Dementia

Parfait Pink House

For several years, while growing up in Ottumwa, Iowa, I lived in a parfait pink unkempt two-story Queen Anne home with older twin male cousins, a germophobic brother, my maternal grandpa, and an abusive aunt. The house was the Charles Bukoski of homes.

Living rent-free with us were mice, roaches, centipedes, and pigeons. My mom’s sister Mae and my grandpa began raising my brother and me soon after mom died. I was a toddler, and my brother was six years old. My dad suffered from PTSD and he moved from Iowa to the east coast, where he lived in a medical dormitory for depressed military veterans. He gave my brother and me to Mae and grandpa as a departing gift; America’s 1950s electroshock treatment was cheaper than Thorazine.

Grampa’s nickname was Bump. I didn’t know his real name w

as Ray until I was twelve. He hit black ice on the road while driving on Christmas Eve of 1942, lost control of his Ford, and plowed into an elm tree. He limped away with a broken wrist and a cauliflower-shaped bump on his forehead. The irregular knot remained, as did his nickname.

Alma’s Nursing Home was right behind our house, and one of the home’s residents was grampa’s sister, my great-aunt Eve. Like grampa, auntie was originally a country gal who plucked chickens and castrated boars as fast as the next. So about once a week, she “escaped” the home and shuffled across the alley to our place. There was only one problem—most of her short-term memory was gnawed away by dementia.

She didn't recognize us during her visits— gramps could have been a TV weatherman for all auntie knew. During one of her short-lived escapes, she told me I was a cute little girl, but my feet were too big for my shoes. “Where are your tits? A girl your age should have them.” I never grew tits—not even one.

Aunt Eve died less than a year after moving into Alma’s. We moved into a different house with mice, roaches, centipedes, and pigeons three years later.

Nearly six million Americans have Alzheimer's or some form of dementia--it's part of life. Not the sweet details like meadow bluebells or silky black pups, but an ailment in life we often forget.