Ever since that visit I've been meaning to go back. I've thought of her often, looked for a time and day and tried to organize my schedule around a trip to that part of L.A. so I could do it. I suppose had I wanted to badly enough I would've found a way.
But the truth is that, in equal parts, I wanted to and I didn't want to.
My visit with her last September was so unsettling, I didn't know how I would bear up doing it again - even though afterwards I was extremely glad I'd been there (and, ignoring all evidence to the contrary, hoping on some level, somewhere in her failing mind, she was too).
I went to see Paula for the second time yesterday. And I have pastrami and my longtime friend Ned to thank for it.
Ned and I have been trying to get together for awhile, and we finally did yesterday. Ned suggested we meet at Langer's Deli on 7th and Alvarado right across from MacArthur Park. Langer's is "home of the world's best pastrami sandwich", and for years Ned has told me how great it is. Come to find out he wasn't kidding. I imagine it's what pastrami in heaven must taste like.
Because Langer's is about a five minute drive from the facility where Paula lives, it was the perfect time to pay her a second visit.
Walking into the place brought back a rush of memories from the first visit. The pale blue hallway walls, the locked doors of the Alzheimer's wing, the vacant eyes of the patients staring at me from the doorways of their rooms. Some smiling at me. Some screaming.
The first time I was there, Paula was walking down the hallway on her own. This time, I had to speak with the head nurse, tell her who I was there to see, and then she had another nurse walk Paula out to me.
When I saw her, it was startling for a few reasons. Despite the fact it's only been about a year, Paula seemed much more fragile than the first time. Her hair, which on the first visit had been somewhat close to the way she used to wear it when we worked together, except a little grayer, was now long, stringy and not entirely clean looking. Where before she walked fairly normally, in fact even rapidly, she now moved in slow, shuffling steps on the linoleum floor.
When she saw me, she smiled and said, "How are ya?" The disarming thing about it was I could tell it had no connection to seeing me or greeting anyone. They were just words that didn't register any meaning for her as she spoke them. In the same way longtime coma patients will suddenly open their eyes or blink rapidly, Paula asking the question was a reflex from a life and mind long gone.
As before, I took her hand and we walked in circles around the ward. The only way I can explain the conversation Paula was having with herself, even though occasionally looking at me, is that she seemed to have more strength in her dementia. Her words were clear and articulate. She'd ask a question and wait for an answer. Then follow up with a comment that had no relation to either.
There's a wooden handrail that runs on the walls between each of the rooms. As we walked, occasionally Paula would stop, turn to the handrail, and not lean on it but hold it and talk to it for awhile as if it was the one thing in the place that could really understand her.
Then we'd move on.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating: the people working at her facility are angels on earth. I can't imagine coming to work everyday knowing nothing will get better. In fact knowing it will eventually go the other way. But day in and day out, that's what these caregivers do. And while in real life it's not as neat or sensitive as it's sometimes portrayed in the movies, it is remarkable to see the affection and attachment they have to their patients.
At one point in our stroll, we met up with the activity director at the facility. We spoke for a bit about the person Paula used to be, and maybe still was somewhere neither of us would ever see. The conversation then turned to Roy, the man Paula lived with for years and who bailed on her when she started going downhill. But not before ripping her off financially. Paula, Roy and I worked together at an agency, and even back then he was riding on her coattails. He was an account guy, but in reality he was a fraud - a talentless hack who specialized in ass kissing.
Roy is a story for another post. But I will say it's going to be an extremely bad day for him if we ever run into each other again.
On this visit I spent about 45 minutes with Paula. She got tired and agitated towards the end. A nurse had joined us in our walk, and Paula led us to the locked door of the ward. She wasn't trying to get out, and I don't even know if she understands the world she's left is on the other side. I hope not.
I've promised myself I won't let so much time go by between now and my next visit. It's a promise I'm going to do everything I can to keep. Paula won't know the difference if I do or not.
But I will.
