A visit to the ladies’ room. It should be safe.
I started getting
worried about ten minutes after that decision.
We were at The
Ranch taking in the RV show. Time
was when we could spend an easy two hours looking at campers, motor homes,
fancy trailers. We had to see how cleverly
the manufacturers used the small space to create all the conveniences of home
to take on the road.
This time, we
weren’t there over twenty minutes before I started hearing, “Let’s go.” Or “Don’t we need to be going?” A-D-D on steroids.
We didn’t enter any
of the displays. We walked among
them. We went outside to walk among the
really big ones. I thought there might
be an exit out there. No, no exit, so
back inside we went.
We had a similar
experience at the Home and Garden show in Island Grove Park. We made it almost thirty minutes, because we
stopped to talk to a few vendors, and one vivacious fellow who carried on with
the Goodwife with his banter.
Most of the time,
I am greeted with blank stares as the stranger struggles to hear and make sense
of what the Goodwife says. Oh well. I’ll never see them again, maybe. Exception:
the lady following a Doberman Pincer.
She did her best to give us a wide berth after the first encounter.
Meanwhile, back
to The Ranch. We had to return to
the main building to find an exit. Then
it was we came across the concession
area including the restrooms.
The Goodwife
entered the restroom. I stationed myself
nearby. After a couple of minutes, I
decided I just as well take advantage of the chairs and tables across the
walkway. I sat and waited. And waited.
Did I miss her coming out of the restroom?
As ten minutes
stretched into nearly fifteen, minutes, I really started to worry. What should I do? I couldn’t go into the ladies’ restroom
without getting arrested.
She had no
identification with her. Our propensity for leaving anything she carries anywhere we go has led to me never leaving home with
it, purse or wallet, that is.
I had just about
got up my courage to flag down a passing lady and ask her to check into the
restroom when I heard the public address start up. “We have a person who has lost her husband.
Her name is Patti, her husband is
Steven. She apparently has a bit of
dementia and can’t tell us her last name.”
I was all ears by
then. The male voice continued, “If you
are Steven and are looking for Patti, please call 911 or come to the east
entrance.”
I was off like a
shot, well a 70+ year-old-shot. The east
entrance wasn’t too far. It was the one
we had exited to try to find a way out.
I walked through
the doors into the foyer and saw: The
lady named Patti was sitting on a bench wearing a huge smile. A little girl, maybe three or four years old
was wrapped around her protectively. On the
bench next to the entwined pair was the woman I assumed to be the girl’s
mother. Milling around were two older
siblings and what I assumed was a grandmother of the children.
As the Goodwife
signaled her recognition of me, the mother arose, approached me and gave me a
big hug. I thanked her, but I was too
flustered to ask about the details of where they found Patti. The mother disentangled the little girl from
Patti and the family, the older two kids getting restless, moved on.
My attention was
on the two cops, who were quite satisfied that they had found their man. One quickly departed and I visited with the
remaining man.
He was very polite, and I thanked him
profusely, too. I explained that I had
watched her enter the restroom, but I never saw her come out. How could I have missed her, or how could she
have missed me? Was there another
entrance / exit for that restroom? He
didn’t know about that.
I apologized for her
not having any ID. I guessed I would get
her a necklace. He did have an opinion
about that. He suggested a bracelet
instead. I said it was too easy for her
to remove (or lose) a bracelet. He
countered with the difficulty of accessing a woman’s necklace.
He didn’t say it,
but I immediately realized his point. A male
cop trying to get to a woman’s necklace could easily become a nightmare. Especially in Loveland, in the current
environment. (male cop, currently
serving time in prison, manhandling an
elderly lady with dementia accused of shoplifting from Wal-Mart, just in case
you have forgotten)
Our conversation
with the cop concluded, we found the exit and headed for home. I immediately began a search for proper ID’s. Dementia Together to the rescue. Based on the experience of other folks who
have gone before us on the “journey”* of living with dementia*, they
recommended Road ID.
Dementia Together
also strongly recommends that the care partner have an ID in case something
happens to that person and the one living with dementia is left unattended.
So, I Googled Road
Id, I looked, I chose, I ordered--a bracelet with spare bands for the Goodwife,
a dog tag-like necklace for me.
I have also found
some simple “Alzheimer” door locks from a place called “AlzStore”, the
Alzheimer’s Store, online. I ordered one
and installed it on our front door. It
works great and has saved my many worries, particularly at night. I have ordered three more and will probably
order two more.
The bracelet,
bands, and necklace arrived in about a week.
Road ID endeared themselves to me with the disposal instructions on the mailer package: don’t try to brush your teeth with this mailer, and a second one I don’t remember, and the third one I can’t forget, “Don’t use this package as a suppository”! Nothing like a little satire to accompany your order!
The wrist band
has worked so far, though we haven’t had to use it as such. I ask the Goodwife to show folks her new bracelet. They read it and they understand.
A few people act
like they have seen a rattlesnake, but most are quite kind and
understanding. We are blessed with a
group of friends and relatives who totally understand.
The journey* continues.
*Phrasing acceptable for those of us “living with dementia”—also
acceptable phrasing!
