The Mayor of the Memory Unit

Bill, the elderly man in the memory unit, was well liked. The staff, who were quite surprised by how many friends visited him regularly, liked him too. There was an innate kindness about him that was built on a foundation of a tough, clear-eyed assessment of people. Bill, whose memory was indeed failing, wasn’t so far gone that he wasn’t aware that he was locked up, albeit in pleasant surroundings.

 Standing 5’7” inches tall and rotund, with a shock of white hair, he enjoyed chatting with residents, visitors and staff. He had his own room, of course, and often held court sitting in his easy chair. Certainly, there were times when his mind wandered into fantastical areas. Depending on the day you visited him, he might inform you confidentially that one or two residents, often worse off than he was, were working for the FBI. He might tell you about a raid he witnessed the night before. “County and state law enforcement were here last night. They woke everyone up looking for drugs and money. They ransacked my room pretty good too.”     

 On a good afternoon, however, he might tell you that he had called one of his friends that morning, someone you knew well. “Lorna called me this morning. I think she’s feeling lonely, a little bit left out by our crowd. You might want to give her a call,” he’d say. In spite of his declining mental health, his intuition about people was still strong and mostly accurate. He could look at you while you were talking and later tell someone else, “That man has the weight of the world on his shoulders.” His observations were often prescient.

 He was still shrewd too. He would get a loveable twinkle in his eye and say something like, “You know, that girl that was just here a while ago, needs to be happy.” In moments like that he’d give you a look that suggested he knew more than he was telling. Yet, you understood he wouldn’t tell you what he meant -not even at gunpoint. We enjoyed it because it made us feel like he was still pretty sharp in spite of his condition.      

 Before Covid-19 made our lives so much harder, five or six of us would take him out to lunch when we could. If his niece had time to bring him some money, something he had no need for in the facility, he would insist on buying lunch for us. He was well-off, so we didn’t object. The man was still aware enough to insist on his dignity.

 On good days, he was even helpful to the facility’s staff. He would wheel a resident down to her room, help her into her recliner and sit with her for a few minutes. “Bill must have been a terrific caregiver in his day,” one of the nurses said. I nodded my head in agreement. I happened to know he took care of his wife for many years under trying circumstances.

 One day, while he was sitting in his room watching television, he heard some commotion out in the hall. He had been feeling quite melancholy. He had been frustrated and confused that morning and argued about taking his medication. That afternoon he was keeping to himself. Yet, when he heard the noise outside his room, he quickly stood up and went to see what was happening. One of the residents, a tall and strong man, who could present a severe challenge to the staff on bad days, had one arm tightly wrapped around the waist of one of the aides. She was shrieking in fear. The man was actually holding his own against two orderlies who were trying to subdue him and free the woman.

 Bill walked up to the man and said in a stern voice, “Elmo, let her go!”

 “Hell no. I want to get out of here. I need to go see my wife in Florida.”

 “Elmo, just let the little girl go and we’ll hit the road. We’ll hitch us a ride to the airport,” Bill said.

 Elmo looked at Bill wide-eyed. “Yeah?” He looked at the young woman. The orderlies were nodding their heads in agreement. He released her and the orderlies moved in and quickly sedated Elmo.

 The head nurse had just arrived. “Great work, Bill.” The following day before lunch, the memory unit held a brief ceremony. The executive director of the unit presented Bill with a certificate of appreciation and a badge that had the word “mayor” on it. From that time on, the entire staff took to addressing Bill as Mr. Mayor. He liked that.