Mrs. Fossilfuel Has Clean Hair

Though I could not talk her into a shower, I contributed some of my pointed and superior psychological skills to coerce her into what my grandma used to call "a good head-warshin'."

The bait? Her son's upcoming visit.

All Mrs. F. has been able to talk about lately is that son of hers coming from Seattle.

"When John gets here this" and "When John gets here that." We Fossilfuel caregivers are sick to death of hearing his name. We have pieced together enough information about him to conclude that he is a worthless, humorless hyena of a man. 65 years old, allegedly used to be a dentist, allegedly has many "clients" but doesn't actually work. Doesn't draw social security yet because he draws so frequently from Fossilfuel Bank and Trust. When he calls to check on her, no amount of our welcoming phone chitchat can warm his level of friendliness to anything above the witch's tit/brass bra category.

Esther, Sherrie, and I, the trio Mrs. F. calls "my good team" have been using His Excellency's arrival as leverage with his mother about her all-consuming stench. We each have our own style of approach:

Sherrie: I could help you get a shower before bedtime, Mrs. Fossilfuel.

Mrs. F.: Oh no, honey. We won't worry about that.

Candy: You know what always feels good? A shower. Let's put you in the shower.

Mrs. F.: Oh honey, I need to rest. Maybe later.

Esther: You know what, Mrs. Fossilfuel? You're going to stink when your son gets here. He's going to take one whiff and run out that door.

Mrs. F.: (Remains silent, fearing that any sass aimed at a half-Hispanic will get her knifed in the spleen.)


You can guess which approach was most effective. The "Lose Your Son Because of Your Stink" Threat. The idea of repulsing her precious royal offspring dropped into Mrs. Fossilfuel's mental crockpot and simmered for days. Until, on Friday, during my shift, it plopped out of her mouth like this:

"You know, honey, I think today I might like to get a good shower."

My mouth fell open, as did the squeaky gates of heaven, and a platoon of angels came floating into the room playing harmonicas to the tune of the Hallelujah chorus. It was very moving.

But don't get excited. At the moment of truth Mrs. F. declined the shower yet again and agreed only to letting me wash her hair in the kitchen sink.

It was a lengthy process. I wheeled her in her wheelchair to the sink. Locked the wheels. Buckled her highest-heeled sandals onto her feet so she could be tall enough to lean over the sink. But wait. Before I could help her stand up so we could get started, she zeroed in on the basket of fake pink geraniums sitting in the windowsill. "Oh no," she said. "Oh NO. Who has been monkeying with that?"

"Monkeying with what, Mrs. Fossilfuel?"

"With THOSE FLOWERS. Oh my God."

"What's wrong with the flowers?"

"Oh honey," (I get very tired of being called honey, especially because she uses it only when she's annoyed) she said. "I had that arrangement just PERFECT and now someone has ADDED flowers to it and it is just ruined."

I was stunned. My brain went into acrobatics. You're turning 99 on Friday. Why in the hell are you obsessing on some crappy fake flowers? Get some perspective, for God's sake.

"I just can't believe someone did that."

I ran water to get it warm, and tried to ignore her. Nothing in the house is perfect. The decor is woefully stuck in 1955, the white eyelet lace curtains in the kitchen windows are gray with age, the wallpaper is loose on the walls, the carpet is worn and dismal. The chandeliers, still elegant, are coated with dust and look like something from the set of "The Shining." Screw the geraniums.

"I'll bet that Sherrie did that. I'll bet it was her."

"Mrs. Fossilfuel, I do not think Sherrie monkeyed with your flowers. But if she did monkey with them, I'm certain it was not her intention to make you unhappy."

"Oh I know, honey. You're right. Just please put them somewhere I can't see them." I put the horrific, nightmarish, traumatizing flowers on the other side of the kitchen.

"Now can we wash your hair?"

"OK."

I assumed the pose I use to help her stand up from her wheelchair. I bend over at the waist toward her, brace myself on the wheelchair with one arm and hold the other one out to her as though I am an usher at a wedding. She hooks her arm into it and stands up in a slow, slow, careful, painful ascent.

I have never washed anyone's hair but my own. Not anyone human. It all feels weird and embarrassingly intimate. I put that out of my mind and just tell myself to go through the motions and deal with it later.

So there we are, me and this crooked little woman in her high-heeled white sandals that are yellow with age, bent over at the kitchen sink. I'm careful not to press too hard on the part of her scalp where the staples are, from her fall just after Christmas. The fall that began her decline. Two months ago she was still cooking for herself, living life alone in her house, paying little attention to the fact that she was 25 years past her life expectancy.

Things change. And before know you it, strangers are coming into your house to make your meals and answer your phone and help you to the bathroom and check on you while you're sleeping and talk you into washing your hair.