My Mad Pharmacy

As my mother’s dementia worsens, she is increasingly anxious and restless, unsure of what to do with herself. In her Memory Care unit throughout the day, residents participate in activities including balloon volleyball, masterpiece coloring, bingo, and sing alongs. They watch old movies and interact with therapy dogs.  

Getting my mother to participate at her program is hit and miss – but mostly miss.  Never much of a social person, my mom spent little time in small groups; she preferred reading novels and playing bridge, solitaire, or maj jong on her computer for hours, but she has lost the cognitive ability to do these things. She went along for a whirlwind of social engagements with my hyper-extroverted father when he was alive, but often spent her free time alone.

She’ll come out of her studio apartment, claiming that she needs help, but cannot articulate what she wants. When the staff suggests that she partake in an activity, she refuses, returning to her room, only to re-emerge ten minutes later with the same non-specific request for help.

I’ve been wracking my brain with how to engage her.  My mother owned and managed her own pharmacy for thirty years, and prior to that she helped out at my father’s pharmacy from the time they were married.  She had a strong work ethic and valued her skills as a small business person.  I started thinking about what “work” we could give my mother as an activity.  Initially, I came up with sorting beads by colors, and spoke to Tanya, the Memory Care director about setting my mom up.

Tanya gave her beads to sort and for a few times she did this, but then lost interest. Tanya brought in a basket of laundry for my mom to fold, but never much of a domestic type, my mom shunned this activity, as well.

And then I had my big idea. She could fill prescriptions.  Everyone in my family counted pills behind the pharmacy counter at one time or another in our lives. I envisioned her sorting and counting pills into vials.

At my neighborhood CVS, I bought candy – white and green Tic Tacs, white speckled Memento mints, gum pellets, and Skittles -- anything that vaguely resembled drugs. Then I stood in the Consultation line at the Pharmacy counter, waiting to ask an employee to sell me some empty pill vials and labels.

I looked at the stressed out woman pharmacist, and a officious, unsmiling pharmacy tech worker, and did not feel confident that they would help me out.  Then I spotted another pharmacy tech, a young man who was busy entering something into a computer. I asked him if he could speak with me for a minute. 

“Hi. I have a slightly unusual request,” I explained.  “I’d like some empty vials and some pharmacy labels.  My mom is 88 and she has dementia.  She used to own a pharmacy, and I was thinking that she might enjoy doing some work, preparing prescriptions.  They’d be fake, of course…”

He immediately nodded and said, “Yes, I get it.  My Uncle was a pharmacist and he had dementia, too.  We used M&Ms.“ 

“I just bought a big bag of Skittles; thanks so much,” I told him as he filled an empty bag with two dozen vials of all sizes, and gave me several pages of empty drug labels.  He didn’t charge me a cent. 

I stopped at The Container Store and bought some baskets to store the supply bottles and empty vials.

At home on the dining room table, I worked on setting up my mad pharmacy. I affixed labels to the vials, making up my own drug names and instructions.  The drugs included: Kindosec, Lovexxx, Funesium, Harmonesta, Sanfroidox, Pacifix,and  Nophonia. I particularly liked Nophonia (500 mg. Take by mouth  many times daily, preferably with snacks), a perfect pill for my mother, since she phones me more than a dozen times a day and I’ve taken to blocking her calls so that I don’t lose my mind.

When I told my wife about my big idea she was skeptical.  She didn’t think my mom would fall for candy pills, but I disagreed.  I talked to the Tanya at Memory Care, and explained what I had in mind for this activity. 

Tanya was game, and I dropped off the Pharmacy supplies.  The next day I received this email message from Tanya:

Hi Sue,

Shirley sorted medications this afternoon for over an hour. I told her how much I appreciated her help, told her we were short on med-techs, and asked if she could help us with this on a daily basis. It was funny because several people thought they were real meds. Maybe we can work up to twice a day if she’s up for it. Thanks for such a brilliant idea! I’m annoyed with myself because I didn’t think of it first!

Have a good weekend,


Tanya

Today, I asked my mom how her day went yesterday.  “What did you do?”

“Not much,” she answered.

“Did you help Tanya out,” I probed.  “She told me that you assisted them preparing medication for the residents.  How was that?”

“Oh yes, I did that,” my mom remembered.  “But they didn’t pay me.”

“Hum…well maybe they will pay you with good will,” I suggested.

She looked at me slightly confused. “It’s great that you helped them out,”I explained.  “I’m sure that they really appreciate your work.”

She smiled. But knowing my mom as I do, I’m certain she is still waiting for her paycheck.

The Big Time

At Dillon Beach all is grey, with ocean and cloud cover differentiated only by white trails of foam left from rolling waves. It's quiet except for the downpour, the wind whipping against the windows, and the sound of my voice reading poetry to the dogs to calm them down.

A muzzle rests on the toe of my aqua sneaker, a warm damp body lies against my hip. We’re holding out for a break in the weather, waiting for the sky to lighten before the sunset.

It's kind of working, this imposed serenity, just sitting when all the world's a swirl of crazy, absorbing a daily deluge of assaults from a malevolent regime, a relentless storm of hate and fear mongering.

To pledge resistance, yet seek refuge, resting in the safety of our living room, overlooking the sea, still I shudder at the confirmation today of an oilman bent on dismantling all environmental protections.

Such sacrilege, the water and land under siege by a band of white men with their moneyed interests.  Old news, perhaps, on this Pacific coastline, so long ago invaded by Sir Frances Drake, an English pirate who could not see his way through the fog (of greed?).

For 30 centuries, over 600 village tribes of Coastal Miwoks hunted salmon in surf nets. They gathered kelp and seaweed in woven baskets on the beach below, until the Spaniards and Russians decimated the native population by spreading disease, and enslaved them on inland ranchos.

Disbanded and diminished, the Coastal Miwok went unrecognized as a federal American Indian Tribe until the year 2000. Their tribe now numbers under 1000. This is the shameful history of the bluff my house sits upon.

In one of the Miwok creation myths, a silver fox sings of her loneliness in a prayer song and then meets the Coyote. “We will sing the world,” she proposes to this sacred trickster, and they create the world together by dancing and singing.  As they do so, the earth takes shape.

Emma Goldman was once admonished at a New York party that “it does not behoove an agitator to dance.” She explained, “I did not believe that a Cause which stood for a beautiful ideal, for anarchism, for release and freedom from conventions and prejudice, should demand the denial of life and joy.”

I consider her words carefully and imagine the Miwoks, wearing yellow flicker feather headbands, black and orange feather plumes and skirts, dancing on top of the giant blue and green schist rocks in our backyard. They call their celebrations the “Big Time.”  During the Coyote dance, one dancer, the Coyote, goes around making fun of the other dancers. He tries to make them misstep.

And so I take my solace in the Saturday Night Live sketches and the tripping up commentary of the comics, having a Big Time.  I will seek out laughter while knowing with dead seriousness, that we must do everything in our power to take back our country.

The rescue Sadie stretches and stands up; her front leg, injured when she was homeless on the streets of Oakland, is still healing from surgery. The Cavalier Picasso walks to the door, eager to head out despite the falling rain.

"How will we keep living our lives?" I ask the dogs as I rise up from the sofa.