When Memory Begins to Set Sail
By: Clara Elizabeth Davis
Two years ago, I found myself leading a pack of frantic American seniors through the streets of Hongkou. That morning I’d watched hundreds of them emerge from the same cruise ship that now taunted us through breaks in the muted gray buildings lining the Huangpu river. Departure was imminent, but how to get on the ship was unclear, causing mass panic.
I was there for my Aunt Karen and Uncle Hal. They were in the middle of a cruise around the world, a lifelong dream, and docked in Shanghai for one night. They opted out of the scheduled tour in favor of spending the day with their ‘local’ niece, as Uncle Hal put it.
We started with coffee on Anfu Lu, winding our way through the former French Concession, marveling at the way the sunshine illuminated the plane trees framing the wide streets. Sun shone through a cloudless spring sky, the kind of conditions which force visitors to reconcile the smoggy image they’ve built up in their heads with Shanghai's selective benevolence.
We ate a lip numbing lunch at my favorite Sichuan restaurant and scoped out my four story walk up. They soaked up every detail with the kind of loving eagerness reserved for family.
When we arrived back at the terminal, it became clear that the address was incorrect and the boat would not re-board there. Of course, a hulking cruise ship waits for no one, and the clock was ticking.
I have my own issues with time, even on a good day. This city is a swirl, and I’ve built a life for myself in it in which I am in a perpetual race with time. Almost always late, forever frantic, waking in the night remembering all that I forgot. Partly this is Shanghai, and partly this is me.
So, here we were in another manifestation of this race, one ‘local’ and two Midwesterners who really needed to make it back to their life-savings level world cruise.
There was another compounding detail: shortly before boarding in Miami for their five month world tour, my Aunt Karen started exhibiting signs of early on-set Alzheimer’s. She was just north of 60 at the time, and had just retired.
My aunt and uncle were born and raised in very small towns in Illinois and Missouri, respectively. Uncle Hal once told us that his one room schoolhouse did not offer third grade. He makes jokes, but this was not one of them. He eventually met Aunt Karen in Kansas City, the heart of the American Midwest.
Growing up, we loved visiting Karen and Hal, the ‘fun’ aunt and uncle. They never had kids, lived in a beautiful house, always had the snazziest gadgets, and the best snacks. They took their Harley-Davidsons out for weekend getaways, and had the most adorable dachshund, Otto. With no kids of their own to stress them out, they doted on my brother, sister, and I. My cousins and I have a clear and collective memory of my Uncle Hal doing his version of ballet tour jetés during an all-cousin dance performance on a family beach vacation; always willing to join in the fun, however juvenile.
I had unyielding energy and a hunger for attention as a child (some things never change), and my Aunt Karen indulged me at every turn. Unlike many adults, she never made me feel bad for my vigor. I can still hear the sound of her laughing and clapping her hands together across her slight frame, squealing, “Aw, Miss Clara.”
Her default setting was caretaker. She doted on Uncle Hal, not because it was demanded, but because it was how she expressed her love. She was also a driven business woman with an impressive career in human resources, who looked equally and as effortlessly beautiful in a suit as she did in blue jeans and a leather jacket.
When my mother moved back to Kansas City from the East Coast five years ago to aid with her aging parents, her sisters Beth and Karen were right beside her as they lost their Mom and Dad in quick succession. Shortly thereafter, my mom reported that Karen was displaying symptoms of forgetfulness. She’d get lost in big stores, and sometimes wouldn’t show up when she told my mom she’d leave her house to meet her for a walk, one of their favorite pastimes.
Which brings us back to the cruise terminal. My Uncle Hal had debated whether to proceed with the cruise once Karen’s symptoms started progressing. The choice was: watch her deteriorate while touring the world or watch her deteriorate in their home. Ultimately, Hal decided they would go.
