We walked past the corral of the lonely to the front desk. We'd made the five hour [usually three hour] trip to Brooklyn to see her, and our efforts were soon rewarded. For whatever reason, the receptionist recognized us before we had a chance to ask for Margret. The idea of working in this place long enough to recognize family who only visited once or twice a year instantly depressed me.
Now, you may say that visiting your schizophrenic sister/daughter/aunt in an adult home only once or twice a year seems cruel and unfeeling, but it really is all we can manage at this point. Logistically, it is a pain in the neck getting up there,but that isn't even the biggest obstacle. With Grandma turning 90 thisyear and becoming increasingly addled in the attic, bringing heranywhere, let alone Brooklyn, was a tremendous feat. However, theelephant in the room of her life drawing swiftly to a close dictatedthat we should bring her to see Margret at least one more time beforeshe heads to her heavenly reward.
"Margret White, your family ishere," said the stout receptionist as we approached her desk.Incredulous, my mother began making polite commentary about thelongevity of this woman's memory as we waited for Margret to exit thedining room. Her almost immediate arrival cut what I'm sure thereceptionist thought was a stupendously interesting conversation to anabrupt close as my mother turned to greet her sister.
In a worldwhere "pop psychology" is all the rage, schizophrenia is almost alwaysmislabeled as something far different than what it actually is.Schizophrenia is not multiple personality disorder, even if some casescan produce symptoms such as hearing voices or seeing people thataren't there. Schizophrenia is a disease which causes people to believethings that are simply not true. For whatever reason, stray thoughts orvoices enter their heads and tell them things which haven't happened.The result is a truckload of pills that shut them off emotionally fromthe world. They become two dimensional and very "business-like" intheir interactions with others. This was evidenced by the fact that wedrove five hours to see Margret only to turn right around two hoursafter we'd arrived.
As per custom, she showed us her room. Itwas small and yellow, but tidy. The view from the screened windowoverlooked the roof of a neighboring building. Could there be a bettersight than a dilapidated air conditioning unit to greet you in themorning? My mother chatted animatedly with Margret to compensate forthe lack of reciprocal emotional feedback while I began to feel thestrain of my bladder. Grandma was occupying the room's only bathroom,so I excused myself to return to the lobby.
The nurse seemedsurlier than before when I asked her where the restroom was located.Perhaps she only put on a nice face for people over the age of 40. Uponreceiving terse instructions, I shuffled down the narrow hallway tofind the small dingy bathroom. As if protesting my intrusion, the hovelleft me in the lurch by being void of both toilet paper and soap. As Ileft the bathroom with a slight smell of urine on my person, I realizedthat I was starting to fit in.
Upon returning to Margret's room,I overheard part of the conversation before entering. It sounded as ifthe original plan of going to the nearby McDonald's was shot down infavor of the "Russian Jewish place" on 37th. Seeing as I was littlemore than cargo on this trip, I held my tongue as we followed Margretout of the building and onto the street. The infamous Brooklyn pigeonshardly stirred a feather as we walked past their gaggle of frenziedbread picking.
The streets of Brooklyn aren't really dirty somuch as destitute. The storefronts are tidy, but hopelessly shabby andfading. The people, even if they've memorized their destinations, havethis look of being lost etched into their faces which strikes a chordof desperation in my heart. Even the taller buildings look as ifthey're risen above the surrounding establishments to implore theheavens for salvation from this drab little section of Life. Brooklyn:where life thrives and cries for help all at once.
Not fiveminutes later, we found ourselves in front of Mermaid Spa. As Margretwalked right in, the rest of the us gave each other skeptical looks. Inour collective realm of experience, places with the word "Spa" in thetitle generally didn't denote eateries. However, we also had to takeinto consideration that Margret knew Brooklyn about a thousand timesbetter than any of us, so we followed her into what definitely didn'tlook like a restaurant.
Turns out, the establishment was both a spa anda restaurant. A restaurant that was clearly run by the Russian mafia.Upon our entering the polished-wood dining room, we receivedincredulous glares from all the other patrons. Admittedly, the onlyother customers were two shirtless men eating fried chicken and doingVodka shots in the corner, but we still felt unwelcome in thissecretive restaurant. We received menus from a woman who knew maybe 20words in English and gave us uncomfortable glances throughout ourentire sojourn in the Mermaid Spa.
"Dad, this menu's in Russian!"
"Look on the other side, there's an English translation."
Thatthere was. We all ordered and sat quietly while Mom continued to prodconversation out of Margret. Feeling as if I needed something to divertmy attention, I took to watching a Russian movie without subtitles onthe large television. Inserting my own translations was fun for aboutfive minutes, but I again lapsed into silence as thoughts ofthumbscrews and water boarding on the grounds of mocking the Motherlandentered my brain.
The food was foreign, alien, but tastyenough. There was sour cream everywhere, and Margret ended up not eventouching her chicken. Because we'd arrived late, she'd already eatenback at Oceanview, hence her smallness of appetite. When the Russianwaitress persisted in asking whether we were going to take it home [shecouldn't understand why we'd just throw it away], my father finallyrelented and requested a box for food none of us wanted. Then, inbusiness-as-usual fashion, Margret stood up and headed for the door. Wequickly had to remind her that my father hadn't yet paid the bill andthat she should wait for us.
We all walked back to the front of Oceanview. We devised a couple ofplans, one of which included sitting on the Boardwalk [shot downbecause Grandma didn't want to walk that far] and the other whichentailed sitting on the back patio of Oceanview [shot down because theresidents enjoying the afternoon seemed bent on giving each otheremphysema via excessive cigarette smoke]. With no other options,Margret said her goodbyes and that was that.
My mother says that Margret is always excited to see us. Perhapsbecause I've only known her for such a small portion of her life, Ifind it hard to recognize excitement in her blank blue eyes.Intelligence and focus can clearly be found, but not feeling. Afterall, how could she be so ready to just leave her family on the streetafter two hours? We only make it up to see her once or twice a year!
We left unoffended, satisfied that we'd made the trip and that she had seen Grandma at least once more.
The drive back was just as long as the drive up.
rating: 10
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