Peetee Came Back To  Me

My next  patient, Delilah Anthus, forgot her false teeth again. It wasn’t surprising considering her dementia. Her speech was understandable with effort on my part.

Dementia does strange things to people. It had stripped Ms. Anthus of her adulthood and the independence it afforded, but it gave her a second childhood. How peculiar to see a woman in her eighties with an innocent, childlike demeanor. She laughs,  and sings, and talks to herself contentedly. Her mouth is covered with ruby red lipstick.

"I went out  to a ballroom dance last night," she said lightheartedly. "All the men wanted to  dance with me. I wore a beautiful white gown and had a yellow flower in my hair.  A young man danced with me nearly all night. He was a handsome gentleman." She  smiled sweetly, absorbed in her reverie.

The home attendant who was sitting behind her wheelchair made a cuckoo sign behind her  back and mouthed the word no. "You were home with me last night, Delilah. Don't you remember?"

Ms. Anthus waved her hand with annoyance at her for bringing back the voice of reality. "I  was afraid of getting in trouble with my mother for staying out all night," she  continued with the mannerisms and voice inflections of a child. "I was very,  very good."

I glanced  at the home attendant who was shaking her head.

"Peetee  came back to me," Ms. Anthus said without prompting. She arranged her brightly  colored print dress over her legs.

Am I hearing her right? "Peetee? Who's he?"

"Peetee is her favorite pigeon who comes to her window sill everyday," the attendant  explained.

"How do you  know it's the same pigeon?" I asked innocently.

"Because I know his markings, that's why." She implied “of course”. "One day he didn't come to my window. I watched all day for him to come. But he didn't. I thought he got killed." Her gaze became momentarily intent.

"She was very upset. I had a hard time getting her to eat," the home attendant added. "I  was as glad as she was when the bird did return."

"I'm glad  he came back to you, too, Ms. Anthus."

"Thank you,  dear. You're very nice. Your mother would be proud of you."

I thought  to myself that my mother probably would be proud to see me spending time with people in their old age.

"Would you check her backside," the home attendant asked. "It's been getting red in a couple places."

"Sure, if  you'll give me a hand getting her onto the examining table." We hoisted her without too much trouble. She was quite thin and frail now, delicate looking,  though, with her little pierced earrings. She could be a nice grandmother, I thought. You can imagine my surprise when I examined her buttocks.

"What's  this?" On her left buttock, faded but still readable, was a tattooed rose and the words: "My heart belongs to daddy, but my ass belongs to John."

The home attendant smiled and shrugged. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. There are many unexpected twists and turns. Tattooed on young women I had seen  flowers, butterflies, coiled dragons, even arrows on inner thighs pointing to the vagina—but this? I wondered, had she not been demented, would Ms. Anthus have been embarrassed? Perhaps she might have felt the same way about John today. At least there were no signs of skin breakdown or decubitus, and I went over with the attendant some steps she could take to prevent them. After a quick  checkup, I sent her home. "Good-bye, Ms. Anthus," I said as the home attendant  wheeled her away.

"Good-bye!"  she rejoined cheerfully. "I'll tell little Peetee I saw you."

I smiled and waved. There yet remained a fragment of something special about her. I imagined her as a young lady, dancing with a lover, eyes closed, holding each  other tightly, swaying, turning, spinning. That's the way she probably would like to be remembered.

I made a fundamental observation long ago. You can lose your mind in one of two ways: one leaves a person happy, and the other, angry and scared. Delilah Anthus was lucky to be a happy one.

 Elizabeth D. Tate

 Neurology