I wrestled with images of Karen losing control of herself or her surroundings, in stark contrast with the polished, observant, articulate woman of my memories. I looked for the signs in the four hours I had with them. Karen seemed engaged, her bright eyes scanning the low ceilings of my lane house, giggling conspiratorially when the waiter brought us a round of cocktails at lunch. But when I walked her to the bathroom in the Sichuan restaurant she lost her balance and her eyes went blank. She repeated the question “But Miss Clara, do you just love it here?” at least six times.
So, in reality, it was two of us attempting to find the boat, and one of us attempting to remember where she was and why she was there. When my map became useless I asked random security guards to reroute us, and was told that the departure point would be more than a kilometer away.
We picked up the pace. By this point, Karen was losing her ability to walk comfortably for long distances, but wasn't ready to admit she needed to hold onto someone to walk forward.
Our pack grew in size as we picked up other confused Americans, identifiable with their bright caps, cargo shorts, and fanny packs. Hal proudly let them know, “My niece lives here, she speaks the language, she is leading the way.”
Ultimately, we reached the dock. The cruise director was there, brandishing a brightly colored flag, shuffling everyone towards the causeway. I hugged Karen extra tight, not sure when I’d see her next. She told me she loved me, and loved getting to see my home. They gave me one last wave as they boarded, Karen shading her eyes with the side of her delicate and perfectly manicured hand.
Eventually, Karen and Hal made it to the end of their cruise, but Karen’s condition had worsened significantly. After a few agonizing months at home with Hal as her full-time caretaker, he relented and they started looking for facilities that could care for her.
Last month I went back to Kansas City, and on a blustery Sunday morning, went with my mom, my brother, and Hal to see Karen for the first time since we waved goodbye. Walking into the memory care unit felt like entering another universe: kind-eyed attendants pushing wheelchairs cradling patients three times their age, and the antiseptic smell of hand sanitizer mingling with the faint scent of cafeteria lunch.
While Hal went to fetch Karen from her room, we settled into a table at ‘Amelia’s,’ a room set up in the retro style of a 1950s diner for patients and their families to visit. An ironic nod to nostalgia in a place that is home to those who are losing their grip on a lifetime of memories.
My vibrant, gorgeous, always full of energy aunt was wheeled in by Hal in a custom-built wheelchair. I was stunned by the way Karen looked extremely frail, but absurdly young. It felt like a cruel joke time was playing on her.
She recognized me, and although she sporadically called me her sister, my Uncle Tommy, and her husband Hal—I felt confident she knew who I was.
On my last morning there my mom and I visited one more time, and Karen’s spirits were brighter; at points she sat straight up. “I just want to be together.” She murmured over and over. “I love my sister. I just love my sister,” she repeated.
She alternated between expressions of urgency, “We have to finish that, we don’t have much time” to expressions of release, “I don’t worry. I’m happy here. I don’t worry.”
My mom reassured her that she doesn’t have to worry anymore, that it’s her turn to get taken care of, to move with time. When my mom told her that I am going to be a bride, and that the tall Australian fellow she’d met over pancakes four years ago would soon be my husband, she looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You are lucky. You are so lucky. You are so beautiful. You are so lucky.”
We stood up to leave and this time Karen’s eyes welled up with tears. I felt an intense pressure in my chest, and a guilty relief that my goodbyes with her aren’t as frequent as that of my mom’s, my aunt’s, or Hal’s.
“I love you. I miss you. I think about you. I miss you.” We repeated to each other over and over.
I looked back at the puzzled sadness on her face, and it felt like we were back on the dock in Shanghai. ‘I love you, you’re lucky,’ her eyes whispered, though her lips remained still.
Across the world, I find myself repeating the words my Aunt Karen said to me that day. I am lucky. Time isn’t something I should race, it’s something I should treasure.
Clara Elizabeth Davis is the founder of Unravel and co-founder of marketing and creative agency Taste Collective. She's been in Shanghai for six years now, feels passionate about donuts and jianbing, treasures her rescue animals Luna & Otis, and firmly believes in the power of storytelling to connect and empower all of us.
Cover Illustration by Bernard Wun @enjoymydrawings
Story Edited by Sarah Boorboor