POST-ELECTION PURGE

 

I’m going to get this out, and tomorrow I’m going to go back to trying to pour love and hope into my little corner of the world. Because that’s what we are supposed to be doing.

We are a people who cannot heed warning signs. Creating distortions of truth, pushing faulty theologies, and defending self-serving realities. Shakespeare may have been correct when he penned “Hell is empty because all of the devils are here.”

My particular disappointment is with those of the household of faith who refused to admit the fruit was rotten. Churches spewing nationalism instead of Christ’s clear examples. Members so emboldened by their judgment of the perceived sins of others, they could not stop themselves to love the least of these. It was a horrific display of everything Jesus said not to do. They chose political power, no matter how hate-filled the rhetoric. They sided with the Empire. A tale as old and fraught as time.

And so now I wait in the grief. Standing by the tomb that holds what was our best hope for a kinder, fairer, greener home for our grandchildren to inherit. Deception and misrepresentation are the orders of the day and they are the only offerings on the menu. I am not hungry. In fact, swallowing any of this makes me physically ill.

I am sad and I am tired. While the world looked on in horror, our country barreled headlong and willingly into the abyss with a madman at the helm because somehow an imminently qualified intelligent black woman was too threatening to the status quo. We’ve been swept up by petty indignations, fear, and conspiracy.

I feel my body bracing itself against the coming tide. The bluster and pretense of a barely-veiled evil unleashed. The swan song of our democracy. I believe eyes will eventually be opened. But vision will come too late.

Hi Friends. If you are here looking for the newest writings about my Dad, they are added frequently to the bottom of the 3/26/23 Alzheimer's Window post.

SORRY.  I know it is inconvenient.  But I find it easier to keep track of things that way.  Thank you for reading and MOST of all, for encouraging.  XO

Looking Beyond the Glass

 

The window above my kitchen sink

is chronically in need of cleaning.

 

But the annual push of yellow,

courtesy of self-sufficient bulbs 

has bolstered my spirits for weeks

through that needy pane of glass.

 

The blooms are shriveling now,

atop still resolute spring-green stems.

I notice the smudges again.

Contemplating vinegar and newspaper. 

 

But above the birdhouses,

the wisteria’s tiny hands are unfolding,

just in time.

 

Looking beyond the glass,

there is always consolation. 

An Alzheimers Window

1 Short Term

Most people can deftly hold about seven items in their short-term memory. If rehearsed and if you’re lucky, those items can stick longer, shuttling over to long term memory. My Dad has not been lucky in the memory department these last two years, and he is not alone. By 2050, the number of people in this country with some form of dementia will climb to over 140 million. 

 

Dad enjoys interacting with his two-year old great granddaughter on FaceTime. He laughs and tries to make her laugh. She brings him joy. But he has no idea who she is. 

He still mostly remembers my 27- and 35-year-old kids. In fact, very recently after she visited him in the hospital, he told Mom that my daughter Aubrey is “as good as they come.”  He may not always “know” things about her, but he knows they have a bond. He knows how Aubrey’s presence makes him feel. 

 

Memory storage in the brain of someone suffering with Alzheimer’s is all about tossing out anything recent in favor of preserving the details of one’s childhood. Not because childhood was always that great. It’s just that the tracks of those memories are more deeply embedded. They’ve been around longer. The researchers don’t know everything, but they know a protein called amyloid-beta is accumulating and damaging nerve cells in my father’s brain. His face lights up when I walk into the room. He waves and smiles. I’ve been a part of my father’s life for 61 years. Not a short term. But last month when he sang a heartfelt Happy Birthday song to me, he got a little stuck when he reached the part where he had to recall my name. 

 

2 The Keys

Both the primary care doctor and the neurologist determined Dad was no longer safe behind the wheel of a car. Rather than leave it to us to be the bad guys, they had him take a test, which inevitably led to the sale of his car. He hated this loss of independence more than anything. Before receiving his test results, he told me for the sixth or seventh time that they were making him test. I told him I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him what to do but that if I was in control someday and thought he was unsafe, I would hide his car keys. A smile creased his face, the crow's feet along his eyes crinkling at the familiar lines where millions of good-humored smiles had gone before. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “I’ll just have another set made now.” I told him to go right ahead because he’d soon forget where he put them. We both laughed a hearty laugh. But it wasn’t funny.

 

3 Dad’s Wallet

It’s missing. Mom is beating herself up for not taking control of it sooner. We’ve torn the house apart looking for it when Dad discovered it was not in its usual place. All his credit cards and important identifying documents. Photos. Not a small wad of cash. The wallet could be hiding with what we assume is now a stockpile of electric shavers and reading glasses which are disappearing at a rapid clip. Before last year, theirs was like everyone else’s house where only Tupperware lids and an occasional sock went on the lam. 

 

4 Lint

We know it’s coming. The time when Dad will need more care than my mother is able to give. But for today, she is taking a break on the couch to read a book and he is sitting contentedly nearby, industriously picking persistent imaginary lint from his pants. It’s a full-time job.

5 All Those Books

Dad loves the written word. He has spent a lifetime accumulating titles, perusing book sales, falling asleep to books, marking scripture in his vast array of Bible translations, and sharing his findings with anyone who will listen. Dad and I recorded some of his childhood memories a few months into the cognitive decline.  I was grateful to have the time with him and to finish the book when we did.  

He still likes the feel of a newspaper in his hands, and he still reads a word or two, or spies a random phrase. He plucks them off the page and repeats them, feeling the weight of the words on his tongue. He searches for connections. But his books are dusty, and he no longer needs a bookmark to hold his place. He could start fresh in an hour and the words would feel new.

6 The Fall

The first time Dad fell during the night, it was against the bathtub rim as he traversed the familiar sleepy landscape to his nearby bathroom. He barely complained and his bruising and two fractured ribs healed without a whole lot of fanfare.

 The second falling occasion, not quite a year later, might as well have been a siren, announcing to all our unwilling ears that the time had come. We’d reached the defining moment between patching enough normalcy to convince ourselves it was a sustainable situation and realizing it was not so at all. 

This beloved man was going to continue to wander to the kitchen in the dark, innocently foraging for midnight cake.  

And he would do it without his own knowledge. We couldn’t keep him safe. 

Long suffering, he complained only of a bellyache the following day. 

Mom didn’t know he had fallen. HE didn’t know he had fallen. Several appointments and tests later, four more jagged rib fractures and internal bleeding told the sorrowful tale that my father would not be returning to my parents’ home. My mother found the offending cake crumbs in his bed while he was fastened with wires, tubes and safety restraints in an ICU bed. Dad has always loved cake. 

7 A Time for Tears

After two solid weeks, Dad was moved to rehab. On his first full day there, Dad and I got into a bit of trouble with the staff for walking companionably to his bathroom during dinner without his walker. We strolled arm in arm like we were on holiday. And he was speedy! Despite four decades in nursing, I had not been made aware they were forcing him to use a walker. I tried and failed to appreciate their good intentions. I’m hoping Dad can move to his private memory care unit room soon. 

 

It's been extraordinarily difficult to leave him in the evenings once sundowning steals his clarity. Tonight, he tucked his newspaper under his arm, started to rise from the chair and said, "I'll just follow you out." Trusting me to show him the way. I had to tell him he couldn't leave and the disappointment in his eyes pierced me. I had a good sob on my way home…the leaking from which lasted about three days. 

 8 The Green

Dad used to wake at the crack of dawn to get nine holes of golf under his belt by the time the woman at Twin Woods Golf Course was restocking the stubby pencils and opening the snack shop for the morning coffee drinkers. When Mom told me the staff at Harmony House met my father today and he hit a few balls on their unit’s putting mat, a wedge of cautious hope cracked open in the deepest recesses of my heart. 

 

9 Dinnertime

It's 4:30 pm and the nursing home rehab unit is gearing up for dinner service. Leon to our right is mumbling about house inspections, the lady to Dad’s left is weaving on an invisible loom, the lady across the table is grunt/chanting and Dad is watching the young men delivering juice (and commenting that they don’t know what they’re doing). A woman across the way is cradling a plastic baby and my father has already remarked that she’s got her hands full but must be managing okay since he hadn’t yet heard the infant cry. This room is filled with stories too numerous to detail. My Dad, in his adorable milk chocolate brown cardigan sweater leaned conspiratorially over to me and whispered, “what a nut house.” Seconds later and with no awareness of the irony, my sweet father greeted the athletic young juice boy with ‘Good Morning!” 

 

10 One Day at a Time

Dad has only two days left in rehab before he moves to Memory Care. When I asked him how his day was today, he smiled and immediately broke out in song. “One day at a time, sweet Jesus, that’s all I’m asking from you….” And just like that, a man across the room was choking a bit on his dinner, coughing forcefully and dramatically. The aide was doing what he could to assist. With big eyes, my father looked to me and whispered. “Gadzooks!”  

 

11 Dollars

It never mattered that at some point we were earning more money than Dad ever made. He’d still try to tuck dollars into my palm, shove them deep into my coat pockets, and hide them inside the zippers and clasps of my purses. I told him I didn’t need his dollars but he’d continue to pursue sending me home $5 richer when he had the chance. The dollars were usually accompanied by instructions to drive safely and punctuated with the same question he has asked me at every departure juncture for six decades. The question always comes quietly, into my right ear as he holds on tight for our goodbye hug. “Do you need anything?” How many ways can I tell him it’s the embrace for me?  It has been a long several months since he last remembered to ask me his habitual question, even with our now daily parting. However, with an unexpected lucidity, he remembered tonight…waiting for my answer in case there was some way he could be helpful. As if he is in any position to protect and provide. Rest easy, sweet Dad. You have always given me all I need.

