Abraham Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Copyright 1943 Maslow.
Well, I guess when you get to the laundry things are properly positioned on Abraham Maslow’s Heirarchy of Needs. It has been chilly up here, and I did not sweat much over the last ten days, but it still was time to cycle the clothes.
I could have just replaced them, like I did for Raven yesterday. ON the way back to the Bluffs to set up his room with a rocking chair, television and a couple pictures to remind him of who he was, I stopped at Momentum, the discount place up town. I got him three sets of sweats, brand new. The shirts are all emblazoned “Lake Michigan: Unsalted.”
I did not see any fashion sense at The Bluffs on the admission trip, so I opted to make him a consistent nursing home trendsetter.
Let me back up to yesterday morning, just in case you are following this dis-jointed narrative. I was awake at four, give or take a couple minutes, and took a smoke in the garage. Spike wanted to be up at six so he could run over at the College- more complexity, since Annook cleaned out the clock-alarm in the guest room on her massive purge of the estate.
After I crushed the butt out on the cement floor- there being no flat space open for an astray in the chaos- I decided to start the coffee and deal with the business at hand. I will clean the place up before I go even if I am the next one back, I swear.
At the stroke of six I got the wake-up call to Spike by turning up the radio and lights in the kitchen. I didn’t hear anything stirring immediately, so I shouted toward the now un-haunted master suite to ask if he was awake or not.
He said he was, and I took him at his word.
He ran and I typed, and at the appointed minute we swept into the apartment at Potemkin Village.
Big Mama was hard-down on the bed, totally out. I don’t know if she had slept at all that night- she was dressed and atop the covers. Raven was upright in his chair, seated by the glass door looking into space. He had no shoes and socks on, but was otherwise good-to-go. I jumped on that, and got the top to his track suit top on him, lickety-slit.
“Warm” is right there on the hierarchy of needs, I think.
I crammed his porkpie hat on his balding pate as Spike rummaged around in the closet and threw some stuff in a tote bag, we got him in his green outer jacket and out the door we went.
Well, sort of. Raven insisted on going into the bathroom. Dropped his sweats to his knees and was contemplating the Adult Undergarments when he shuddered a bit and I realized he had probably urinated.
Screw it, I thought. Get him out before we have to do the most awkward farewell of a lifetime. We managed to usher him away from his Sweetie, still asleep, and down the corridor to the elevator.
“63 and a wrap,” said Spike. I nodded and kept a firm grip on Raven’s upper arm.
We got him downstairs and into the police cruiser. I chattered away all the way down the hill, through town and around the Bay to The Bluffs. He was quite interactive, and was a little unwilling to go into the facility when I got parked. It was good to have Spike with me. We steered him with a little emphasis, and got him into a wheelchair in the lobby.
Spike stayed with Dad while I did paperwork with Former-Four-Inch-Heel Mary, the Admissions Director. She is from Lansing, by the way, before winding up here in the Northland. Not like the long road that went through New York City like Raven and Big Mama.
“Bright lights.” I observed, as I signed another of the two dozen commitment papers for my father.
“Not so much,” she replied. “But more than Alanson.”
We were in his assigned room, surveying what would be needed to make it more cozy as Raven’s new roost. He took the opportunity to bolt. I made the move to get him, but Donna didn’t seem phased. We caught up with him in the corridor and then walked around the facility with Raven leading the way, seeking the egress.
Donna didn’t seem alarmed by his wandering, which was a refreshing change from Potemkin Village.
Raven’s Roost. Kelly tells me they are going to move him on the Weekend to accommodate a couple who wish to be together. I said “fine.” Photo Socotra. Photography of the residents of The Bluffs is strictly prohibited under the provisions of HPPA. Photo Socotra.
The Bluffs is nice and clean and all the people friendly, even the challenged, or at least those of them who were able to move around on their own. Ravens last words of the morning, shortly after trying to push open the locked glass doors at the end of the ward were:
“I gotta get out of here.” I could not have been more sympathetic.
Donna steered us into the television room where there was one recliner and three comfy padded chairs. We sat down, and the instant Raven was out cold, we split.
We stopped at the house to compare notes, find a comfortable rocking chair to put by his bed and figure out which television to take for his semi-private room.
I wish I could say that the crush of those chores- that and getting him some clean clothing- precluded me from joining Spike at lunch with Big Mama, but I would be lying to you. My nerve ends were firing randomly, and I wanted a drink or six.
I settled on heating up a can of broth, having already consumed enough caffeine that morning for the south end of town.
Spike seemed to want to assess the situation independently, and since he got to leave once lunch was done, I was happy to give him the opportunity.
I got the new clothes to take out and loaded the police cruiser with the chair and television. Spike came back to retrieve his luggage and debrief the lunch with Big Mama.
“She seems to be all right,” he said. “She told me she woke up alone in a dark apartment but that she was OK with it.”
“It is useful to be unstuck in time,” I said. “I mean, in the hierarchy of needs, the good bye was some other time. I think we lucked out today, all of us.”
“We looked through the photo book of 1947-1968 after lunch,” he said, looking at the canister lights in the kithcen. “The shots of them back in the day are amazing. Raven has those Gregory Peck smoldering dark good looks and Big Mama’s sunny Irish beauty were too much.”
“Or just enough,” I said. “She might be happier without the Big Kid weighing her down.”
We hugged and he got in his piece-of-crap Camry and drove off for Metro Detroit Airport, four hours down the road, and the all-night flight to Phoenix and the two-hour drive up the hill to his home.
I opened a window, glad I could smoke in the house again. He has a marathon coming up, after all, and I have been trying to make everyone as happy as possible in the hierarchy of their needs.
Official Bluffs photo. Rights reserved and in accordance with HIPPA.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com