OH,  DARLING!

WASN’T TOMORROW WONDERFUL?

 

 

“Oh Darling!” She said with an excitement that momentarily consumed her breath. “Can you believe it?” She shivered with enthusiastic anticipation, with absolute ecstatic passion. “Wasn’t tomorrow wonderful?” Sparkly confetti fell around them. “Wasn’t it just extraordinary?”  Celebratory music played in the background.  Lights sparkled outside a full size window behind them. They were dancing on top of the world.  Big band music played softly in the background somewhere from far, far away. It had an added acid lounge beat taking it out of time. Making the music and the moment eternal as Mel Tunes crooned that ‘Time Marches On’. Behind Torme's voice a sparkling clear woman’s voice looped on-on-on over and over into a shudder of ecstatic electronic sound.  She reached forward and wrapped herself around the man, their cheeks touching as she leaned her neck back, smiling brightly with her full lips pulled tightly back in a wide open mouth revealing clean, straight, beautifully bleached teeth.

 

Which suddenly yellowed and turned black at the gums as her skin became dry and scaled creating a powdery residue on cheek of the man she embraced – he brought his hand to her cheek and took her face in the hollow of his hand.  They kissed.  Lips rotting as they touched lightly on that intimate piece of flesh. The stench of death filling her nostrils, penetrating something painfully deep inside of her - Wasn’t it all just wonderful?

 

Startled out of her chair the care-giver awoke from the dream.  She had fallen asleep at the kitchen table, and within those few minutes, she had a most bizarre form of waking dream nightmare.  She thought she might actually still be asleep. She’d been up for almost 36 hours on back to back cases, drinking SoBe Adrenaline and wacky bean coffee from the gas station.  The couple, part of her normal schedule, could not be canceled.  She was exhausted and the hot, stagnant air made her nearly delirious once she sat down. Her conscious mind had shut down for almost five minutes while waiting for the couple to complete their daily ritual of confused procrastination.  Waiting.  Waiting.  Her eyes never closed, though she had fallen asleep somehow with them wide open.  The smell brought her back to her senses.  The malodorous stench of raw human waste extending beyond the loosely sealed iliostomy bag worn haphazardly on the side of the lady of the house. The gaseous build-up creating an actual aura lacking all pleasantries. It made the nostrils flare and the stomach force itself to steel. This too had to be a dream.  “Wasn’t it just wonderful, Darling?” 

 

“The old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be.” The lady of the house sang under her breath to a tune similar to London Bridge ( … is falling down) as she walked out of the room, a small glass of vanilla Boost in her hand for her dear husband, Herb. “Aren’t we supposed to be going somewhere?” she asked with a distant stare as she disappeared to the other side of the house. Then she started singing again: “Ain’t what she used to be ~ ain’t what she used to be ~” she continued singing before sputtering, ‘fuduch!’ a PA-Dutch term for ‘fucked up’ or politely most confused. She spilled part of the shake on her shoe."Fershitt!" She screamed and started laughing like a loon at the double entendre of PA Dutch to English.

 

The care-giver shook her head. If this was getting old, was it possible to somehow gracefully avoid it?  The small television in the kitchen was on One Life to Live.  The same as it had been most every afternoon since the summer of `68.  For those not in search of the psychedelic dream, there were many other radical events happening in the late 1960’s.  One Life to Live!  A housewife's wet dream.  Herb,of course, preferred news, sports, news or sports.

 

In the living room the larger television was also on, always the news, the commercials blaring against the actual programming.  A cacophony of inconsistent sounds filled the house all day. Silence was only a state of mind. Static sparked over a small intercom on edge of the kitchen counter.  Over the intercom system, Herb, the man of the house asked the care-giver to come back to the living room.  She was obviously awake now. This actually was real. Yet somehow, the dream and the reality converged in perfect balance.  She stood up, walking in between here and there and life and death, following the voice into what had long ago been an active family room. The once yellow walls, tinged with the stains of years of neglect seemed to keep all the people who entered the home perfectly installed as though the room was a theatrical stage with all the actors in place, all props always intact; the room held everyone present in their exact role.  There was no deviating from the script with the spontaneity of actual life. It had probably been 20 years since it had been properly dusted and vacuumed. All around the paintings on the walls and shelves of ornate odds and ends, the paint had simply faded away discolored, just like the irises of both Herb and Agnes’ eyes if you looked at them too closely.

