It occurred to me that all the
I hope it says this-is-a-great-place-to-work-I-get-treated-fairly-and-I-WANT-to-work-the-evening-shift.
One of the women says, "Somebody help me!" over and over. Mom rolls her eyes when she starts up.
As in - "Oh God, here we go again."
One of the caregivers said there are a lot of former professors and other smart type people in there. One of them studied dementia for twenty years and now she's in here. That just might be the definition of irony.
Interestingly, (to me anyway), there is a higher proportion of men in Clare Bridge than there was in Wynwood.
Bob, who was a pilot at some point in his life, shuffles around the halls in his baseball cap and aviator jacket. He doesn't really speak, it's more of a groan. Another man, whose name I don't know yet, came up and started talking to my scarf about war maneuvers. A woman in the dining room asked if I was "going to take care of things around there." I said I would do my best.
I left Mom in her room, after someone unlocked it for us, dressed in her pajamas and robe watching the dashing Mr. Poitier in "Lillies of the Field" on TCM. (my favorite "Scrooge" movie - with Albert Finney - was coming on at 9:30 and I don't have cable. Dangit.)
Then Bob and I shuffled down the hallway to the lobby, where I was released.