 

12 Sign Here

My son and daughter-in-law are visiting from VA so the three of us went to visit Dad this afternoon. He was thrilled to see us all and joined in the conversation when he could. Isaac and I were telling stories of years gone by when Dad delighted us with a short but beautiful tenor line from the song, “The Way We Were.” (Memories…light the corners of my mind….) Irony, friends. Life is chock full of it. Dad moved in to the Memory Care Unit yesterday. It’s a spacious, colorful, inviting and serene atmosphere. A place called Harmony House. We were visiting in Dad’s room, filled with his own furniture and belongings when the Director stopped by. A nice young lady who came to see how Dad was settling in, to tell him they were so glad to have him, and to collect three signatures from him on her stack of paperwork. My mother had apparently already signed. Three signatures was a TALL ask for a man who can no longer write. 

The link between my father’s brain and hand has become faulty and it is basically impossible for Dad to just effortlessly sign his name. In December while he and I attempted to surprise my mother with a Christmas bathrobe from Dad, I discovered that signing the tag was the hardest part of all. I eventually realized that making an example word for him was helpful. With an extreme measure of concentration and not a small dose of frustration, Dad can painstakingly copy “Bob” from my example. But holding the pen correctly is challenging and Dad requires my finger pointing repeatedly at the spot where he should try to form the copied letters because his brain wants very much to choose a different location for the scribbles. 

The Director soon realized what a difficult task she had assigned, and she gratefully accepted my offer to date the three wiggly “Bobs” for my Dad. It was a little stressful for all of us, to be honest. For Dad, for the Director, and for the three signature-attempt witnesses who love that man so deeply. 

But then as this stranger he’d never met before left our little gathering with her capped pen and parting well wishes, assuring us how nice it had been to meet us all, my sweet Dad beamed a warm forgiving smile and answered her farewell in spades. “Bye! LOVE YOU….” And all four of our hearts felt the depth of Dad’s kindness in that generously misplaced sentiment. 

 

13 The Walker

When we arrived late Sunday morning for a visit, we were told Dad was attending church and would be back soon. My dear husband went out to watch for him in the cluster of Memory Care residents about to depart the chapel, just down the hall. And there he was. More spry than his present company, my father lifted his front-wheeled walker high above his head to get out of the “traffic jam” in the aisle. His son-in-law watched from afar with amusement and the aide (NOT amused) was quick to respond. Yep. That ridiculous trusty walker is coming in clutch….

 

14 Grumpus

When my granddaughter looks particularly grouchy in a photo, her Auntie B labels her a “Grumpus.” Dad was a complete Grumpus this evening for my nightly visit. I found him sitting by the kitchen door, downtrodden and nursing a Diet Coke, several drops of which had fallen, perfectly beaded and intact on his light gray cardigan like raindrops on a freshly-waxed car. He was in full sundown mode and was totally miserable, a trait completely unlike my father. 

I tried distracting him with photos of family visitors over the last three days but he was NOT having it. Having no recollection of any of those visits, he was just further convinced he was being punked by the system. He reported that the day had gone from bad to worse and that he was feeling “not right in the head.” 

My second distraction attempt was walking him over to his seat at dinner where it soon became apparent that the beef cubes in his stew were making him angrier by the second. There was so much chewing. Angry chewing, despite almost 9 decades as a lover of all foods. His normally dear table mate was not particularly helpful, either. Dear Edward, battling his own memory misfires was clearly mistaking Dad for his lifelong BFF and was animatedly trying to  reminisce with Dad about how they used to “empty the wagons” together, recalling with undisguised admiration what a “fine worker” my Dad was…. As if my father’s own confusion (and the dang beef cubes) weren’t agitating enough. My father, with unveiled disgust at having no recollection of the alleged loaded wagons just shook his head in frustration. I needed to get him away from Edward. 

Attempt three was walking him to his Edward and beef-free room, settling him in his recliner and looking with him at his heavy photographic tome of golf courses around the world. He agreed that it was a fine book which he fully intended to “study at a later time” but at that moment he didn’t trust that folks would leave his “equipment” (identified with a flourish of the hand toward his two parked walkers and his television) alone and he insisted he needed to start packing up his things to head on home. As a last-ditch effort, we paged through one of his Bibles. He did pause his grouching long enough to note that the Bible was well-maintained…. I pointed out his notes in the margin and he decided it was best that I return it to the bookshelf in order to keep it in good condition. Deep sigh. 

After 90 minutes I had pulled out all the soothing and reassuring tricks I could muster, and I was coming up decidedly empty. In my defeat, I inserted a golf DVD, much in the same way I would occasionally resort to plopping my unwieldy toddler in front of Sesame Street on the days I had run out of workable solutions for keeping my sanity. Mercifully, Dad was agreeable to a kiss on the cheek, our routine “love you” exchange and he didn’t try to follow me out. (Heck, I’d probably worn him down with my fake optimism and he wanted to just be a Grumpus in peace.) The young ponytailed aide promised me she would check on him and try to lure him out with a cup of coffee and a brownie. Soon. So I took myself home to stress-eat, like any respectable nurse-turned-patient‘s-daughter would do. 

15 Eat Your Peas

Dad’s response when I arrived at the exact same time as his bowl of split pea soup this evening was incredibly heartening, particularly after his cantankerous mood earlier this week. “Well, HELLO! It’s my beautiful daughter! Yabba-Dabba-Doo!” He grinned expectantly as I pulled up a chair. Please know that I don’t believe for a second I still qualify as a beautiful daughter, but it warmed my heart just the same to see him happy, engaged, and predictably dismissing the saltine packet which accompanied his soup. He hungrily scooped and enjoyed every single spoonful of that shockingly spring-green soup…cracker-free.

 

16 Looking for Help

Two of the men living in Dad’s unit have requested my assistance. 

A gentleman of at least 90 years of age stopped me on my way in and wondered if I might call his father. He looked fretful, like the kindergartner who once found her way into my school nurse office, hoping I’d dial up a parent to come and rescue her from learning numbers and letters. 

Another fellow with billowy wisps of soft white hair asked me with heartbreaking hope if perhaps I’d seen his wife while I was “out and about.” He couldn’t remember when he’d last been with her and he had been searching for some time. He mentioned her by name, assuming I knew her well. Gosh, how I hated to disappoint. A few minutes later, the hopeful man appeared to bump up against a jagged memory and his spoon froze midway to his mouth. He mumbled quietly into his ice cream, putting words to the realization she was gone and that he’d be buried with her…soon enough. 

The line between joy and grief is painfully flimsy in this place. 

 

17 Pretzels

When my Dad was growing up in Philadelphia, he’d buy a cart of soft pretzels in the morning and sell them for a profit until they were gone. I think about Dad every time I bite into a soft pretzel. 

It was dinnertime when I entered the locked Memory Care unit this evening but my father’s table-mate was sitting elsewhere and Dad’s placemat held only an untouched glass of water. Dad was nowhere to be seen. With a bit of worry, I walked down the hallway to room #17 and found him snoozing peacefully in his recliner, covered by a cozy fleece blanket. I couldn’t wake him at all and soon deduced his early evening nap was actually an Ativan slumber. 

Apparently, it had been a very hard afternoon. After Mom headed home around lunchtime, Dad had repeatedly packed up his things and was out in the hallways, nooks and crannies, searching for exit signs. He became increasingly agitated when they told him he needed to stay. 

They told me he was not to be consoled and they finally medicated him so he could rest. So my food-loving papa slept through dinner service tonight. When that sedative wears off, I sure hope he finds the paper bag I left on his bed. A fresh soft pretzel might help.

 

18 Day-Old

During my childhood, there was a place on 3rd Street in East Greenville where the intoxicating scent of sugar and yeast would hang in the air like lazy clouds of looming calories. The day-old shelf at Brunner’s Bakery was a wonder. A half-price cheese danish even my ten-year-old dimes could afford. The bag with my Dad’s day-old soft pretzel was not nearly as enticing. He and I found it wedged between his right thigh and the armrest of his recliner. Dad opened it with glee and gamely attempted a snack, but that pretzel was becoming fossilized like a trunk of petrified wood and was too much for my father’s clattering dentures. 

 

Mercifully, Dad’s mood was sweet today. The man I know. We watched the last half of The Greatest Game Ever Played, a feel-good Disney DVD about his favorite pastime…golf. Just before the exciting conclusion, a gentle knock on the door invited Dad to lunch. One has to literally obstruct Dad’s path with his aluminum walker in order to get him to use it and despite the walker (I mean, obstacle), he zips up and down the hallways pushing that thing practically at a run. At least two of the nurse’s aides have begun referring to him as “Speedy.” My mother has ironically attached my father’s red luggage tag to his walker, so that when he unintentionally (perhaps intentionally) leaves it somewhere, it’s easy to spot. 

 

I could hardly keep up with Dad on his way to the lunch table and he was already seated and working on pears and cottage cheese when I skated across the dining room, pushing an unused and cumbersome chair from another table so I could slide in close. Jokingly pointing me out with his thumb, Dad announced to Edward, “I brought my bumblebee.” They both chuckled at my expense, and I’ve never been happier to be the object of ridicule. 

 

The slab of meatloaf on that red plate was overwhelming in size , so I cut half of it into small pieces, trying to make it more appealing.  I told Dad there was no need to tip me for my cutting services since he and Mom fed me for 20 years, sometimes working two jobs. I reminded him too about the pathetic way he would butter my bread before I was skilled enough to do it myself. Huge clumps of hard butter applied with three terse motions, leaving my formerly intact slice of bread tattered with gaping holes. He laughed because he knew it was true. It wasn’t long before he told me he was too stuffed for another bite. “You can stop when you’re full, Dad, there’s no Clean Plate Club here.” A smile. “Yes…I can,” he answered, raising his eyebrow in comic play. “But WILL I??” And he and Edward laughed again. 

