After writing about Ralph and my experience with organized cognitive tests, I watched Ralph in action in a different kind of cognitive challenge last Friday.
Living in the country without door-to-door garbage service, I travel weekly to the recycling center. I drive Ralph’s truck and take along Lola the dog for company. I drink a diet soda on the way and occasionally (read every time) treat myself to a candy bar afterwards. There is something oddly satisfying about coming home with empty cans and baskets.
But recently I pulled a back muscle grandmothering a bit too exuberantly and have avoided bending/lifting ever since. Meanwhile our garbage began piling up.
On Friday I couldn’t stand it any longer and announced to Ralph that after lunch we were heading to the dump. Now Ralph usually helps me load the garbage into his truck. Once or twice he has driven with me to the recycling center, which happens to be across from the location of his art classes. On those two occasions he enjoyed sitting in the truck with his dog and cigarette watching me unload, a choice I made because I figured I would be faster. He has never participated in throwing stuff away.
Recycling is does not require much detailed thought. After throwing unrecyclable garbage that’s been put in county bags, into a dumpster, I mindlessly divide everything else to toss in the marked bins. You probably know the drill: aluminum, plastic, newspaper, junk mail, cardboard, and glass by the color.
For Ralph our recycling trip was a challenge.
The dogs didn’t help. We decided not to bring them because old Zeus has trouble climbing into the truck these days so Lola needed to stay behind to keep him company. But then Zeus hid under the house so there was a bit of a kerfuffle until he showed up as we were backing out of the drive way and we got him into the house. Ralph, already nervous—he’d called me three times while I was running to the bank beforehand to ask what he’d have to do—and now he was worrying about Zeus’s health as well as the garbage.
Usually I drive us everywhere these days, but driving Ralph’s truck with a bad back was not an option. It has been awhile since I sat in his passenger seat with him behind the wheel. He drives very carefully, going 35 in the 45-mile-an hour zone until I suggested, with mild (I hope) impatience, that he might consider the speed limit. (He does drive very carefully so if you are asking, as I do frequently, Is it safe for him to drive?, the answer is I think so as long as he doesn’t have to worry about finding his way alone. I hope I’m right)
In any case, we arrived safe and sound. But our time at the recycling center was not fun. Despite large clear labeling on the bins, Ralph could not keep track of where anything went. His difficulty was that I was asking him to combine several unfamiliar activities at once. I could feel his frustration mounting. I took a deep breath, had him bring the recyclables to me at the biggest bin, did as much emptying as I could manage and directed him hither and yon.
No stops for candy bars on the way home. But I thanked him profusely for his help. And Ralph was like a small boy desperately wanting to do well at a chore that was slightly beyond him and thrilled when he made it through.
Seeing him react, I realized that I have been letting him slide. If a situation might be difficult, I’ve avoided it. But Ralph can live with a little anxiety, and a gentle challenge enlivens him. So the next day, Saturday, I announced to Ralph that we were going into Atlanta to see the Andy Warhol exhibit at the High Museum. Painting is one of Ralph’s only activities after all.
He wasn’t thrilled but again he reluctantly agreed.
On the way, when Ralph announced he was hungry, I got him to eschew his standby fast food choice. Instead we had lunch at the museum café. Suddenly Ralph got into the spirit. He talked about the courtyard artwork with enthusiasm, he ate with a gusto rare for him these days, he wandered through Warhold exhibit reading all the placards and studying the pieces. He tried to get me to buy stuff in the gift shop. Afterwards we paid a short visit to friends who live near the museum, and he was sharp as a tack.
Of course he doesn’t remember the trips to the dump or the museum or the friends. But I remember for us.
(PS Coming soon: The Tractor Drama unfolding as I type)