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Season 9, Week 2, The Missing Stair
Season 9 Week 2
Prompt: The Missing Stair
Due: Monday, March 24th at 5 pm
Halfway Down by A. A. Milne (1924)
Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair
Where I sit.
There isn't any
Other stair
Quite like
It.
I’m not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where
I always
Stop.
Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up,
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head;
“It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!"
I was pulling out of my driveway three minutes after the telephone call. “Mr. Robertson, this is Mrs. Hightower. Your mother needs you. Now. If you can’t calm her down, we’ll have to sedate her.” Twenty minutes later, I was at Carmichael Memory Care, “specializing in dementia patients,” the saddest place on earth, and my mother’s final home for the three years since Dad died.
Mom had lost everything to Alzheimer’s—her future, and even more cruelly, her past. She was barely holding onto the present, but even that was slipping away. Mom hadn’t been able to read for quite awhile now, and TV was a mystery for her, but at least the changing pictures and sounds soothed her. Not today.
Mrs. Hightower filled me in as we walked down the hallway. “About two hours ago, your mother became completely unmanageable. She kept screaming nonsense. The only thing we could make out was ‘lost lost lost.’ She won’t let anyone near her, and her thrashing might cause her to fall out of bed.” My poor mother… “Plus, there’s Mrs. Poole to think about. Now she’s becoming agitated too.”
Mrs. Poole was Mom’s roommate. Both of them were locked in their own dying minds. I could hear Mom’s screams down the hallway, through her closed door. This is going to be bad, I thought.
The aide hurried out when I opened the door, and Mrs. Hightower stayed just outside the room, in case I needed her, leaving me with Mom and Mrs. Poole. After a minute, Mom got out “who, who, are” before giving up. Her language skills were so eroded that simple sentences were all she could manage. “It’s me, Kenny, your son,” I said, as I sat on the edge of her bed and started to pet her hand. That usually helped. She started to settle down, even as she added, “You’re—not my—son.”
That always hurt. Mom was more lucid when she was calm. Mrs. Hightower, hoping she wouldn’t be needed, closed the door and left. I showed her a family picture on her nightstand and pointed—“That’s me.” “My son’s little. You’re big.” There was no use arguing with her. I didn’t exist anymore. But there was something left. Some stray memory of me as a child.
I stroked her hair, and Mom started to settle down a little. “I’ve lost my stair,” she said. This made no sense to me. She said it again, becoming frustrated.
“What stair?” I asked.
“Middle one” was all she said before giving up. Still nothing. I just sat there, gently stroking her hair, trying to soothe her with my touch. Finally, I asked her “What do you want?”
“The Pooh Detective” was all she said, but it was enough.
When I was five years old, I loved Winnie the Pooh. Mom read me everything by A. A. Milne. Again and again and again. She must have been so sick of it. We played a game, Mom and me. She would hide one of my toys in the house and leave clues. I could ask ten questions. Pooh was the detective and I was his helper.
Now I knew.
“Is it upstairs?” I asked. “No,” Mom replied.
“Is it downstairs?” I asked. “No.” “Is it in the nursery?” “No.” “Is it in the town?” “No.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Nowhere!”
Mom seemed so pleased with herself. She'd calmed down enough that she was also drowsy. I sat with her a few more minutes until she dozed off, thinking about the Pooh Detective and wondering why now? Why would she suddenly remember that now?
As I got up to leave, Mom opened her eyes. “I love you, Kenny,” she whispered.
“I love you too, Mommy.” I know she heard me, and if only for that moment, she understood.
Mom died about a year later from complications related to Alzheimer’s. It was a mercy. She never knew me again, but that one last time… that was enough.
Prompt: The Missing Stair
Due: Monday, March 24th at 5 pm
Halfway Down by A. A. Milne (1924)
Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair
Where I sit.
There isn't any
Other stair
Quite like
It.
I’m not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where
I always
Stop.
Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up,
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head;
“It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!"