 

19 An Outing

Over the last months at home, Dad enjoyed puttering around the kitchen at any time of day, munching on breakfast cakes and peeling bananas, even when he wasn’t particularly hungry. I brought my father a banana today and it felt like I was sneaking contraband into the facility. Dad and I were seated in the common area recliners, banana tucked furtively under my sleeve, when Mom breezed into the unit, her agenda thwarted. She had planned to take my father on his first official outing, a drive for a milkshake near my house and to surprise me with a visit. Instead, the two of us took Dad to Freddy Hill for an ice cream date. 

He was 100% on board with the idea of a jailbreak and happy to don his baseball cap and jacket. It was a good thing Mom and I were both in attendance for the outing because Dad has lost so much weight, even with his belt at maximum cinch, his pants fell dramatically down to his knees even before we exited Harmony House. I spent the rest of the excursion doubling as a human pair of suspenders, my fingers twisted through Dad’s back belt loop, providing very necessary insurance against indecent exposure. Dad thoroughly enjoyed the strawberry milkshake and riding shotgun in my mother’s candy apple red CRV in the springtime sunshine. 

20 Unsolicited Advice

It’s apparently not enough to be ordered around by one Dad. Now I’ve got two of them telling me what to do. When I departed Dad’s assigned dinner table for two tonight, it was like a bossy duet performed with gusto by Dad and Edward. “Be careful on the highway!” “It’s raining cats and dogs. Have your wipers ready!” “Do you have a full tank of gas?!” They were so focused on paternal duty, I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’m only 3.5 miles from home.

21 Puttering

 

Dad has always enjoyed puttering around in his own space. Keeping detailed pencil notes of every penny spent on a ledger in his drawer, moving things around in the garage, shining up his golf clubs, paging through his books, and tinkering with his electronics until he has an overwhelming mass of wires and cords and it becomes necessary to call my husband to help figure out what happened.

 

After his Alzheimer’s diagnosis, “chair-napping” replaced puttering as the favored pastime. Dad still putters in his room at Harmony House, but now with zero productivity unless you count things like pulling pictures from the wall to carry them around, peeking into drawers, standing in the middle of the room with no apparent goal, and hiding the remote control from himself (and us).

 

While I was using a wet wipe to remove the persistent evidence of chocolate eclair from Dad’s fingers at lunchtime today, BINGO was announced for 2 PM.  Friend, Edward (who is practically the Memory Care Unit mayor), was ALL IN and could hardly wait. My father…not so much. “Are you going to play BINGO today, DAD?” He looked at me and answered gently, in case for some reason my feelings would be hurt by a refusal. His words were cautiously vague, but the unmistakable gist was HECK, NO. “I think I’m going to go see about my room.” And up he popped to try to scurry back without his walker before some patient care technician handed him a Bingo card.

Thankfully, he seems to like his new personal space. I walked him to his room, and he chose the plush wing chair vantage point to eye his domain. There will soon be puttering.

22 Unsettled

Dad was pretty grouchy for Mom this morning and still out of sorts when I arrived after work. The scene in the dining room when I entered included Edward departing the dinner table and one of the aides trying her best to coax Dad to take a bite of something. He was flatly refusing. 

 

I came up and rubbed his back and was gifted with a big smile and a “HELLO there.” He basically dismissed the aide, pointing to me and reporting, “See? My baby is here.” I think the aide was grateful to pass the baton to me. When I sat down with Dad and suggested he pick up the grilled cheese and take a bite, he seemed fascinated to find food on his plate and asked, oh really?” He complied immediately with my request and soon ate most of it. The vanilla ice cream and apple juice followed as I regaled him with the details of his grandson’s business trip to Seattle today and the bathroom procedures at the Forest School his great-granddaughter will attend in the fall. 

 

We went back to his room and tried to think of names for his aluminum walker. He’s completely disgusted with it and so I decided to join his campaign against it. We never settled on a name because we could only identify two people my father disliked enough to name that blasted walker after them. Suggesting those two names was the only good laugh I got out of him tonight. 

 

While Dad asked questions about what to do next, which items in the room needed gathering, and where he was supposed to be going, I worked at fixing the remote control, which had earlier ceased responding to the insistent pressing of buttons. His mind was very unsettled tonight. He felt surely he was supposed to be doing something, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was. 

 

He was repeatedly surprised to learn he was in “his room,” that everything in there belonged to him, that all of his belongings and he were safe there, and that he didn’t need to go anywhere. About the fourth time I told him to just rest in his recliner, he seemed to hear me. He exhaled and visibly relaxed into the chair. 

 

I don’t expect his serenity to last long tonight. His mind is too busy trying to make connections without a clear pathway. 

I kissed him goodbye and hoped he would be lulled by the DVD of the Steelers defeating the Seahawks in the 2006 Super Bowl. 

I can’t repair my Dad...but at least I managed to fix the remote control. 

23 The Sweet Stuff

“Have you met my daughter?”  It’s the question Dad asks Edward every single night.  And every night, Edward and I go along with the routine, telling Dad we have met. Tonight Edward told Dad, “I know this girl.  You have good family.  They come around." (And it should be mentioned that this dinner table with two 90 year-old gentlemen is about the only place I still qualify as a "girl.")

Tonight was a night for the sweet stuff. First there were brownies, which made Dad and Edward so much happier about their evening meal situation.  They had soldiered on with the soup and pizza, getting nearly halfway through before deciding it was too laborious a task. But then the brownie plates arrived in a very cold state, as though they’d just been retrieved from a freezer. The two men decided those plates had probably come from the Arctic.  Dad’s brownie looked perfectly gooey, albeit still frozen on arrival.  Edward’s brownie edges were so well-done, there was an audible crunch when he set his teeth into it.  But Edward was not deterred and hummed his way through the entire large square.  Dad’s clackety dentures worked overtime and any observer could see he was putting much more effort into cutting and enjoying small squares of brownie than he had just been willing to expend on the rest of his dinner.

 

The second sweetness came from the connection we made about 30 minutes later with my youngest sister in Florida.  We called her on FaceTime so she and Dad could see each other and have a nice chat.  Carol received the grand tour of Dad’s room and they had a marvelous time catching up.  I think it did them both a world of good.

 

24 Holding My Breath

A homemade chocolate chip banana muffin and a mind-numbing televised golf tournament provided the framework for my late afternoon visit with Dad today.  

 

 

I’ve noticed my contentment has been identically mirroring my father’s contentment these last weeks. If he’s having a good day, my mind is at ease, and I can breathe. The reverse is unfortunately also true. 

Though I try to don my capable nurse-hat and brace myself for anything, I’ll admit I hold my breath a little bit when I press the button for entry…never quite knowing what I’ll find. I’m so grateful when it’s a good day and I can be a daughter instead of the licensed professional. 

“Halloooo!” Edward called as we emerged from Dad’s room at dinner time. “I’m coming!" my father responded. And down the hall they zoomed. 

I said my goodbyes. “Love you, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow. You won’t even have time to miss me!"

Dad was ready with his answer. “Oh really? Well, I think I miss you already.” 

 

My sweet Dad. I miss you, too.

25 Showing Up

The other day, one of my dearest friends asked me to consider whether my daily visits to see my father is a sustainable model, logistically and emotionally. 

 

So I’ve thought about it, and here’s the thing. Obviously I am not going to beat myself up if it becomes occasionally impossible to squeeze a visit from the four-hour evening remains of my workday schedule. But when I can do it, it’s going to happen. I’ll tell you why. 

 

The school which employed me for 20 years appears annually in the local Christmas parade. On one occasion, just over 5 years ago, some coworkers and I rode along on the school float while some of our students handed out freebies to the crowds. We sat like glorified pumpkins on a produce cart, smiling and pretending we weren’t freezing. It was no big deal, but I had mentioned it to my father, in passing, maybe a week prior. About midway through the parade route as I sat waving on the back of that Christmas float, I looked out and realized my Papa had made the trek. He stood on the sidewalk behind the seated curb-folk, smiling back at me and beaming with fatherly pride. I was almost 57 years old, for goodness' sake. It took no special skill to sit in the December air, waving like the Queen. But I cried, to be loved so well. 

 

It’s really hard to visit every day, I'm not going to lie. 

But showing up for people you love matters more than can be measured. 

 

 

 

26 Silly

My father has always had a silly streak.  Humor is an integral part of who he is, and I adore this about him.

One of the boys I dated in high school didn’t know what to make of my father when he arrived to pick me up for our date.  It was the late seventies and Dad walked into the living room in our home wearing a bulky headset. His ears were hidden by the black Naugahyde, his old-school headphones cushioned with padding like an overstuffed sofa. The connector/headphone jack was not attached to anything…but my father-with a sly look on his face, held that plug aloft, pointing it toward my date.  As Dad inched closer to the poor boy (who by this time was surely questioning his decision to ask me out), Dad began to slowly beep.  Yes…beep.  Methodical beeping tones poured from my father’s lips, his cadence speeding up as Dad approached Franklin.  By the time the wire with Dad’s plug-in feature touched the skin on my date’s wrist, Dad’s beeping had reached an absurd crescendo, which matched the rising redness on my cheeks and rivaled the fight or flight reaction which was undoubtedly at full tilt inside of Franklin.  And then Dad laughed and extended his arm for a handshake.  A classic introduction to my father.

In spite of the Alzheimer's, Dad's silliness still comes through. It's captured in the twinkle of his eye, in the knowing glances when he thinks someone else is a little cuckoo, and in his precious spurts of laughter which are a balm to my weary soul.  Sometimes when his funny bone is tickled, he just can't quite hold it inside.  

The sillies came through this evening when he realized the antics that were happening down the hall in his room.   He, Edward and I sat companionably at the dinner table, the two men working on their enormous chocolate chip cookies.  It was basically a dunking contest, Edward tending to drown his cookies and then wondering aloud why the darn things were disintegrating in his coffee.  