 

As soon as the care-giver walked into the living room where couple sat for most of the day and night, the stench hit her again.  It was so oppressive it forced her eyes into full focus;  to realize truly and completely where she was and why -  tears even caught in the corners of her eyes.  The smell seemed to grab her cheeks with a forceful, angry hand, look her directly in the eye, and squeeze her face into a caricature until she thought of nothing else except her presence in their home. 

 

Home. Purchased shortly after the Second World War, Herb's and Agnes' home was truly part of the American Dream.  A centerfold design  in Better Homes and Gardens magazine, the husband had dutifully traveled from rural South Central Pennsylvania to a posh part of Connecticut to purchase the blue print and bring it back to have the perfect All-American Family Home custom built on the multiple parcels they owned in a quiet area not yet a neighborhood - long since built upon and forgotten by the blocks of new residents who were sold an instant family neighborhood in what would become a formal suburb. Agnes had planted many of the original oak trees that lined the neighborhood and many of the perennials that had – originally – been at the edge of their land in a large and open garden. Traffic from the strip mall just across the other side of the foliage intruded only on occasion.  It had - and remained -  a well placed parcel to build.

 

Their home was built to absolute code, a past perfection, complete with a slate roof and walk way, capricious rooms for the time, quality plumbing and piping and wiring; each room filled with all the wonderful items a house wife could acquire to fill her days with completely blissful domestic intention.  The yard was large and lush with a picnic table and clothing line, and lots of room for a large dog to playfully roam.  It was a happy place and would be for many years.  The dusty shadows that may have dwell ed in the corners were removed on a regular basis with love, laughter, sunlight, and of course the daily cleaning and chores that were so important to a good marriage.  When that was not enough there were plenty of civic and church related events and sales with which to assist.

 

The smell lingering in the air – hanging heavily and clinging to everything – now defined the household.  It smelled of death near by, but not quite ready to happen.  It reminded everyone healthy that we are all rotting somewhere deep inside of ourselves. Within each and every person is something vial and disgusting waiting to get out. It seemed so very desperate to share the sentiment it created an automatic revulsion. 

 

She had been so very lovely, too. Just like her home, Agnes was once a stellar example of the American Dream. Light brown hair with natural blond highlights.  Blue eyes just like a clear spring sky.  Rosy lips.  A fair and lovely complexion. Now it was all nothing except a genuine curse for a woman to bear.  Was it even worse for her husband who once found her so fair?

Herb sat in his chair with his vanilla Boost in hand.  He had a smile on his face.  “Good to see you again." He smiled. "Good to see you!" He confirmed. "Thanks for stopping by.” He  spoke in a congenial manner that technically expired in 1957.  It was a part of his nature, however, and would be until his last day. He’d been quite successful in sales and Dale Carnegie workshops because of his polished style, shining personality and personable ways.   It made being around them bearable - at times even meaningful.  “Guess we should get going soon.  Woody would be awful upset with us if we were late."

 

“Yes, yes – I’ve already been here an hour.” Said the care-giver. Then:  “It is always good to see you, also, Herb.” Then for a moment they both looked sadly to the floor before catching themselves and lifting their eyes back up until they smiled, talking about  the weather and the traffic and the daily news before again a strange silence sat in between them.  It was a strange emptiness that interrupted them. 

