Writer’s Diary: Relearning an Old Lesson

Why must we learn the same lessons over and over? It’s true in life and true in art. Darn it.

Here’s the ever-so-basic writing lesson I relearned this week: Write a first draft. Put it in a drawer. Wait a week or so. Revisit it with new eyes.

You’d think I would have remembered such an elementary lesson after writing for the public since 1977. But I had lost that gem. Maybe I misplaced it because my years of freelancing were followed by steady assignments in newspapers, magazines, and advertising – where I learned to write fast and meet deadlines. Then, last March, when I found three writing contests I could enter for free, I ran amok and dashed off three entries in a fell swoop. I wrote headlong and e-mailed them in one evening of hyper-inspiration.

Yesterday, three months after I entered the contests, I pulled out the entries to share with my friend Liz Rhodebeck, an excellent writer, for critique. To my dismay, I read the first entry and found it choppy and hard to follow. Here and there I found confusion with my descriptions of bodies in motion. Worst of all (and inexcusable) was the fact that a character’s name suddenly changed in the story. Yeah…that might throw a reader. That mistake was a result of careless editing: I had changed the name every time but one. Had I simply used “Find and Replace,” I could have remedied the problem. But I was rushing along too fast for that sensible solution.

So today I rewrite…and swallow my pride. As a lesson to myself, and to any interested writer, below you’ll find the original bollixed essay (which appeared here as a blog post, in a slightly different form), followed by a rewrite. The revision isn’t perfect. We writers know that no work is ever perfect; we don’t finish anything so much as abandon it. But I think the rewrite flows better and makes more sense.

Too bad I can't re-enter the contest! Haste makes waste. May I never bollix up such a chance again.

Original, bollixed essay:

 

A Sad Privilege

By Gail Grenier

Eleanor is my mother-in-law. She’s 87 and has Alzheimer’s. The chatty, nosy woman I’ve known more than 40 years has become a bent, shuffling woman who lives in silence and violence.

In September 2013, her youngest child, Marilyn, died of cancer. We did not tell Eleanor.

Eleanor’s sister Mary Jane and brother Dennis drove three hours to attend Marilyn’s funeral . . . and to visit their sister. When they saw her, Mary Jane and Dennis got right in Eleanor’s face, closer than I ever dared. Dennis murmured some Romanian words –sounds from their days growing up with immigrant parents. Mary Jane kept saying “Hi!” with a smile and eyebrows raised . . . as you’d speak to an adored child. They kept getting in her space, trying to break through the fog.

Finally Eleanor grabbed one hand from Dennis and one hand from Mary Jane. Without a word, she placed their hands together, one on the other, then set her own hand on top.

Dennis and Mary Jane had broken through the fog. It was only a moment of lucidity, but it was beautiful. I consider it a miracle.

With Marilyn gone, my husband, Mike, became the family member most involved with Eleanor’s care, so we moved her to a facility ten minutes away from our home. We tried to get her into a place even closer, but they wouldn’t accept her because she needs psychotropic drugs to control her aggression; they prefer a no-drug approach.

We had trepidation on moving day. I drove and Mike sat in the back seat with his mother. All the way from the old home to the new home, she loudly repeated “Menday menday menday.” She babbled about how her mother got cheated. “They wouldn’t give her a dollar.” Then it was a dime. Finally, a penny. Then, again, “Menday . . .”

After an initial period of anger, she adjusted. The new doctor changed her meds and Lenora became less aggressive. She remained silent, with few smiles.

Sometimes Mike and I stop by separately, sometimes together. We have become her team. Often when I visit, I “speak” to Marilyn. I clip Eleanor’s nails or put on fingernail polish. In my mind I say, “What do you think, Marilyn?” I re-arrange the clothing in Eleanor’s closet and dresser, like Marilyn used to do. Sadly, I removed all the colorful undies that Marilyn had bought for her mother, who wears only Depends now.

Eleanor can still walk laps through the hallways at Clare Bridge. But she falls. Or she lashes out – hitting, punching, pushing, pulling hair, biting, kicking. She has to eat alone because the other residents are afraid of her.

The doc adjusted her medicine, adjusted it again. Eleanor’s mood improved but her legs weakened.

When we visit, she rarely looks at us. Once in a while – maybe every few weeks – I get a smile for no reason. It feels like winning a prize.

Her meds (or something) make her so shaky that she can hardly feed herself. But she’s walking the halls more and more.

A growth on Eleanor’s left cheek grew huge. Mike and I double-teamed her and took her to the dermatologist’s office. Eleanor was a compliant car-traveler but getting her in and out of the vehicle was a two or three-person job. During transitions, she seemed scared. Again, loudly: “Menday menday menday.” She bumped her head on the top of the door frame and looked terrified, as if she’d been attacked. She hollered something incoherent.

But in the doctor’s office, she became a lamb. “Eighty-seven years of conditioning,” I said to Mike, “She knows to behave for a doctor.” The doc shaved off the growth on Eleanor’s face, and said they would send it to the lab for analysis.