But the amusing action was behind us, as Jim walked back and forth searching for a screwdriver and then my mother swiftly entered the scene, chasing my husband with her checkbook.  My father heard my mother's voice and before he could even crane his neck to see what was happening, she was down the hall in a flash.  "She's so fast.  I can't keep up with her," my Dad joked.  I reminded him no one can.  And his eyes twinkled.  The issue interrupting our usual calm dinner service was this: The volume on Dad's television had gone completely bonkers during the day.  For some unknown reason, all of the channels came through at a deafening volume which refused to budge...unless switched to DVD, in which case the video was barely audible. There was no controlling the volume in either direction and it was infuriating to Dad, to the aides, to my mother, and to the physical therapist who came running when he heard the television screaming so incessantly.  The Masters Tournament is happening this week, so this volume debacle needed immediate resolution for my golf-loving Dad. 

Rather than mess with the universal remote, my dependable husband solved the problem by stopping after work to buy and deliver a new television.  As soon as my mother caught wind of this happening, she was in her car, driving at what I know was an unsafe and breakneck speed, to try to write Jim a reimbursement check...which he characteristically refused.  Good fun and mayhem.  That's what it was.  Two more stubborn people have never entered the ring. We finally convinced Mom to close her checkbook and buy us dinner...which she did, on the way home.  I think my Dad, all silliness spent, was glad to be rid of the lot of us so he could watch his new television in peace. 

27    500 Hats

 

Dr. Seuss wrote the book, The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. You’d think maybe Seuss knew my father who is also a Bartholomew. Dad likely had close to 500 hats before Mom’s wardrobe redirection efforts began in my Dad’s closet at home. 

When I walked onto the Memory Care unit this evening, the first thing I spied was the cap my Dad brought back from Croatia. It was sitting on the shelf in the back corner of the theater room behind the rows of seats and directly next to the hidden corner chair my father prefers. I’ve found him there on several occasions, watching old movies, staring at nature shows, or nodding along to singalong hymns on the big screen. Dad often buys boy’s hats because even a men’s size small is somehow too large. 

I delivered the souvenir cap to his tiny and increasingly balding head in the dining room where I found him between the soup and main entree portions of his meal. He was thrilled to see me and had a great appetite tonight, which is always a bit of a relief. I appreciate watching him enjoy his food rather than having to plead with him to take one more bite, just as I've coaxed my kids in decades past. I haven’t yet needed to pretend Dad’s fork is an airplane. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. 

 

Normally-cheerful Edward was unhappy tonight and having difficulty focusing on his green beans because he was disgusted and trying to work out why he can’t eat dinner with his wife. She has apparently been dead for a while but his faltering memory forgets that painful detail most of the time.

 

A bonus this evening. Dad called me by name and asked me to check on something for him. Some of those old synapses were actually firing. Hearing my name in the familiar tones of my father's voice was an unexpected gift.

When Dad and I walked back to his room to turn on The Masters Tournament and pick out his Easter outfit for tomorrow, I noticed the recliner and the plush wing chair had traded places. “What happened in here, Dad? Did someone move your furniture around?” Settling into the wing chair, he looked sly and told me he had rearranged the furniture. When I asked him why, he grinned and said, “I like it to be fair. Both of the chairs get a chance.” 

 

It’s hard to argue with logic like that. 

 

Addendum: On the drive home, I found out my mother switched the chairs in Dad’s room earlier that day because his back was bothering him and she thought the wing chair offered more support. So it seems Dad basically fabricated a tall tale to fill in the missing pieces of the memory. Clever fellow.

28 Pass the Pie

We decided to host Easter dinner so my Dad would have somewhere familiar to go. Mom went to the Easter service in Dock’s chapel with him this morning and then drove him over. He seemed to enjoy being here, heading right to the recliner while carrying his walker aloft instead of actually using it. 

 

He ate more than I’ve seen him eat at any dinner over the last month and it felt good to have him in our home again.

 

But he faded fast, looking like he might drift off to sleep midway through his coconut custard pie. Even sipping Jim’s fresh-roasted coffee beans from Sumatra didn’t seem to help perk him up. Mom quickly recognized her husband's diminishing stamina and asked him if he was ready to go. He was ready...and he announced it was time by using one of his favorite Pennsylvania Dutch phrases. (having no idea how to spell it, I'll just write it phonetically - "game-a-hame")

It was a bittersweet day and so sobering to realize how quickly Dad has deteriorated over the last six weeks. But the dapper man in his sweater vest still mugs for the camera, hamming it up.  And boy, he loves his pie. He finished every crumb. 

29 My Hero

 

It was a rather rough night. When I arrived, Dad had lots of his belongings lined up on the bed. He’d been emptying drawers and rearranging. Along the wall were five pairs of shoes in a perfect row. I found him sitting in his wing chair with his legs crossed, the sign-in guest book balanced on his lap and the pen poised against an empty page.

 

“What are you working on, Dad?” He was miserable, the discontent just coming off of him in waves. “I’ve got three projects started here but now I can’t think what I wanted to do.” He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. A weary man. “I’m so very worn out.” 

He really did look tired. I reminded him he’d had a big day yesterday. Church in the morning and an Easter dinner to attend. It was more commotion than he’s had in almost two months. I reassured him in the most soothing tones I could muster while I put his things away. It was time to walk to dinner. 

 

Dad pushed his walker away with disgust and told me he was NOT using “that thing!”  He was more obstinate than I’ve ever seen him and only finally complied when I told him I was going to get into trouble if I let him come to dinner without it. “I won’t let you get into trouble,” he chivalrously decided, manhandling the walker as he spent his frustration by shoving it with force into position against the floor. Even playing the part of the hero, he was barely cajoled to walk to dinner with me. Once arrived, he was a picky and somnolent eater, his itty-bitty forkfuls barely making a dent in his mashed potatoes. He worked at his creamed soup employing the most tedious retrieval system I’ve ever witnessed, basically dipping the most distal tip of the spoon vertically into the bowl and eating only the near-invisible measly portion managing to cling to his spoon. It was an experiment in gravity and a form of torture to watch. 

 

Neither he nor Edward were in a congenial mood, so I filled the morose table space with childhood stories of racing up the walkway in the dwindling evening light while carrying a frying pan filled with remnants of supper to our family dog. Old memories, so Dad remembered…and he absently chewed while he listened. I talked about the menagerie of pets we’d owned in the 60s and 70s while Dad occasionally nodded along and smiled to consider Sunshine, the yellow canary who had once shared space in our dining room. 

Edward perked up for a nanosecond and reported with pride that he had kept a goat, the milk from which had saved him more than a few pennies with the grocer. 

 

Lost in the stories, they forgot to feel miserable for a little while.  As I was harping on about the flea-bitten old tomcat who came to the living room window screen on summer nights to try to woo our ginger housecat, Fluffy Minerva, I realized the entire small dining room had paused mid-fork to eavesdrop. 

30 Sleep

I don’t function well without sleep.  I worked nightshift at the hospital in my first nursing job and I felt terrible ALL.THE.TIME.   It wasn’t just the red tracks and feeling of sandpaper in my eyes.  It was the way insomnia makes the whole world feel blurry and gray.  The dull but persistent headache.  The way one’s spirit is pulled towards gloom, everything appearing worse than it is.  The way even the smoothest edges feel sharp like shards of broken glass.  But mostly, it’s the sheer desperation for just a shred of peace.

My Dad apparently isn’t sleeping at night.  He’s recently been wide awake, fidgeting and wandering.  They tell me he is occasionally “napping”  but then he is right back up.  

A sleep log is in process so those caring for him can determine the best sleep aid (and timing) to try to help him. 

Last evening when I arrived, he was nodding off into his soup bowl. And he was grumpy.

But somehow despite obvious discomfort and irritability, the sweet man looked into my eyes, and told me I shouldn’t worry. 

FAT chance of that, Dad….

There is a troublesome level of powerlessness (almost a physical ache) deep within my core as I bear witness to the aging of both of my parents.  It is reminiscent of the helpless feeling I experienced as a nurse and mother when my children were very sick. 

Kate Bowler and Jessica Richie wrote about this right of passage in their book, The Lives We Actually Have.

“Of course, I knew this would happen, but find myself surprised

when I notice them grayer, more delicate than in my mind’s eye.

I guess I thought they’d be around forever.

The adults in the room.

The ones who would always be on my team,

or know the right answer

or what to do in an emergency.

But how our roles have changed.”

31  Somewhere Along the Way

 

Mercifully, my Dad slept last night. He was in wonderful spirits when I arrived, the spike in my mood hopefully counteracting the riotous party of stress-induced gray hairs I’ve felt sprouting like spring weeds on my head this week. 

 

Dad was so engaging, chatty and agreeable, we decided to sneak in a Get-Well FaceTime call to my sister, who is suffering miserably in Florida with COVID. 

 

Dad’s appetite was back, and he worked his way through an appetizer, entree and dessert while Edward paused his meal to sing along to Nat King Cole’s “Somewhere Along the Way” and to belt out a few tenor lines (not exactly with accurate timing) during “Standing on the Promises of God.” It needs to be noted that someone clearly spends a lot of time making the perfect playlists for octogenarians. Along with his musical gifts, Edward suggested with knitted brows (and surprising good humor) that perhaps his food had been poisoned.  I told him I didn't think so and must have been convincing because he readily accepted a slice of pie just seconds later.

 

Before pie, Dad told the nurse’s aide he did not want coffee. This was a wild misrepresentation of the truth - proven when I ordered a cup for him anyway, stirred in some cream, and watched him drink every last drop while telling me how delicious coffee is….

 

Less than two years ago, Dad could walk circles around me when we went out for a neighborhood sidewalk trek. He was very speedy. He now sports a shuffling gait, especially when he refuses his walker, the way he did tonight. He takes my arm as though he is the one supporting me.  I love that.

