VISITING AUNT FRANCES IN ASSISTED-LIVING

   My Uncle Fred and Aunt Frances Crain are pictured when they were fairly young. 

  My Aunt Frances, 94, born in 1927, lives at Spring Park, an assisted-living place in Travelers Rest, SC.

When my late wife, Carol, and I moved from Southern Pines, NC, to Taylors, SC, in Jan. 2018, Aunt Frances Hawkins Crain and her husband, Uncle Fred E. Crain, already lived at Spring Park. They’d left their Silver Ridge subdivision in Greer, SC, where they lived for years, because of Aunt’s Alzheimer’s. They had no children.

Uncle Fred (my late father’s only sibling) chose to live in the memory-care wing because he figured that if he died, Aunt would be adjusted to the memory-care hall and could live on there by herself without having to be transferred into memory-care and enduring stressful readjustment. He could have chosen to live in the regular wing with Aunt because he could have looked after her there, but he chose the memory-care area. He later said he wished he had chosen to live in the regular wing because he was lonely in the memory-care wing, surrounded by dementia-affected residents, some hugging and “caring for” children’s babydolls.  

In November 2021, I drove to see Aunt on a Friday morning and phoned from the memory-care wing door to the front desk in regular-care. Two days earlier, I arranged a 10:30 appointment — something needed because of COVID-19. 

“Hello, Spring Park. May I help you?” a young lady said. 

“Hi. I’m here for my appointment to see Aunt Frances Crain. I’m her nephew, Steve Crain,” I said. 

I donned my mask and waited for a young lady aide who opened the door. I signed in between the outside door and the locked door to the memory-care wing.  

“She’s in the sitting area,” the young woman said. “I’ll get her for you.”

The central sitting area is down the hall from Aunt’s room (404). It’s where residents sit and watch TV or sleep in chairs or wheelchairs. The dining area is next to that living room-like area, so many residents congregate there to wait before mealtime.  

The aide unlocked Aunt’s door, went for her, and wheeled her down the hallway to her room, where I waited. 

Aunt, weighing less than a hundred pounds and wearing a dark-colored sweater, seemed a little groggy. I wasn’t sure she recognized me as she didn’t say my name or return a greeting. I took my guitar from its case and sang hymns. She warmed to the music and said, “That’s good, Steve.” She mouthed the words to a song or two.

Suddenly, we heard a loud on-going sound — “Gw-ack, gw-ack, gw-ack … !”

The sound was no siren or bell, but a loud electronic “gw-ack.” I walked to the door of  Aunt’s room. A light flashed from the hallway ceiling, and the sound continued, loud enough that I wanted to put my hands over my ears. An attendant down the hall said, “It’s a fire drill. We’ll have to take her outside.”

I cased my guitar and left it as I wheeled Aunt to the hallway. A young attendant, dressed in white, headed toward us. “I’ve got her,” I said. He nodded. 

I wheeled Aunt past the gathering area and dining tables to a windowed side of the building, through a door to an outside patio. The morning was chilly but sunny. I looked about, noticing that most residents were small and in wheelchairs. There were no more than 25 residents, plus some attendants. 

Ms. Peterson sat near us. Her husband once owned Peterson Lumber Company in Travelers Rest. Ms. Peterson eats at Aunt’s table at almost every meal. Residents congregate in usual places, like people do in church pews in a sanctuary. Ms. Peterson said to me, “How are you?” 

“Doing fine,” I said, thinking that Ms. Peterson’s mind was probably in better shape than Aunt Frances’ because she right-away recognized me. 

“There’s your friend,” I said to Aunt. She looked and smiled at her friend but said nothing. An attendant said we should stay outside till the fire department came and looked around the building. Soon, I heard a siren in the distance. 

In a while, we moved back inside, and I returned Aunt to her room. I sang and talked. As I played one song, Aunt said, “My husband plays a guitar.” 

I realized that, during a short time, perhaps seconds, she thought Uncle Fred was alive. And I wondered if she didn’t realize that I, Steve, was there, in her room, playing my guitar for her. 

I soon prayed with her and let her attendant know she could return to the gathering place. One attendant told me that sometimes Aunt will be in the hallway and ask her, “Where’s Fred.”

Driving away, I wondered whether it would be better that my body wore out before my mind or my mind wore out before my body. It appears the latter has happened to Aunt Frances.