Part 1
With nothing on the calendar, Jadyne and I set off on BART to visit a woman that Jadyne worked with at the Turnabout Store. J’s friend had gone from “forgetful” to full on dementia, and she and her husband, who, with full possession of his faculties, moved to a senior center near Japantown, a neighborhood in San Francisco.
Three stops away I realized that I had forgotten my phone. Not a big deal. However, if I left it in our little Tesla, then the car wouldn’t lock, meaning that both the phone and the car would be vulnerable to theft. Because the phone functions as a key to the car, anyone could simply open the driver’s door and drive away, stealing both the phone and the car. We left BART at Ashby, crossed to the other side, and took the first train back to El Cerrito. Software on the Tesla folds the mirrors five seconds after the car is parked, so if we could see the car from the station and if we could see that the mirrors were folded, we would know that the phone was at home (no problem), and the car was safely locked.
We could see the car from the second floor of the station, but the mirrors were too small to see. I took my Sony camera out off my pocket, focussed on the car and enlarged the image on the back screen.
Voila! Mirrors are folded. Car is locked. Phone at home. No problem. Starting over.
We crossed to the other side of the tracks and took the next train to San Francisco, having trashed s half hour. But here’s the real story. Having forgotten my phone, I couldn’t take it out to look at Facebook, to read about Marjorie Taylor Greene, to see how the Dow Jones was moving, to photograph the guy with the dreads whose pants hadn’t made it past his thighs on the way north, to see how many steps I’d taken, to do anything other than sit quietly, look out the window, watch other passengers, notice the early morning sunshine play across the industrial buildings in west Oakland, sit quietly, and think about the good fortune that has followed me throughout my life. I had to do that instead.
We left BART at the Civic Center and headed the mile and a half walk on the streets of San Francisco to the Rhoda Goldman Plaza, the seven story senior center where they live. Her husbandf met us at the door, and before we could visit their apartment we had to go through an electronic check-in center, one at a time. The electronic kiosk asked me for my phone number, my reason for visit, whether I’d had been in touch with anyone who had been sick, and four or five other questions before scanning my face with its camera and printing a badge that would enable me to visit Toba and Jack.
We are imprisoned by technology, chained by and to our phones, to our laptops, to our devices. The kiosk at the Goldman Plaza has my image on file. It knows who I am. Having signed in once I probably wouldn’t have to sign in the next time I visit. Perhaps then it will call the elevator and punch the seventh floor. My forgetting is unimportant, and if I do, it will remember.
Same process with fewer questions when we left.
Part 2
Up the elevator to the seventh floor apartment, a very small space with a little table, a bed, a bathroom. We sat around the table, and she said, “I’m happy to meet your husband.” (We had met before; we had seen each other more than once). “What is your name?” “David, “Honey, let’s show them our apartment.” He responded, “We’re in it now.” She turned to me, “What is your name?” As the conversation continued, she frequently repeated what had already been said, as if it were the first time. She asked her husband again to show us their apartment, though we were sitting in it the whole time. I watched him. He answered her questions again and again, showing both love and patience as he responded in his quiet and understanding tone. When Jadyne talked about their shared time at the Turnabout store, she remembered the other volunteers; she remembered the grouchy guy who people respected but didn’t like. She remembered our house and garden. These were far away yesterdays. October 17th and our visit are a yesterday that she has already forgotten.
I’d never spent time with Alzheimer’s patients. My father, near the end of his life, was forgetful, but occasionally could understand and solve intricate problems. His memory was like a piece of Swiss cheese, intact in parts but with holes where stuff was missing.
He finds stimulation during meals with other residents, 75% of them Jewish, few of whom are San Franciscans. Many have come from far away places, moving there to be near their children. “Everyone has a story!" he said. “One woman survived the bombing of London. Another was an RAF officer, a third wounded in the Gulf War.”
They walked us down to the crafts room, showing us paintings that she had done. I was struck by a portrait of a woman. She had recreated details in her clothing, skillfully painted the face and hands. It was certainly better than anything I could do. Her landscapes revealed a similar flair; in one she created a line of trees in full foliage that were both colorful and abstract.
He can take care of her now, but Alzheimers is progressive. She’ll be eighty-one on her next birthday. He is a few years older.
We left the Plaza, stopped for Miso ramen in Japantown, then climbed back on BART for the forty-minute ride home. The mirrors on the Tesla were still folded, the phone on the bed where I had forgotten it hours earlier.