 

The only other way Alzheimer’s reared its miserable head on this otherwise joyful night was when Dad asked me to tell him how old his mother is now. There is always a dilemma in my mind about whether to just go along with whatever my father is saying or if I should try to tell him the truth in these instances.  When I'm afraid something will be particularly upsetting, I tend to avoid the truth and I divert his attention elsewhere.  But tonight, I answered his question.  I told him my grandmother died when she was 82 years old. He looked surprised.  He correctly noted that he, himself is older than 82 right now. Dad wondered why he had never been told his mother had passed. I assured him he knew all about it 26 years ago when it happened and it’s just one of those things he has recently forgotten. He thankfully accepted this without any appearance of distress or grief. So, we found a beautiful photo of his Mama at age 17 and he smiled to see her.  We talked about how much we look forward to seeing the people we've loved and lost, and Dad wondered aloud if parties are allowed in heaven. 

Tonight, I am grateful for the joyous greeting I received when I entered Dad's room. I’m grateful for the sweet aides at Harmony House who love and redirect the dear souls entrusted to their care. I’m grateful for goodbye kisses and Dad's fatherly admonition to drive carefully. 

 

I don’t know how long it will remain true, but for now I’m grateful for a loving father, who still knows me. 

32 True Grit

 

When I stepped onto the unit tonight, Dad was out in the common area helping a very confused old woman (whose walker was decked out like a parade) find her way to a seat. She had no idea what was happening and was asking questions which were impossible to answer. Dad didn’t have his own walker but guided the distressed woman to a recliner. Once his job was done, I asked him if he is working in Memory Care now. He responded, “Well, I HAVE to! These people need help.”

Dad was in rare form this evening, joking and teasing. To match his fun mood, we FaceTimed my son, Isaac. The two of them have always been peas in a pod for high jinks. The call did not disappoint.

On the walk to dinner, Dad and I sang one of his favorites, “Here we stand like birds in the wilderness….” (See classic clip below of Dad singing that catchy tune.  This was almost exactly 3 years ago, and I can't decide if I get more amusement from Dad's stirring rendition or Mom's predictable reaction.) 

When Dad entered the dining room with his celebratory vibe, Edward looked up with vexation. He was NOT having it and told Dad to “Knock it off, or the next time you slip on the ice, I’m not helping you!” Voices were raised (Dad's because he was in full-nonsense mode and Edward's...decidedly impatient with my father’s antics). In the interest of avoiding an accelerating spectacle, I redirected them both to their vegetable beef soup. 

 

The main entree was not well-received. Edward and Dad buried the hatchet over their shared opinion that the over-large slices of pizza required too much chewing. 

 

After dinner, Dad and I linked arms and did a sweep of the entire unit in search of his recurrently missing walker.  During our search, we fortuitously discovered a copy of the 1969 version of True Grit, (just waiting for us to snatch it up) on the DVD shelf of the activity room. Once Dad's runaway walker was secured, we went back to his room and watched the film together (at least until Mattie hired John Wayne to avenge her murdered father). 

 

Grit is defined as “courage and resolve.” I’d sure like to order up a large helping of that elusive trait for every one of us. 

 

At parting, Dad and I sang our second duet of the night.  This time it was a goodbye version of “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll see you tomorrow...it’s only a day away….” Singing with my Dad is a singular blessing. (Even more enjoyable when Edward isn't scowling at us.)

33 There’s Good News Tonight

 

Dad’s long-term memory is sometimes shockingly sharp. 

Conversation turned to the topic of radios when visiting my father this afternoon. Dad called my husband by name, and when Jim asked Dad what he listened to on the radio as a kid, Dad had an answer without missing a beat. “Gabriel Heatter.” 

I had to look that one up. Heatter was apparently a radio commentator whose World-War II era sign-on was “There’s good news tonight.” He retired 62 years ago, yet my father remembers him clearly. 

(Also, how stinking cute is my Daddy with that big old radio?)

At this point, most of Dad's old memories are still intact.  Dad did not, however, recall that his sweetheart (of very nearly 70 years) had been visiting with him earlier today. In fact, Mom's visit ended less than an hour before our arrival.

Alzheimer's basically takes a blowtorch to current recall and damages the area of the brain responsible for creating and retrieving memories.  The more recent the memory, the more destruction from that blowtorch. We can make Dad happy in the moment, but pretty much the minute we leave, he will have absolutely no memory of the time we have just spent with him. The heartbreaking reality is: every one of Dad's memory-making opportunities has passed. 

I love making Dad smile.  Giving him hugs.  Knowing he feels our love in the moments we spend together. 

It's a meager consolation and not really feeling like "good news tonight." 

34  Fire Drills

 

I hate the sinking feeling I get when Dad’s seat at the dinner table is empty. Prior to my arrival, he had eaten a little of the pasta from his soup and then refused the rest of his meal, choosing to depart the table.

Dad was all out of sorts, up wandering around in the hallways and trying to find a way out. He was checking all the exit doors when I found him. We walked back to his room and it looked unusually bare. He had removed everything from the walls and gathered his belongings from atop his bureau and end table. “Dad, where are all your pictures?” He pointed to his walker. “See that thing? That’s where it is.” 

Ummmmm…nope.

The aide told me he’d been “packing up” again this evening, in preparation for leaving. However, he didn’t know where he was going. Only that he had somewhere to be. 

While he and I sat in the sunroom paging through a book of old black and white photos of Philadelphia, the aides found his stash of framed pictures and artwork. He had tucked it all into the drawers along with his clothing. 

I convinced him to have some coffee. Edward was very relieved to see us coming to the table. He waved his long arms in greeting as we approached. “Here they are!” Edward had been fretting over Dad’s uneaten chicken, mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts. Nothing seems to bother Edward more than wasted food. He immediately launched into a story, pulling my father into his memory confusion. “Do you remember when we used to stand by the highway together during the fire drills??” Dad nodded that he remembered and laughed companionably at the nonexistent memory. “We would wave the cars off when they tried to pick us up!” Edward reminisced. “But then we had to go back to class.” Dad agreed whole-heartedly that the fire drills were a wonderful shared experience. 

Honestly, sometimes the two of them make me believe I’m the one losing my mind. 

35 Parsnips and Carrots

 

I watched my father tuck his brown leather pseudo-wallet (chock full of obsolete cards and a dollar) into his pants yesterday evening and I should have redirected. I did not...and the whole shebang went through the laundry with his pants earlier today. The nurses and aides are drying out its contents in the nurse’s station for reassembly at a later time.

 

Dad was in a good mood and when I arrived this afternoon and he was sporting a clear latex glove on his right hand for no apparent reason. I think he picked up the glove in the public restroom on the unit. We got rid of that nonsense in short order. 

 

Dad was a hungry guy this evening, eating every bit of the unusual combination of foods they brought him. Split pea soup, beef lasagna, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a lovely and unexpected mound of roasted parsnips. The parsnips were unique, inspiring me to stop by Produce Junction soon so I can secure a parsnip for myself.  It's even fun to say. 

 

Edward talked a blue streak tonight, barely stopping to take a breath. The story is a recurring theme about Edward's favorite vegetable.  Carrots. He adores them in any form and tells me how delicious they are, with every poke of his fork. Apparently, along with his career in plumbing and heating supply sales, he was a hobby gardener. He grew rows and rows of exceptional carrots, the superiority of which allegedly caused persons from all over Bucks County to purchase them at his roadside stand.  Edward insists they traveled from far and wide. Just for the carrots. He repeatedly describes the squealing sound of the shoppers' tires as people flocked to his impressive carrot harvest. He positively comes to life...animatedly telling us about his blasted carrots.  I have heard this story without fail every single time there’s a carrot with Edward’s dinner. Tonight, the tiniest, most insignificant carrot you can imagine (dredged from the murky split pea soup on Edward's spoon) was the catalyst for the repetitive carrot report. It’s like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, but so much worse, because at least with the film, you know there will be an ending. 

I cringe when I see that orange hue on Edward’s plate because I know what’s coming. 

But my sweet Dad always settles in for the story with rapt attentiveness and a smile of delight. As though he’s never heard it before. 

36   The New Hire

Mom and I were strategizing yesterday prior to Mom's Care Plan meeting for Dad today.  We discussed how Dad loves to be helpful and has always seemed most fulfilled when he is being useful.  

And just like that, Dad is now the official overqualified and underpaid silverware/napkin wrapper and place-setter for the Harmony House dining room.  He is their "new hire" sans paycheck.  In fact, when he showed me the contents of his recently laundered and reconstructed wallet this evening, he said, "it has come to this," pointing out his solitary one-dollar bill.  I asked him if he would like a second one and he answered predictably.  "I don't want to take money from you."  I reminded him he is ALWAYS trying to give me dollars, so without further argument, he conceded and tucked the second bill into his very clean wallet. 

I was planning to visit Dad at lunchtime today, but Mom made a special trip to my office to tell me he would not be there.  He and a few of the other residents were being taken out for lunch.  I was very curious!  Pulling up my usual chair to the dinner table, I inquired about the outing.  "Dad!  I heard you went out for lunch today!"  He looked at me as though I had three heads.  Convincingly, he responded, "I didn't go anywhere today."  Trying to corroborate my mother's report, I turned to Edward.  "How was your lunch outing today?"  Edward's expression turned immediately into the same incredulous image my father had just formed.  "I HAVE sometimes gone out for lunch... (pause for dramatic flare...) but I sure didn't do it today."  Huh.  

I tried once more.  "Dad...Mom told me you were having an outing with some others from Harmony House for lunch."  He answered me with a perfectly reasonable response.  "Sounds like your MOTHER is CONFUSED."  Call it gullibility if you like...but my certainty was swayed.  "Perhaps you are going out tomorrow, I rationalized."  Dad agreed..."Perhaps."

As has become my routine on the drive home, I called my mother with the "evening report." We both managed to laugh instead of cry when Mom assured me she had witnessed (with her own eyes) both of my dinner companions getting onto the lunchtime bus. 

37 Lunch Break

 

I spent today’s lunch break with my daughter, visiting Dad and Edward. 

