We went to the beach

Charlie loves the ocean. She loves the beach. She grew up on the water in Virginia. You could walk out the back door of her childhood home, stroll across a beautiful lawn, and step right into the Chesapeake Bay.

She and her caregiver had been planning a trip to the beach in April. The Airbnb was booked. A whole week.

That’s not going to happen now.

So this weekend, I took her.

We went to the beach.

I picked her up at 10, put her in the backseat, engaged the child locks because earlier this week she attempted to jump out of a moving car. I loaded her up with a pillow, a blanket, a crossword puzzle, something I’m sure she must have done for me on more than one occasion when I was younger.

And we drove to the beach.

It’s two hours.

She napped and looked out the window and chatted with people who weren’t there.

We had lunch at Dockside. Landing a parking spot close to the restaurant at noon on a beautiful Saturday was nothing short of miraculous. When I checked in at the hostess stand I asked for a table with a view. Within fifteen minutes we were sat out on an old weathered wooden dock with blue and white umbrellas right on the inter-coastal waterway.

The scene couldn’t have been more beautiful. Perfect. Seventy-something degrees, sunny, a light breeze, everybody out enjoying the day.

We sat and watched the parade of boats go by. Some docking well. Some with difficulty. Some with families. Some on fishing trips. Some with dogs.

Looked out across the sparkling water at the sandy, grass-covered islands. Noted the pelicans surfing the air currents. Felt the breeze on our faces, Jimmy Buffett classics drifting softly through the background.

Hushpuppies with butter. Clam chowder. Crab cakes.

And a glass of Pinot Grigio for her, because fuck it at this point what does it matter.

For the most part, we managed to have a very pleasant experience, remarking on how beautiful the weather was, how great the food was, and how nice it was to be there on such a perfect day.

The disease had its place at the table as well.

She attempted to get up and leave multiple times to go after phantoms only she could see. Conversation weaving in and out of reality over the course of the hour we were there. But the mood was mellow and it was nothing I couldn’t handle with a simple redirection or nod of agreement and “oh, that’s interesting.”

Nothing extreme.

I gave her her medicine with lunch, but she protested.

Those are the ones that make me sleepy.

I told her, this will help you stay relaxed so we can enjoy our time together.

And she took it without much more resistance.

On the way back to the car she was talking about me to me, as if I wasn’t there. As if the person carrying her to the car was a stranger who needed to learn about her daughter.

Settling her into the backseat took some doing. Fastening the seatbelt around her and shuffling off the sweatpants to reveal the shorts underneath was an awkward sort of dance, but we got it done and headed across the drawbridge to the beach.

We made our way down to the south end of Wrightsville and found a handicap parking spot right next to the last beach access, the only one available, like it was waiting just for us.

Arm in arm, one wobbly step at a time, which I will take total responsibility for, but I don’t regret the wine, we slowly made our way out to the water.

I put her sandals on when we got there so she could feel the sand on her toes. One inch at a time we worked our way to the water, just close enough to let the chilly ocean rush over our feet and ankles. It was the kind of momentary cold that is both sobering and exhilarating. Drawing all of your awareness to that time and place. Complete presence.

As soon as we got there she was ready to go. Attention spans aren’t what they used to be. One of the hallmarks of this disease in Charlie’s life is the near constant thought that wherever she is is not where she’s supposed to be. A kind of constant restlessness.

I encouraged us to stay a little longer.

I asked her if she wanted a shell to commemorate the experience. I set her on a soft sea-spray-worn bench and went out to collect one. Placed it in her pocket as we made our way back to the car.

When we got there she mentioned something about the aquarium that had to be close by. That struck me as interesting because I had been noticing the signs for it myself and wondering if she might like to go one more time.

She knew exactly where we were. This beach is one we’ve been to multiple times. It’s where I lived when I was in my early twenties and where we vacationed when I was younger. The North Carolina State Aquarium is seventeen miles south of Wrightsville Beach, right next to the Fort Fisher historic site.

When I asked if she wanted to go. She said yes with a childlike grin. And I made a bet with her that if the albino alligator I remembered seeing when I was a kid was still alive, I would buy ice cream afterwards. But if it was dead, ice cream was going to be on her.

Instead of sitting in traffic trying to take a left off the island, we went right and took a little tour of downtown Wrightsville. We drove past the street that bears her name, up to Johnny Mercer’s Pier, past the houses I lived in when I was young and dumb, over Harbor Island, and then we took the back roads south.

