Daisies

Daisies come in many varieties.  Spanish Daisies, Blue Daisies, Lazy Daisies, Shasta Daisies, Butter Daisies, African Daisies, Swan River Daisies, Sunshine Daisies; they all have their distinct qualities.  Some had shiny stems while others had fuzzy ones that felt like velvet on the tips of my fingers.  My grandmother had a plethora of knowledge about flowers.  She would share every bit of it with me as she tended to her little garden on the side of her home in Bathe Maine.  They have always been my favorite flower since I was a little girl.  She planted Shasta Daisies in a row, right next to the Dahlias and wild lilies.  Before her forgetfulness, she even planted a colony of happy daisies that lined the front of her house.

The house never had more than one owner, it has never been sold.  It was small, but never felt cramped.  The stairs spiraled up to my grandpa’s drawing room, and I could smell the strong scent of sharpies he used the closer to the top of the stairs I got.  Half-way up, on the right, was the stain glass window I touched every time I passed by.  Sometimes I’d sit there and look at the sun illuminate the reds, yellows, and browns.  My great grandfather grew up within those walls.  The fish plant was within walking distance.  That was where my grandmother worked.  The corner store that my great grandmother and grandfather owned was in the opposite direction just a few miles down the road.  The breeze in the summer time always smells light and salty, such a sweet and comforting smell to me.  Having a long bloodline of shipbuilders and sailors in my family lineage, I feel more comfortable in water than I do being surrounded by air.

Parkland Hospital had a heavy odor that made me feel nauseous as soon as it hit my nostrils.  Smelt like lasagna and sketchy sterile devices.  It was the hospital right down the street from her assisted living home and the hospital where I was born.  This summer I spent three days a week visiting with her and taking her downstairs for lunch or dinner.  She would tell me who gave her each one of her antique tea cups that lined up neatly on her wooden shelf.  I would choke back tears because I heard it every time I visited.  I choked back tears because I didn’t want her to know how much she was forgetting.  I would smile and nod and pretend I didn’t hear it before like a mother smiles and nods when their child tries to construct a sentence.  I enjoyed every word, but I didn’t want her to feel frustrated.  I had an encyclopedia of New England that I kept from my New England Cultures Class and she would open it up to Maine and read about Kennebunkport and famous fishing ports.  So that’s what we did, read and discuss.  But now, sitting in the visiting room, I couldn’t speak or read or talk or listen. I was just there.

As she came back from the MRI, the nurse asked if she had glasses.  Maybe she could see us better if she had them on.  People with Dementia take a much longer time recovering from a stroke than people without.  The Doctor tried to explain the grey and white matter in her brain and synapses and other brain physiology with his pen and the back of his clip board, but the scientific reason for this situation didn’t make sense from the mouth of a doctor or nurse or street vendor or a burrito.  All the same.  I don’t think scientifically and didn’t want to know what her brain lacked and what it didn’t lack compared to a healthy person.  The blankets on her bed resembled the ones in her guest room, white and woolen.  I went down the street to get her glasses.

There were several stacks of newspapers on her coffee table, but in the center was a colorful little vase of flowers.  I stuffed her glasses and the flowers into my canvas bag.  I felt the lump in my throat swelling until without any warning; I stumbled backwards into the wall and broke down.  I hoped she could see them.