 

It took no time at all before my tenderhearted girl was wrecked; fully overcome with a love and melancholy for those two old souls. Her excess emotion escaped from her eyes. To be fair, her Poppop’s striped suspenders sensibly clipped to his athletic pants and Edward’s warbly tenor singing along to “Love Me Tender” will do that to a congenitally-predisposed Empath.

 

At Aubrey’s request, Edward was sharing expert tips for carrot planting. Basically, “Put them in the ground.” We laughed in the moment but in retrospect, my daughter commented on the wisdom of just taking that first step in any project. It’s really the hardest part.

 

I was standing at the table, because I sit at my desk all day long. Between bites of glazed salmon and roasted sweet potatoes, Dad paused to consider the photo on the work lanyard dangling from my neck. With not a small measure of surprise, he noted, “That looks like Brenda.” 

 

By golly… just like her. 

38   A Saturday Search

This afternoon, Dad and I spent almost two hours eating donut holes, digging through his belongings, looking at photos on my phone, and solving the world‘s problems. 

 

We started the digging because I was looking for Dad’s flashy red luggage tag, which has gone missing from his walker. Dad now refers to his walker as “that TOOL they make me use.” 😂

 

We never managed to unearth the luggage tag, but we did locate an unexpected and remarkably stiff waffle in his sock drawer and a block photo of Dad and my younger sister, Carol under some shoes. There was also a rogue black plastic dessert plate (presumably once associated with the waffle) hiding amidst white t-shirts, and the oft-absent remote control tucked cozily inside a plaid slipper. Along with more freshly laundered clothing was an unopened boxed white chocolate Easter bunny. “Hey, Dad! I found a rabbit!” Still chuckling about the waffle, my father began laughing out loud at my rabbit declaration because he thought he heard me say I’d discovered a “radish.” It was a wild time. 

 

Dad has zero recollection of the last two months. He was amazed as I told him (for what feels like the zillionth time) about his fall, the rib fractures, the hospitalizations, and the rides in an ambulance. He and I pored over photos of his pitiful frame in ICU while he noted with satisfaction that it looks as though my mother likes him, and he congratulated himself on what a good idea it was to “have daughters.” 

 

As is his custom, Dad asked me what the rest of my day will entail. After reciting my schedule, he told me his plans include “resting and not worrying.” He claims that he no longer worries. The serenity with which he shared this amazing tidbit this afternoon has me almost believing it’s true. It is rather remarkable because for the entirety of my life, Dad has been the most accomplished worrier I’ve ever seen. Unless, of course, I’m looking in the mirror. 

 

I had questions for Dad. 

“Should we take a walk?”

“Do you want to hit some balls on the putting mat?”

“Do you need another donut hole?”

“Is there anything besides ‘resting and not worrying’ you’d rather be doing this afternoon, Dad?” 

 

He thought for a second. “Sitting here talking with you is pretty nice.” 

 

We both smiled. I had to agree with that. 

 

39 Ring Bologna

You know how the nonsense began this evening?  An earnest dinnertime conversation of appreciation, centered absurdly on how marvelous their cranberry juice tasted.  They were sipping it like wine tasters from short red plastic cups. "This is pretty good...." Dad offered.  "It IS," agreed Edward. "SO good I hope I can walk straight after it's down."  The two of them snickered companionably. The repartee between my father and Edward is a welcome cloud break in this Alzheimer's storm.  

I'm not sure how old I was when I realized ring bologna was something known and appreciated only in favored pockets of Pennsylvania Dutch influence. You would think in the age of charcuterie, ring bologna would by now have risen to a more universal phenomenon!  It was a singular childhood pleasure to peel a ring bologna for my maternal grandmother when tasked with slicing up and plating a loop of the stuff for one of our many family gatherings.   

I thought by now I knew everything there was to know about ring bologna. But oh, how mistaken I was.

The cranberry juice conversation soon turned to Edward's football-playing days, and before Dad and I knew what was happening, Edward set down his roast beef sandwich and extracted a stadium sideline cheer from the depths of his memories.  His heartfelt cheer began with German counting, so immediately, my father was ALL IN.  Truth be told, Edward's charisma is such that without much prodding, Dad and I were both all in. In fact, I wish we'd had pom-poms.

EINS -  ZWEI  -  DREI !

     QUAKERTOWN HIGH !

            RING BOLOGNA, RING BOLOGNA

        EI - EI - EI !

You just can't make this stuff up.  I mean, WHO gets to witness dinner conversation like this? 

Me...that's who. 

40 Money Laundering 

 

I haven’t written for two days because my evening visits have been discouraging and my heart just wasn’t up for rehashing it on the page. 

Two nights ago, Dad raced through his dinner, shoveling without pause because he was convinced he and I had a 6:30 appointment in Allentown. 

Last night he was visibly distressed because he couldn’t find his wallet. We looked and looked. I tried to reassure him that he has plenty of money in the bank and his bills are all being paid. He just couldn’t settle himself and he kept popping up from the chair and pacing around. I searched again and finally discovered his “fake” wallet folded securely under a pile in his drawer.  It was hiding in the leg side-pocket of his thick grey athletic pants. Dad’s relief was short-lived, obliterated by his displeasure when finding only $2.00 in cash inside. He shoved his wallet into his back pocket with disgust.  

It’s only a matter of time before the whole thing goes through the laundry again. 

42 Maelstrom

Holy Buckets, it was a maelstrom tonight.  And I’m not just referring to the pouring rain. 

 

Dad had much of his room packed up when I arrived. Stacks of photo frames, pictures, books, snacks and films, gathered from shelves, windowsills, and the now-idle picture-hangers accenting his walls. 

 

He smiled to see my arrival. “Oh good, you’re here. Let’s go get in line awhile.”  He didn’t know for what.

 

He tried with determination to put a second hat on his head and when he realized he was already wearing his black Eagles cap, he tried to apply the one in his hand to MY head. 

 

We sat and conversed for about 30 minutes before dinner…me regurgitating the minutiae of my day and Dad, occasionally making a modicum of sense but mostly responding with nonsensical input and looks of bewilderment. 

 

I was grateful for 5:00 when we could walk to dinner. I desperately wanted to stop hearing the sound of my own overcompensating voice and I wanted my weary father to have something more enjoyable than his daughter's desperation to entertain him. 

 

He tucked into his beef barley soup like it was his job, his boss was hovering, and he was way behind schedule. After emptying his soup bowl, he turned to his plate and rapid-fire loaded his fork with chicken, almost faster than I could cut it into bite-sized pieces. (There’s never enough gravy.) Dad chipmunk-stuffed his mouth with enormous volumes of food he later proved he would never manage to chew, while Pennies from Heaven droned on in the background. My “take your time, Dad” directives fell on deaf ears. He was off to the races.

 

Friend, Edward was no better. The poor man spent the first 15 minutes of dinnertime lamenting his inability to find his wife, which made him impervious to his soup and absent his usual good humor. The patient care technicians had even delivered two coveted packets of saltines, which would normally have had Edward over-the-moon. The crackers, crushed but uneaten, turned to a miserable surface mush. My former student-patients sometimes called those saltine packets “restaurant crackers."  For decades I used them to calm 3rd grade tummy aches and fill the cavernous void of missed breakfasts. 

My poor Dad. Morning is such a better time of day for him. I’m thankful Mom gets him at his most lucid moments every day. The evenings are so often painful to witness. 

 

Dad needed the restroom, so I grabbed his half-finished cup of coffee, and we raced back to his room in record time.  

I suggested it was time to wash hands and my father, his cerebral wires crossed and short-circuiting, tried pushing the buttons on his television’s remote control in order to comply. He even tried aiming the device at the spigot.  This was not an effective strategy for cleaning one's hands, so we scrubbed our hands together, side-by-side at his little sink. (Truth be told, by this point in the evening, the warm water and bubbles were a pretty helpful grounding activity for me, too.)

 

Dad needs a shave and a haircut.  I kissed his scratchy whiskered cheek goodbye and left him folded into the arms of his recliner, tucked in a warm jacket to combat the evening chill which feels unusually invasive.  It's like menacing forces are ganging up on him...those pestilential amyloid plaque formations in Dad's sweet head and the persistent raindrops which just keep hammering, like insult to injury, against his windowpane.  

The opening credits were just beginning for one of the Jason Bourne films and I’m illogically hoping Matt Damon manages to usher in at least a small portion of respite to the relentless confusion which is so firmly gripping Dad tonight.  

 

On my way out, I returned Dad’s empty coffee cup to his dinner table, and it felt like the only measurably useful action I performed tonight. 

 

“Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times and in every way. The Lord be with all of you.” 

(2 Thessalonians 3:16)

 

Amen, and pretty please with sugar on top…to that. 

43  Mr. Bossy Pants

 

When Dad learned Jim and I had driven 5 hours home from Pittsburgh today, he was disgusted. “In the RAIN?’ 

Well obviously, we not-retired folks don’t have the luxury of waiting for a sunny day for these things, Dad 😉.

 

Dad was also totally disgusted by my refusal to share his green beans and finish his Manhattan clam chowder. He claimed it was because he’d eaten half and I didn’t want his germs. I assured him it was unrelated and I promised I’d be eating dinner when I got home. 

 

Three times he pushed his lemon meringue pie plate in my direction and three times I pushed it back to him. He told me I was “trouble” so I was forced to remind him I am the perfect child. I was rewarded with a dramatic eye roll. 

 

Meanwhile...across the table, Edward was telling the nurse that if she expected him to take his pill, she should have brought him an accompanying glass of beer. He slid his pie plate toward the edge of the table with only a sliver of crust remaining. “Are you done with your pie?” the bustling aide asked him. Edward raised one bushy white brow and grinned. “WHAT pie?” He and Dad shared a good round of giggles over that. 

 

After we located some television golf and traded some goodbye kisses, Dad asked, “How many more hours of driving do you have to do tonight on an EMPTY STOMACH?!” (He was still salty about my refusal to eat his food.) “I’m only 13 minutes from home, Mr. Bossy Pants.” 