It was a malignant spindle cell neoplasm. That meant three trips to a surgeon: consultation, surgery, staple removal. Each trip became another exercise in double-teaming, complicated by bitter cold, clunky wheelchair machinations, and abject terror on Eleanor’s part.

The day of surgery, I expected Eleanor to be a lamb once again. It started well. The doctor said, “How are you?” and Eleanor answered, “Same.”

I looked at Mike with astonishment: a sensible rejoinder! A miracle!

That was the end of our luck. When the doctor gave Eleanor anesthesia injections, Eleanor swore at her. The doc smiled and said, “If you can’t take it, you shouldn’t be in this profession.”

We waited while the cheek got numb. I clipped Eleanor’s nails (so she wouldn’t pick at the wound). She freaked out and started yelling. I moved away.

Mike usually stays distant; he believes his mother fears him. She usually swears at him. Gamely he explains, “I hope she doesn’t know who I am.” This day it seemed I’d joined her list of rotten people.

The nurse took Eleanor away for surgery. But in a blink, Eleanor returned. “She wouldn’t sit still,” explained the nurse. “Maybe if you walk with her, she’ll calm down.”

Eleanor seemed more tired, less belligerent. I took her hand and we walked up and down the hall. She peeked into empty examination rooms – an echo of her old, nosy self. Encouraging.

When we shuffled past her own examination room, we saw Mike sitting, attending to work texts (he’s a CPA and this was tax season). Every time we passed Mike, I said, “It’s MIKE!”

We performed this ritual three, maybe four times. Finally I led her into the room where Mike sat. Acting on impulse, still holding her hand, I leaned down and kissed Mike on the lips. I could see he was startled. I’d given him a love-attack with no warning. I thought my action might communicate something to Eleanor.

Without a second of hesitation after I finished kissing her son, Eleanor, still holding my hand, slowly leaned forward and downward.

This time, Mike could see the love-attack approaching. He inclined his head for the kiss he saw coming, and she gave it to him – right on the lips. He started crying, looked like he didn’t know what to do, then rose.

He put his arms around his mother. She put her arms around him. They stood together, silently, for a long minute.

Like the hand-meld with her brother and sister last September, this love-attack was only a moment of lucidity. It passed quickly – but I consider it another small miracle.

I never expect the miracles: the sudden brief smile, the sensible rejoinder, the touch of love. But oh do I appreciate them. They fuel me.

Eleanor’s mother had Alzheimer’s and died at age 94. Romanians are tough. Eleanor could be riding the ups and downs of this disease for another seven years or so. I pray to Eleanor’s husband and daughter in heaven to beckon her.

My mother died young, at age 48, in a car accident. I could never be there for her in her old age because she never got old. It’s a sad privilege to care for Eleanor. When I look at her, I see myself dressed in another skin. I pray there is someone to give me love if I ever become “unlovable.”

Rewrite:

A Sad Privilege

By Gail Grenier

The chatty, nosy woman I’ve known more than forty years has become a bent, shuffling woman who lives in silence and violence. On her bad days, she lashes out – hitting, punching, pushing, biting, kicking, scratching, pinching, pulling hair.

Most of her days are bad days.

But she has good days with small miracles that feel big. I’m here to tell you about some of those small miracles.

If I introduced you to her, I’d tell you that her name is Eleanor. But she doesn’t know that anymore. Alzheimer’s has taken her mind and her dignity. She lives in a group home where aides dress her, undress her, wash her, help her to the toilet. She wears adult diapers. She eats with her hands.

She is my mother-in-law, but she wouldn’t know that anymore. When she was 84, she still lived in her own home and drove her own car. We called her “forgetful.” After she had a mini-stroke, she slipped down a steep slide. By age 86, she was more than forgetful; she was lost to us. She no longer knew my husband, Mike, the oldest of her five children. She no longer knew Marilyn, her youngest child and only daughter. Marilyn had been fighting cancer for years, but Eleanor wouldn't know that anymore.

When the horrible thing happened last September, we didn’t tell Eleanor. What would have been the point? It may not have been the right decision, but Mike and I chose not to tell his mother that Marilyn had died of cancer.

Yet it was Marilyn’s death that brought the first little miracle.

Eleanor’s sister Mary Jane and brother Dennis drove three hours from Illinois to attend Marilyn’s funeral . . . and to visit their sister. I went with them to the home. They walked the halls with their big sis. Eleanor, tiny and bent, looked like an injured sparrow, shuffling between them. Then they sat for a while. I watched as Mary Jane and Dennis got right in Eleanor’s face, closer than I had ever dared. I was amazed at their courage and realized that I must have been afraid to draw so near to her.

Dennis murmured some Romanian words – sounds from their days growing up with immigrant parents. Mary Jane kept saying “Hi!” with a smile and eyebrows raised . . . as you’d speak to an adored child. They kept their faces about five inches from Eleanor’s, trying to break through the fog.

