friendly with strangers.

I don’t know why, but I just felt that she’s lonely, or something.

A lot of our patients are; but we do our best to keep them active and involved.

Although his slightly gritty voice sounded kind, his features remained serious, detached. I guess that’s the way it has to be around here, I thought–and immediately remarked, This place has a great reputation caring for Alzheimer’s patients.

Thanks to a very good staff, he said, as he increased his pace.

Does she ever have company? I asked, as I did my best to keep up with him.

She did when she came in a couple years ago. Lately I haven’t seen any visitors—at least not when I work in this section. Well, I have to go. He skirted away around a corner, reminding me of my kids playing hide-and-seek.

Nice seeing you, too, I grumbled in the empty hallway, and started toward the exit. When I got outside, I stopped to take a few deep breaths of the March air. It was invigorating and cool–as cool as Camille’s palm, I thought, remembering the touch of her hand the week before. Why do I feel like this? Why can’t this woman leave my mind? I could almost see her eyes again… searching for identity…and then, the flash of light that pierced through her doubt and returned her to hunger and the desire for a chicken dinner.

I have to find out! I turned back, bumped into the door and almost fell on my way to the nurses’ station.

When I finally got there, a young nurse, with close-cropped, black curly hair, smooth, dark brown skin, and chestnut, spirited eyes, smiled and looked up from the paperwork on her desk. May I help you?

"I have a question. Is it possible for me to visit someone here, once in a while? I’m not related to her, but I met her recently, and today I was told that she never has company.

Of course. We have several volunteers who do that for those who never…or very seldom…have visitors. She turned away to answer an aide’s inquiry. A few minutes later she got back to me. Would you like to become a volunteer?

I guess so…if that’s what it takes.

Do you have anyone in mind? she asked, as she picked up the telephone that kept ringing.

As I waited for her conversation to end, I went through my favorite tension breaker: finger-dancing on any surface that’s available at the time. Finally, she closed the phone. In fact, I do have someone in mind, I started quickly. A few weeks ago, I met one of your patients in the hallway. Her name is Camille.

Oh yes. Camille Cote. She does have a way of approaching people who go into that special area. She picked up a stack of papers on the desk and signaled a nurse to come get them.

I was ready to snap at her inattention, but realized immediately how stupid that would be. It wasn’t her fault that she was so busy; so I quieted my thought…and continued, Someone told me that she doesn’t have company. Is that true?

Finally she rose and walked straight and confidently to the counter. I’m sorry about all the interruptions, she said, sounding truly apologetic. Cam has no family here. Her only sister, Laura, lives in California and she’s too sick to come.

Doesn’t she have friends? I asked, as I noticed her name plate: Betty Coleman, Supervisor.

Oh yes. In fact, it’s her best friend, Cathy, who signed her in two years ago. She was very devoted to Cam–visited several times a week. Eight months ago, she came in with her new husband, a handsome Army doctor, who was deployed to the US Army hospital in Germany for two years, at least. Her eyes brightened when she talked about her husband, but they were full of tears when she said that she’d be away from Camille for so long. She asked if she could call me regularly to see how Cam was doing–and if she needed anything. Of course, I told her I’d be glad to keep her informed.

Good heavens! Does Cam understand why she’s not coming anymore?

"Not really. We told her, but it didn’t sink in completely. Sometimes she mentions her name and she seems to be expecting her; but it doesn’t last long. There are even times when she calls me Cathy. She hasn’t seen her for a while now. She probably wouldn’t recognize her. It’s hard to tell."

This information was starting to depress me. What about other friends?

Betty waved to a passerby and answered, At first there were other visitors, but they eventually stopped coming. That happens a lot when people realize that the patient doesn’t recognize them, or that they can’t have a regular conversation. Unfortunately, that’s just the way it is.

Such aloneness had never entered my mind. I felt as if a clamp was squeezing my heart. How dreadful!

I understand how you feel, Betty empathized. I felt the same way when I started to work here and became aware of the loneliness that some experience–because they never have visitors. Most of our patients don’t realize what’s happening–so it’s not a problem. For some who are still somewhat aware, however, it’s extremely difficult. We do the best we can to keep them active and involved. Now I accept it, but I’ll never get used to it."

The phone rang. She answered it, buzzed someone, and came back. I’m sorry, she apologized once more. If you want to visit her, I’m sure it can be arranged. You do understand, don’t you that she won’t be great company? There are moments when she’ll be totally lost; times when she won’t remember what she did earlier in the day, but will recall an incident in her childhood; days when she’ll chat with you; then, without notice, she’ll be angry for reasons known only to her. If you take these things personally, it can be very upsetting.

Well, I must admit, I never, ever thought of someone being so…lost…or confused…Unless, of course, they were on some kind of medication…or were high on street drugs.

She paused and looked straight at me. Unfortunately, there’s no cure for this. Things will only get worse. Maybe you should go home and think it over.

Whether it was doubt about my capability to handle such situations that I saw in her penetrating eyes–or simply caution–I don’t know, but it did make me hesitate; only for a moment, however, as I soon realized that she had actually reinforced my need to know this woman better, and to help her. From the day that I met Camille, I explained, I felt very close to her. I don’t know why, but she’s been on my mind ever since. Now that I know more about her, I really want to do this. I’m sure that I can handle it.

I’m happy to hear that. Whenever I see her–and the others who never have visitors–I really feel sorry for them. We take good care of them, of course; but for those who are still aware enough to remember some friends or family, there’s nothing like a visit from them to bring some sunshine in their days. So I’m always glad to see someone, such as you, who come to visit such patients.

When I first stepped into this building to deliver flowers, I explained, "I certainly never expected to become so familiar and so involved with this place. I always marvel at the way things develop in our life.

Betty smiled. Ditto! she remarked, When I finally became a nurse, my plan was to work in a school, because I love kids. How I got here is a long story, but today I’m really happy here. It’s interesting how we do the best we can to plan our life, but our life has other plans, and we end up in places we never expected. So be it! Anyhow, she repeated, just go to the Coordinator of Volunteers at the main office.

Thank you, I answered, as I left and hurried away to the office to arrange for visits to this woman who mystified me so much.

The First Visit

The following Thursday, accompanied by Nurse Betty, I went to see Camille. She explained that Cam’s Alzheimer’s was at a stage where she could still say short sentences. That could last a long time, or a very short one. The day will come, however, when she won’t be able to respond coherently to anything."

I understand, I assured her, as we got to Cam’s room and stopped for a moment. The door was open, and Betty assured me that it is always open, unless there’s a special reason to close it. We stopped and took a quick glance around the room that she shared with another patient. It was neat and orderly. Their small beds were facing each other, with a long interval in-between so that each person could be near a window. Both beds were covered with a quilted, polyester-cotton bedspread in a clover-green color that matched the floral pattern in the thick cushions of the wicker chairs.

Camille’s bedside table reflected her simple taste: a cream, hand-crocheted doily and two snapshots set in plain gold frames; one of her whole family; the others of her sister, her brother-in-law, and a friend, who had penned at our graduation party on the picture.

Her roommate’s table, on the other hand, was like a store shelf with several photos, two tiny Victorian-style boxes, small plastic statues of Jesus, St. Jude, the Blessed Virgin, and three angels.

My goodness! I chuckled, as I pointed to the religious items, It looks like that one’s not taking any chances!

Betty laughed. Those two are so different from one another. Statues wouldn’t work for Cam. Look at her now. She loves birds…real ones! She pointed to Cam who was tapping the window with her finger and