 

He was satisfied.  “Okay…then I love you.” (Inferring there is some kind of risk his love for me is tied to an equation involving mileage and lukewarm clam chowder. 😂)

44  A Keeper

 

His complaint. “Every day I straighten the chairs in this room and invariably, I come back and find THIS!” 

 

(It must be said, the chairs looked pretty straight to me….)

 

But he wasn’t done sharing his displeasure. Shaking his head, he offered, “I don’t know how many “chair-pushers” we have here, but…” (insert disgusted eyeroll here) 😂

 

Dad was looking spiffy when I arrived, like a tourist in his feather-accent hat. 

 

Tonight at dinner, he and his sidekick were equating the beef cubes in their stroganoff to chewing gum. Dad proposed that “they have too much food in the kitchen and that’s why the kitchen overfills our plates.” Edward suggested the kitchen folk made dinner with the “leftover meat cuts” and that’s why they can bring so much. 

 

The two friends sang a little duet (which was a completely unrecognizable made-up song). People began staring (and by people, I’m referring to the ladies table across the room). These gals sometimes whisper urgently and unkindly about their long-suffering caretakers. A couple of the more vocal women appear to disapprove when the conversation at our table gets too lively. I advised the raucous men to try using Dad’s fancy hat to collect tips for their busking performance. This made them both chuckle but they declined, in favor of commiserating about the stroganoff.

 

Then the conversation turned serious. 

 

Edward: I thought I’d be gone by now. 

 

Dad: What do you mean, gone?

 

Edward: You know…UNDER!

 

Dad: Oh my goodness, you’re not ready for that, yet. 

 

Edward: How many years have we been together? 

 

Dad: A LONG time! 

 

(It’s been only seven weeks, but who’s counting?)

 

The staff loves Edward and they love Dad, too. 

One of his caretakers recounted a story this evening. She was looking at photos and talking with Dad about Christmas earlier today. She had been distracting him from packing up his belongings, which has become a daily routine. 

During their talk, Dad told her he sometimes dressed up like Santa at Christmastime. She asked him if he was going to be the Santa at Harmony House this year and he agreed that he just might. She said, “And what will you bring me, Santa?” My father asked her what she wants most, and she answered, “health.” 

I guess “Santa” knew that good health was a job for someone with more resources, because he put his hand on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and lifted a heartfelt prayer for her. (It is important to note that my Dad lost the ability to spontaneously share a prayer well over a year ago. His intentions are there, but he just gets stuck.) 

The aide told me Dad’s sweet prayer on her behalf made her cry like a baby. In fact, she started getting weepy again, just telling me about it. 

 

“Your Dad is a keeper, Brenda.” 

 

And that’s when I got teary, too.

45  AN EPIPHANY

 

Sharp and gleaming as a pocketknife unfolding for the first time, an unwelcome but perfectly clear realization settled into my bones this morning and tried to slice me open.  It was obvious and shrill against the blurry background noise which has become my dreaded yet comforting daily routine since my father fractured his ribs almost three months ago. 

 

My compulsion to be with my father every single day is not just an expression of love.  It is also (I now admit to myself) an expression of guilt.

 

I’m the nurse in the family.  The token medical person, at least until my daughter sits for her nursing board exam at the end of this year. As such, there is an unwritten and unspoken expectation.  The expectation is that I will care for my people if something troublesome happens.  I will be there.  The knowledge is equal parts a remarkable privilege and a weighty piece of baggage.  When I say “expectation,” I refer to my own underlying belief, a sort of under-the-skin knowledge that I would be the one to provide what was needed for any and all of my people if they could no longer care for themselves.  I imagined myself as a fulltime retired caregiver in this subconscious daydream scenario.  It never entered my mind that this could happen before I was financially prepared. It never crossed my mind that timing could be such that I would not be able to perform my self-appointed duty, living out my pipe-dream of flawless care and self-sacrifice to the cause. Like some sort of independently-wealthy and inexhaustible Florence Nightingale. I was “thinking” with my emotional core again and not with the tiny ineffective tentacles of reason that hold together my all-too-feeling being.  Oh, how I long for some of my husband’s logic when all my nerve-endings are frayed from feeling everything (and the pains and disappointments of everyone) too deeply.  My sensitivities will be the death of me.  Probably literally.  

I didn’t fight to take on the fulltime responsibility of my father's care, because I need my income and I need my sanity.  I feel the sting of this reality as a failure in every cell of my body.

 

I am grateful for every minute with my father.  I am thankful for the minutes that are tender and sweet AND also for the evenings that fill me with an overwhelming sense of sadness, covering my spirit in a stifling blanket of premature loss. Dad is not gone yet but tiny pieces of him are being brutally chipped away. 

 

It might have been obvious to some, but it took me until today to truly process that my regular evening hours with Dad are at least in part about guilt. This niggling realization was an unwanted epiphany. I’ve been compulsively fitting my father into the only viable space in my day.  And I fear I'm doing it (at least in part) so that I can try to LIVE with myself for abandoning him to the care of someone else.  

 

I know.  I need some serious therapy. 

46  PEOPLE WILL TALK

 

I found Dad out in the common area watching the big screen, more than halfway through Cary Grant’s black and white film, People Will Talk. Despite its 88% on Rotten Tomatoes, this film has a a marvelously stupid plot. (Honestly…look it up.) Cary Grant, playing the insufferably pompous Dr. Noah Praetorious, was mumbling rather inaudibly on the screen and Dad was intermittently imitating the doctor’s garbled speech to make me laugh. 

 

My father had completely forgotten having a date with Mom at Chic-fil-A only hours before. When I told him she’d been to see him and had taken him out for lunch, he was incredulous and became understandably annoyed that he couldn’t remember any of it. I reminded him it’s the short term stuff that gives him trouble and that he’s sharp as a tack for decades-old memories. “What a way to live,” he told me. He and I couldn’t decide what would be worse. Losing memory or losing physical function. I reminded him that he is safe and that everyone living in his unit is having the same kinds of trouble with their memories. He couldn’t believe his ears, but looked around as though he was seeing all the other people for the first time. 

 

Currently Missing: Dad’s bedspread, new fuzzy blanket, visitor’s book sign-in pen, gray jacket and luggage tag…. His remote control is also absent again and the television is stuck “on.” On the screen is the boring generic announcement page of the continuing care retirement community (the umbrella organization for Dad’s memory care unit). “Elevator music” which provides background hypnosis on the stuck page is providing a concert for no one in Dad’s room. At least the volume is at a reasonable level, for a change. There’s always unplugging, should that become necessary. 

47  Soup Du Jour

 

Dad was wandering the hall when I arrived, and he made a beeline in my direction when he spotted me.  “I’ve been looking for you all day!”  He caught me in a sideways hug and tucked my arm into his, walking me directly to two deluxe chocolate brown recliners in the common area. “Hucktey-hee,” he instructed, pointing me to one of the chairs. I’m sure that spelling is woefully incorrect, and I don't know how well the phrase actually translates, but my Dad has been saying it to me for my entire life when he wants me to sit down. 

 

He likes positioning me out there in Grand Central Station where he can call out to any and all passersby, “This is my daughter!”  The workers fly by at a rapid clip, acknowledging us with a smile or nod and the other residents pass at regular intervals, stopping to stare, laugh, or salute us on their journey to nowhere. Their walkers are decked out like floats in an impossibly sluggish parade. 

 

When Dad gives me a hug these days, I’m acutely aware that his arms have become a study in bony angles and papery sagging skin.  Much of my sweet father's surface is speckled deep purple, the color of my favorite spring lilacs.  The telltale bruising from his Plavix is evident. He doesn’t even have to bump up against anything to break open those leaky superficial capillaries.

 

We didn’t sit long before they called us to the dinner table and without delay, Dad and Edward were expressing concern because they both received soup bowls, but I had none. 

I assured them Jim is cooking dinner for me, so they need not fret about my wellbeing. “Don't worry about me!  I married well!”  Dad agreed that his son-in-law is a “smart guy,” but Edward couldn’t quite get over the idea of a husband cooking his wife dinner. He looked at me with a hybrid blend of respect for my incredible situation and concern for my inability to care for my husband properly. There was head-shaking and chortling. “Well, I'll be.  You sure have that figured out!” 

 

In lieu of two blue artificial sweeteners, Edward accidentally relocated a swollen bowtie noodle directly from his soup into his full cup of coffee. He chided himself...tasted...and curiously concluded that he liked his “coffee soup” so much, he needed to add two heaping spoonsful of peas. (It was not lost on me that the man who had so recently deemed a cooking husband "worrisome" was now happily devouring his own bizarre concoction.) 

While Edward made nausea -inducing culinary creations and Dad talked about his fat cats, a truly nasty denizen at the other table was giving an unfortunate aide a very hard time during the dinner service. It is easy to see where unpleasant folks just become more disagreeable when their filters are robbed by dementia.  Apparently, selfish and racist tendencies are laid bare and magnified when the intellectual ability to be discreetly horrible is no longer an option.  It is an excruciating thing to watch.  The woman defiantly spewing her poison is to be pitied for her condition, but I find I just want to take my pacifistic-self across the room and kick her in the teeth for the horrific things she is saying to the aide who is trying so hard to assist her. I watched rather helplessly as this long-suffering caretaker just kept on doing her job, helping where she could and avoiding direct interaction where she could. She didn't stomp off, stop working, or defend herself.  She just kept doing the job she is paid to do while enduring an extreme verbal assault.  We could all take a lesson from the way she just let peace flow from her as painful daggers were being lobbed in a very personal way.  This nurse's aide was remarkable.  On the way out, I had to stop and bless her for doing a very hard job with such admirable grace. 

Some good news. Dad’s remote control, fuzzy blanket AND his bedspread have all been found, thanks to Maria, one of the many wonderfully caring and devoted aides.