Windows rolled down. Radio turned up. Dappled sunshine and shade moving across the road under live oaks draped with Spanish moss. A little brine hanging in the air. Just enough salt, humidity, and wind to make my hair extra curly.

About halfway down to the aquarium she started getting very agitated, commanding me to take her home. Telling me it was time to go to church, that all sorts of calamities would befall her and us if we weren’t there on time.

I did my best to reassure her that we had nowhere to be, nothing to do, that today was all ours and the church would be there tomorrow.

Then the hallucinations started to become more hostile.

Everybody was in big trouble. Nothing good was going to come of this.

I encouraged her to relax and enjoy the rest of the day. That we were going to go to the aquarium together, then out for ice cream, and then I would take her home immediately. Nothing to worry about. She was safe. I had this.

By the time we parked she was refusing to get out of the car.

But with some coaxing and instruction we were able to get inside, find a wheelchair, and I pushed her around from port window to port window, doing my best to keep her engaged.

At times she was really enjoying herself.

Other times she was combative, agitated, and downright pissed that we were there together at all. She was done with it long before we saw all the sights and that was OK. The goal was to give her a great day, not to expect great behavior. The goal was to give her a day that she wanted. Not the one I wanted her to want.

So when she was over it we did a pit stop in the bathroom and headed back to the car.

After we got out and were on our way back, the subject of ice cream came up again and I was pleased to know she still wanted that. Even though the aquarium hadn’t gone as planned, it didn’t mean the day was tanked.

On our way out I asked if she wanted to stop at Fort Fisher and walk around just a little, gaze at the ocean one more time.

She said sure. And I counted it as an unexpected win.

Since we were getting in and out of the car so much I was helping her change, going from sweatpants to shorts, sneakers to sandals and back again, asking her to lean on the car and lift one foot, then the other, giving her the same kind of instructions I’m sure she must have given me when I was a child. Doing my very best to help her feel safe and comfortable through the process.

We toddled across the street onto the boardwalk and took in the view.

We looked at the cannons. She pretended to read the plaques. Comprehension has faded but with her imagination she was able to stitch together a story that amused her instead. There were families building castles in the sand. Children flying kites. Dogs playing in the waves. The water so calm it could have been a lake. She came back to a place of ease and seemed to really like it.

After a few minutes there we went back to the car. I told her ice cream was on me due to losing the bet. And we were off, headed to downtown Wilmington and the Kilwins shop one block from the river.

Navigating the long line and the uneven pavement was a challenge, but we did it. Sea salt caramel chocolate cone for her. Toasted coconut cup for me. We found our way to the Riverwalk, took a seat underneath the giant flagpoles and listened to a man playing acoustic guitar by the water as the sun started to set. Families and vacationers passing by, enjoying those last moments of the day’s brightness.

Our dynamic has never been the Hallmark type, but here in this moment there was peace. I got to be just a daughter trying to do right by the woman who gave me life.

Though she appeared to be tiring, I asked if she wanted to go straight back to the car or if she wanted to walk on the boardwalk. To my surprise she said she wanted to stroll. So we did.

Up and down the knotty planks taking in the sights, passing by shop windows and floating bars while the sun dipped behind the trees, with the faint sound of wind whipping through the flags on the battleship North Carolina, moored across the river.

On our way up the Riverwalk we passed a boat from Sheepshead Bay, New York, flying a Jolly Roger with a retired couple and their canine companion living aboard. Seeing a dog living on a boat really brightened her eyes. An animal lover through and through. She smiled in a way I haven’t seen in a long time.

By the time we got her back to her apartment it was 8 o’clock. She had been in and out of consciousness on the ride home, having full conversations with people who weren’t there. Hallucinating animals. Talking about lesson plans, lost children, paperwork past due. Things that only exist in her mind.

Her caregiver met us at the door. While we were gone she had packed the bag that will go with Charlie when she moves into memory care this week. I asked her to do it while we were away.

Charlie knows things are changing, but she doesn’t understand the scope of it or the reasons why. I thought it would be less painful for the packing to happen while she wasn’t there.

As I left, I felt a certain resigned sadness. And a sense of completion.

I gave her the very best day I could while I could.

The boats. The wind. The cold water rushing over our feet. Chocolate ice cream on the Riverwalk. A pink and orange sunset. A dog living on a boat. A smile.

For one full day the disease didn’t win.

We just went to the beach.

-Sunny