THE POOH DETECTIVE
I was pulling out of my driveway three minutes after the telephone call. “Mr. Robertson, this is Mrs. Hightower. Your mother needs you. Now. If you can’t calm her down, we’ll have to sedate her.” Twenty minutes later, I was at Carmichael Memory Care, “specializing in dementia patients,” the saddest place on earth, and my mother’s final home for the three years since Dad died.
Mom had lost everything to Alzheimer’s—her future, and even more cruelly, her past. She was barely holding onto the present, but even that was slipping away. Mom hadn’t been able to read for quite awhile now, and TV was a mystery for her, but at least the changing pictures and sounds soothed her. Not today.
Mrs. Hightower filled me in as we walked down the hallway. “About two hours ago, your mother became completely unmanageable. She kept screaming nonsense. The only thing we could make out was ‘lost lost lost.’ She won’t let anyone near her, and her thrashing might cause her to fall out of bed.” My poor mother… “Plus, there’s Mrs. Poole to think about. Now she’s becoming agitated too.”
Mrs. Poole was Mom’s roommate. Both of them were locked in their own dying minds. I could hear Mom’s screams down the hallway, through her closed door. This is going to be bad, I thought.
The aide hurried out when I opened the door, and Mrs. Hightower stayed just outside the room, in case I needed her, leaving me with Mom and Mrs. Poole. After a minute, Mom got out “who, who, are” before giving up. Her language skills were so eroded that simple sentences were all she could manage. “It’s me, Kenny, your son,” I said, as I sat on the edge of her bed and started to pet her hand. That usually helped. She started to settle down, even as she added, “You’re—not my—son.”
That always hurt. Mom was more lucid when she was calm. Mrs. Hightower, hoping she wouldn’t be needed, closed the door and left. I showed her a family picture on her nightstand and pointed—“That’s me.” “My son’s little. You’re big.” There was no use arguing with her. I didn’t exist anymore. But there was something left. Some stray memory of me as a child.
I stroked her hair, and Mom started to settle down a little. “I’ve lost my stair,” she said. This made no sense to me. She said it again, becoming frustrated.
“What stair?” I asked.
“Middle one” was all she said before giving up. Still nothing. I just sat there, gently stroking her hair, trying to soothe her with my touch. Finally, I asked her “What do you want?”
“The Pooh Detective” was all she said, but it was enough.
When I was five years old, I loved Winnie the Pooh. Mom read me everything by A. A. Milne. Again and again and again. She must have been so sick of it. We played a game, Mom and me. She would hide one of my toys in the house and leave clues. I could ask ten questions. Pooh was the detective and I was his helper.
Now I knew.
“Is it upstairs?” I asked. “No,” Mom replied.
“Is it downstairs?” I asked. “No.” “Is it in the nursery?” “No.” “Is it in the town?” “No.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Nowhere!”
Mom seemed so pleased with herself. She'd calmed down enough that she was also drowsy. I sat with her a few more minutes until she dozed off, thinking about the Pooh Detective and wondering why now? Why would she suddenly remember that now?
As I got up to leave, Mom opened her eyes. “I love you, Kenny,” she whispered.
“I love you too, Mommy.” I know she heard me, and if only for that moment, she understood.
Mom died about a year later from complications related to Alzheimer’s. It was a mercy. She never knew me again, but that one last time… that was enough.
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That was one of the two poems that immediately came to mind when I read the prompt.
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The other poem which came to mind was "The other day upon the stair/ I met a man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today/ Oh how I wish he'd go away!"
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I looked up your poem ("Antigonish" by Hughes Mearns) and I enjoyed it very much. Here's a link to the Wikipedia site in case anyone else wants to read it. It's fun. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antigonish_(poem)
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The "I met a man who wasn't there" was the first poem that occurred to me. It manages to sound contradictory while also being creepy. \o/
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It might be a generational thing-- I know it wasn't something handed down by my mother, even though that would be right up her alley.
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My grandmother had dementia--likely Alzhiemer's--and the last time I visited my dad when she was still alive, I was too chicken to visit her. I didn't think I could handle it if (when) she didn't recognize me.
This is easily my favorite piece this week.
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