 

The care-giver took advantage of the silence to segue into the unpleasant necessity, “Now before anyone says anything more,” the car e-giver said, “I need to ask a very personal and intimate question.” She enunciated clearly, not loudly, firm to be heard, yet polite, effective.  It was awkward. It gave her voice and odd tone that to an outsider would be frightening. It was too friendly.  Too perky.  Desperate. “So, um, I apologize for having to mention this, but ma’am – are you aware that your side bag may need some hygienic attention?”  The care-giver’s eyes opened wide as she smiled very sweetly.  “Um, you know, we can …” She looked to Herb - the man of the house - since the lady of the house continued to stare angrily at the television set.

 

“What happened to my soap, Herb?” She seethed.  “Why isn’t on.”

 

“You were watching it in the kitchen.” Her husband answered, “I’ve been watching the news in here. I always watch the news.  Always. For years, dear.”  he nodded his head, dandruff dusting his shoulders as he did, "You watch in kitchen."

 

“Well put it on.  I don’t watch this CRAP.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared with her sky blue eyes at the television screen, ignoring the care-giver.  At some point over the last few years her eyes which had been electric became more like cracked glass.  They still had a lot of light traveling through them, but it was not like the original lens.  It reflected something stormy inside of her mind.  Something similar to the person she had once been, but now noticeably rather different.

 

“Um, I’m really sorry, but ah …” The care-giver smiled.  “You can’t get in my car until you tend to this … Uh, situation here.”  The problem was constant but somehow more so today.

 

“Agnes,” he said with urgency, “She is trying to say that your odor is offensive.  You need to tend to it.  Please. PLEASE”

 

“I don’t want to watch this crap.” She repeated.

 

“Did you hear her?  She was talking to you.  Agnes? Agnes. She is saying it smells badly and that people can notice it.  And it does." He paused. "I notice". He paused awaiting a response. Then he pleaded.  “ Please, dear.  Please?”

 

This was a routine they all went through every couple of weeks.  She’d forgotten how to clean and change the bag properly , so it only got tended to sometimes and even then only sort-of; despite the fact that it was actually a daily need procedure.  It should be illegal to have someone with dementia wearing a side bag that all of their upper bowel raw liquefied shit shoots into.  It should be illegal unless the doctor has the person with dementia come in weekly for assistance with it.  Or maybe having an attendant or someone come out to assist them. Or maybe that was the point.  Maybe the doctor had been a dick and all of it was done on purpose. "Yea, I'll get YOU for your husband beating me at that golf game at that club back in 67."  It was too late for this case, but maybe the next person who is unnecessarily sliced open and incorrectly completed they could plan on having some follow ups so the person does not walk around smelling like death while wearing bright matte long wear coral lipstick and singing Mel Torme songs from yesterday and yesteryear when things were happy; or at least when it was easier to pretend, “Time Marches On!” She sang in a skat ignoring us with the stench dancing in the air with her words.

 

“What Agnes?” her husband asked.  “What?”

 

“Time Marches On.” She laughed merrily.  “Remember that song? They just had something on the TV that reminded me of how long ago that was back then.” She looked away, but within a few moments realized we were both staring at her.  “Alright!” she seethed with venom, picking up a newspaper and hitting the chair with it before dropping it on the ground, “Screw YOU!” She stood up - her anger allowing her momentum - holding on to the chair for balance for a moment, then half hobbling out of the room to the chair lift in the hallway to bring her to the bathroom upstairs.  The stench filled the hollow in the cushion of her chair, as though it had to sit and rest with us all for a moment, before slowly - ever so slowly and surely -  curling up into the cushion asleep until we barely noticed it at all.

 

Between the lack of moving air in the room, the heat, and the stench – the care-giver thought she would pass out. Her utter exhaustion and disgust mixed with a sense of strange compassion for Herb left her standing with a slightly apologetic smile pleasantly plastered upon her face.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Mel Torme and a big band playing Time Marches On, a woman’s voice exclaiming, “Oh Darling Wasn’t it just wonderful?  Wasn’t tomorrow ….”