Finally Eleanor stirred. She still sat bent and looked downward, but she moved. She slowly extended her bony, shaking fingers. She grabbed one hand from Dennis and one hand from Mary Jane. Without a word, she placed their hands together, one on the other, then set her own hand on top.

Dennis and Mary Jane had broken through the fog. It was only a moment of lucidity, but it was beautiful. A miracle.

The next miracles were months in coming.

With Marilyn gone, Mike became the family member most involved with Eleanor’s well-being, so we found a dementia care residence closer to our house. We were terrified on moving day. I drove while Mike sat in the back seat with his mom. All the way from her old home to her new one, she loudly repeated “Menday menday menday.” We wondered if it was a Romanian word.

Eleanor’s life in her new place has become a dance of agitation followed by her doctor’s adjusting her medication, followed by a period of calmness, then more agitation. “Agitation” is the word the staff uses. I’d call it anger coupled with violent behaviors.

Mike and I have become her team. On good days, I cut Eleanor’s hair, trim her eyebrows, clip her nails or apply fingernail polish. In my mind I “speak” to Marilyn and ask, “What do you think, Marilyn? How am I doing?”

When we visit, Eleanor rarely looks at us. Once in a while – maybe every few weeks – I get a smile for no reason. The smiles feel like little miracles. It’s surprising to me how I hang on them.

Last winter, a suspicious growth suddenly grew huge on Eleanor’s face. Mike and I took her to the dermatologist’s office. She was a compliant car-traveler, but getting her in and out of the vehicle was a two or three-person job. During transitions, she looked terrified. Again, loudly, she cried “Menday menday menday.”

But in the doctor’s office, Eleanor became a lamb. “Eighty-seven years of conditioning,” I said to Mike, “She knows to behave for someone with a stethoscope.” The doc shaved off the growth on Eleanor’s face and sent it to a lab for analysis.

Turns out that the growth was leiomyosarcoma, a rare cancer. That meant three trips to a surgeon: first for consultation, then surgery, then staple removal. Each trip became another exercise in double-teaming, complicated by bitter cold ice and snow, clunky wheelchair machinations, and abject terror on Eleanor’s part.

The day of surgery, I expected Eleanor to be a lamb once again. It started well. The doctor said, “How are you?” and Eleanor answered, “Same.”

I looked at Mike with astonishment: a sensible rejoinder! Another miracle!

That was the end of our luck. When the doctor administered anesthesia injections, Eleanor swore at her. The doc smiled and told us, “If you can’t take it, you shouldn’t be in this profession.”

We waited while Eleanor's cheek got numb. I clipped her nails so she couldn’t pick at the wound. She freaked out and started yelling, then backed me into a corner. I moved away - quickly.

Mike usually stays a few feet away from Eleanor because he believes his mother fears him. She usually swears at him. Gamely he explains, “I hope she doesn’t know who I am.” This day it seemed I’d joined her list of rotten people.

The nurse took Mike’s mom away for surgery. But in a blink, Eleanor returned. “She wouldn’t sit still,” explained the nurse. “Maybe if you walk with her, she’ll calm down.”

Eleanor suddenly seemed more tired, less belligerent. I took her hand and we walked up and down the hall. She peeked into empty examination rooms – an echo of her old, nosy self. I felt encouraged.

Each time she shuffled past her own examination room, we both looked in at Mike, who was sitting inside and attending to work texts (he’s a CPA and it was tax season). Every time we paused there, I said, “It’s MIKE!” as if it were a wonderful surprise.

We performed this ritual three, maybe four times. Finally I led Mike's mother into the room where he sat. Acting on inspiration, and still holding Eleanor's hand, I leaned down and kissed Mike on the lips. I could see he was startled. I’d given him a love-attack with no warning. I thought my action might communicate something – something – to Eleanor.

Without a second of hesitation after I finished kissing her son, Eleanor, still holding my hand, slowly leaned forward and downward.

This time, Mike could see the love-attack approaching. He inclined his head for the kiss he saw coming, and she gave it to him – right on the lips.

Mike started crying, looked like he didn’t know what to do, then rose. He put his arms around his mother. She put her arms around him. They stood together, silently, for a long minute.

Like the hand-meld with her brother and sister last September, Eleanor’s love-attack was only an instant of lucidity. It passed quickly – but I consider it another small miracle.

I never expect the miracles: the sudden brief smile, the sensible rejoinder, the touch of love. But oh do I appreciate them. They fuel me.

Eleanor’s mother had dementia and died at age 94. Romanians are tough. Eleanor could be riding the ups and downs of this disease for another seven years or so. I pray that God might take her. I pray to Eleanor's husband and daughter in heaven, that they might beckon her.

My mother died young, at age 48, in a car accident. I could not be there for her in her old age because she never got old. It’s a sad privilege to care for Eleanor. When I look at her, I see myself dressed in another skin. I pray there is someone to give me love if I ever become “unlovable.”