 

“ ... wonderful!  You really are for putting up with us like you do.” Herb shook his head and apologized for his wife’s behavior.  “She’s not really like that, you know. You should have known her …” From upstairs the bathroom door loudly slammed shut and then open, the cabinets banging in echo.  The care-giver took the time to feed Herb lunch: a quarter of a sandwich with four small slices of ham on potato bread just as he had eaten everyday for the last 27 years. They discussed local history, the weather, and "Woody" ; their only son who lived in a “home” just down the road.

When Agnes returned a half hour she glared at the care-giver, but said nothing. Finally the care-giver told them she would be waiting in the car.  Without waiting for a response, she walked back into the kitchen and out the side door of the once story book Home & Gardens family house.  Behind her she heard Agnes asking Herb if they were to be going somewhere.  Every day it was exactly the same.  Repeating over and over and over.  Slower with each week to make it clearer than it ever needed to be.  Like an episode of an old Soap Opera imitating life.  Day in.  Day out.  The golden years of life. Time to reflect on all the moments that made up a lifetime of meaning.

 

“Oh Darling!” She said with an excitement that consumed her breath. “Can you believe it?”  She shivered with exhilaration and  enthusiastic passion. “Wasn’t tomorrow wonderful?” Sparkly confetti fell around them. “Wasn’t it just extraordinary?”  Celebratory music played in the background.  Lights sparkled outside a full size window behind them. They were dancing on top of the world.  Big band music played softly in the background somewhere from far, far away. It had an added acid lounge beat taking it out of time. Making the music and the moment eternal as Mel Torme crooned that ‘time marches on’; behind his voice, a woman’s voice looped on-on-on over and over into a shudder of electronic sound.  She reached forward and wrapped herself around the man, their cheeks touching as she leaned her neck back, smiling brightly with her full lips pulled tightly back in a wide.  Her open mouth revealing clean, straight teeth and a sparkle – it was such a happy time! A beautiful time! A fabulous fucking time!

Her eyes looked wide - in front of her - out the windshield of the car.  It was a beautiful day.   She wished she could participate in it.  There was almost a cool breeze which carried sweet memories into and through today.

 Instead she moved the car so that the back passenger door was in line with the edge of the slate walk-way from the house to the street.  She made sure she was six inches from the curb.  She then got out of the car and walked around to the front passenger door.  It was locked.  She opened the door to the rear passenger seat, the hatch in the back, and the rear passenger door.  Then she waited another ten minutes.  Every few moments she heard Herb and Agnes arguing about the process of having to leave the house.  It was a daily dilemma.  Agnes had to use the restroom.  Herb had to have his Boost.  Agnes wanted to watch her soap opera.  Herb had to phone the facility again to be sure it was a fine time to arrive.  Then they’d be close to stepping out of the house when they’d realize they didn’t know who had keys.  In times of inclement weather the problem of sweaters or coats or umbrellas would become a confused dialog and eventually an argument.  Whenever they stood at the step in the doorway the caregiver would then go to the threshold where they stood yelling at each other to veer them to the walkway before another hour passed.  It was time to visit, Woody, their only son.  A mongoloid they still refer to him as when they don’t call him Woody in voices usually reserved for small, high energy pets. Animated caricatures of themselves they eventually step out into the sunlight, old food and snot stains on their clothing and the age spots on their skin both apparent to everyone else but them. Wasn’t it wonderful?  Oh, Darling, of course it will be.  Of course it was …

 

Somewhere in the distance a car was driving quickly through the back streets, electronic trip beats pounding deep bass, while Mel Torme’s scat rap-like swing rhythm still marched vibrant in the caregiver’s mind, Herb & Agnes arguing over the seat belt law with Herb finally angrily calling Agnes sharp as a marble. "Yes, dear, you are certainly sharp as a marble and as clear as mud".  She didn't understand that since marbles were round.  She yelled back at him that marbles were round not sharp, adding expletives into her idiot rant; all the while that smell -- that sharp and pungent smell of death -- lingering deep beneath the surface of yesterday's  American Dream:  "Oh Darling!  Wasn't Tomorrow Wonderful?"  Just absolutely wonderful...