48  PLOT TWIST!

Brace yourselves. Edward’s wife exists! 

She was rolled into the dining room in her wheelchair tonight and the two of them had a “date” at the table next to us! 

It was completely shocking. I honestly thought she was long in the ground and he had just forgotten. In fact, he suggested she was dead and gone, once…as a possible explanation for her absence. He’s been looking for her every single day since I met him two months ago, repeatedly asking me if I’d seen her. Tonight, I felt like I was meeting a celebrity.  Her mind is sharp! Maybe sharper than mine. Edward has the physical stamina and Priscilla has the memory. Together they make one fully functional take-over-the-world sort of person. I was so happy for him in his flashy red flannel plaid pants with his lady by his side, I actually got teary. Dad and Edward were giving each other a double-thumbs-up across the dining room.  The woman has been in the skilled nursing wing just down the hall- ALL. OF. THIS. TIME ! 

No wonder her husband is perpetually searching.

Dad was not hungry this evening, and the size of his turkey hoagie completely overwhelmed him. Accompanied by pasta salad, tater tots, and a bowl of watermelon, there was not even a tiny parcel of vacancy left anywhere on his red melamine plate. Dad complained about his lack of hunger and tried with not a small measure of desperation to cajole me into eating half of his dinner. I didn’t budge and he was frankly a bit annoyed at me for being (in his words) "disagreeable."

Dad: “I’m the only good person at this table….”
Me: “What are you saying , Dad?”
Dad: “I’m saying you’re one of my favorite daughters, Brenda, but you are not listening to me.”
Me: (ecstatic that he remembered my name) “So...not eating YOUR dinner makes me a bad person?”
Dad: (now grinning, and beginning to point his finger) "Well…if you eat one bite of THIS, and one bite of THIS, and one bite of THIS, and one bite of THIS, THEN you’ll be good again."

Concluding the pointed tour of menu items piled on his plate, he pushed the whole thing away and commenced drinking his coffee instead. 

It was soon time to head home.  Well, "home" to what is now my mother's house.  I was joining her for dinner and to raid her closet, combing for wedding attire for an event this weekend. My father suggested that "shopping" in my mother's closet might not be the best idea I'd ever had.  He assured me he "knows her well." I told him I'd take my chances. 

Dad: “Do you have your own car for the drive home?”
Me: “Yes, I do. I'm parked right outside.”
Dad: “Okay. Just wanted to be sure you didn’t need a ride home in my JEEP.”
Me: (surprised) “Do you have a JEEP?”
Dad: (smiling and without a trace of sarcasm) “No.”

Sometimes it's hard to know when he is confused and when he is messing with me.  As far as I know, my father has never owned a JEEP. 

Plot twists coming and going tonight, but thankfully, a good time was had by all. 

 49 America the Beautiful

Tonight, during the appetizer course, there was a spirited moment. 

Tucked inexplicably between Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight” and “It is Well With My Soul,” the opening stanza of “America the Beautiful” began playing through the overhead speakers. 

Edward’s mouth started first, fumbling for lyrics until the familiar words were flowing effortlessly through his lips. Dad joined in, his tenor joining Edward’s warble…their volume rising to the occasion like two overachieving robed members of a liturgical church choir. By verse two, over half of the residents in the dining room were singing along (with varying offerings of pitch and expertise). It was an impressive patriotic swell of voices by the time the newly assembled ‘Memory Care Chorus’ hit the refrain.

And while I lifted my finger to catch the moisture from the corner of my eye, the song ended and the whole lot of them tucked into to their pork tenderloin and floppy French fries as though nothing had happened.

 

 

50  You Don’t Want to Know 

 

The photos above are from Saturday and Sunday’s visits when Dad was sweet but frail, in obvious physical discomfort, but with a mind much less addled than tonight. (My younger sister was delivering hugs from Florida, Aubrey and Rameen came to visit, and I happened to arrive on Saturday just as my mother was getting there. As my father noted late Saturday morning, "the gang's all here." )

I was met by Mr. Grumpy-Pants tonight. He was glad to see me, but that was as far as his cheer extended.  

 

The high was in the mid-70s today. Dad was decked out in sweatpants, his cap, a white t-shirt beneath a heavy long-sleeved winter pullover sweater and a jacket, zipped nearly to his chin. His cheeks were bright pink under the rim of his Croatia cap. “Dad…aren’t you warm in that?”  He thought for a second and looked surprised by his own answer. “I’m roasting.” 

 

We got rid of the jacket and despite the robotic way he scarfed down his very hot tomato basil soup, his cheeks soon became flesh-colored once again. 

 

Dinner discussion between Dad and Edward tonight was centered mostly around 1) how much money the conniving manufacturers are making on the red coffee cups which keep Dad and Edward's coffee too hot to drink, and 2) how dunking cookies into said cups is the only way to eat them properly. 

It’s just amazing to me how the two of them can converse in disoriented and painstaking detail for nearly half an hour about the intricacies of nothing. But I'm so grateful they have each other.

 

Confusion reigned this evening. The longer I stayed, the worse the sundowning became. 

 

Dad: (grousing about everything and anything)

Me: “What’s wrong, Dad?”

Dad: “You don’t want to know.”

Me: “Maybe you’ll tell me later.”

Dad: “Don’t count on it.”

 

Dad: “How old am I?”

Me: “You’ll be 89 in September.”

Dad: (disbelief) “ How is that POSSIBLE? No wonder I’m bent over.”

 

Dad:”Where’s my car?”

Me: “You don’t have a car anymore, Dad.” 

Dad: (totally disgusted with me) “What are you saying? How am I supposed to get anywhere?”

Me: “There’s nowhere you need to be tonight, Dad. When you have somewhere to be, we will drive you.”

Dad: (shaking his head)

 

Dad: “When is Mom getting home from work?” 

Me: “Mom is retired, Dad.”

Dad: (more disbelief) “What do you mean?When did that happen?!”

Me: “You both retired about 20 years ago.”

Dad: “Well, where is she, then?”

Me: “ She’s at your house, in Sellersville.”

Dad: “What’s she doing?”

Me: “Probably packing up boxes because she wants to move to an apartment here to be near you.”

Dad: (with more accuracy than he could possibly know) “Well I’m not really here….”

 

I kissed his scruffy cheek and left him pacing in his room. On the way out I implored the nurse to check on him soon. She headed out on a search for his missing walker and promised she would check on him and wash him up for bedtime immediately thereafter. 

 

He’s absolutely right. I don’t want to know. 

51 The Wind Blows

There is a striking piece of windmill art in the enclosed courtyard and my father is fascinated by the blades, which occasionally spin with enthusiasm in completely opposite directions. Sometimes one of the sides stops suddenly, mid-spin, as though competing in a cutthroat game of freeze-tag. One never knows which way the wind will turn.

The Harmony House winds took a sorrowful turn this evening when Dad and I strolled arm-in-arm into the dining room and noticed there was only one place-setting at the men's table. We hoped Edward was dining with his wife tonight but were told in hushed tones that my father's sweet companion had sustained a fall and was now hospitalized with a hip fracture.  Even Dad, with limited ability to reason, knew at once that this is a terrible indicator for a man of 95. 

Dinner was a solemn occasion with Edward's empty chair and the absence of comforting male banter which these two old souls have perfected since their worlds collided in the dining room two months ago.

If you are reading this in mid-May, I covet your prayers for my Dad's dear friend.

52 CHOCOLATE PIE

I sat with my Dad over my lunch break today. He was looking handsome in a flashy red shirt, sporting a new black watch because his old favorite embarked on an unscheduled underwater adventure through the laundry.

As Dad polished off his Swedish meatballs and chocolate pie, he pointed to the empty chair and asked me to inquire after his friend, Edward.

We were told Edward is mending from the fall (and subsequent fracture) but is unfortunately very confused. His daughter was straightening up his room on the Memory Care unit this morning.  Everyone has a theory about how Edward ended up on the floor. The aides think he was trying to tidy something up. I suspect he dropped one of the cookies he’s always squirreling away. He gift-wraps them in dinner napkins, tucking them gently inside his big pockets to savor later. 

Donna Ashworth wrote something which brought tears to my eyes this week. It starts like this:  “Some people are slowly taken to the other realm. Not just physically, but mentally. Memory by memory, they are extricated, like a painstakingly slow house move. Boxes full of life, chapters, people, and loves….”

I don’t know how much of this earthly life we get to take with us, but I sure hope Dad and Edward get to unpack some of their memory boxes when they one day settle into their heavenly homes. 

53  Dining Room Chatter

 

I discovered something unexpected one evening during the lockdown portion of the pandemic.  My parents, going stir-crazy in their house, picked up Olive Garden takeout and took it to a "convenient" outdoor seating area.  (My back deck picnic table.) 😂

There was a lot of nonsense talk happening at dinnertime tonight. 

 

Overheard from the women’s table: “I can’t eat clam chowder. Those things are born in seashells.”

From across the table (her mouth full of chowder): “Well, if you refuse your soup, they’ll bring you hot chocolate instead.” (This one is full of unsolicited advice….)

 

Me: (with genuine respect for his talent) “Dad, I’ve never seen anyone better at balancing peas on a fork. That job always requires a spoon for me.”

Dad: (rather full of himself) “I've always been good at this. The peas obey me.”

 

One of the established Memory Care residents to a newcomer:  “If you need a ride home sometime, let me know. I’ll drive you.” 

The trusting and thoroughly deceived newcomer was ecstatic.  "That would be GREAT!"

54  Down in the Hollow

 

I’ve been thinking about hollows and valleys. We are reminded how deep in the muck we have ventured by looking back at the mountains for some kind of steadying reference. I’m grasping for any old hilltop today and coming up a bit short.

 

The only time Dad cracked a smile last evening was when I showed him the new photo of his great-granddaughter wearing his Fox Hollow Golf cap. She’s the only one in the family with a small enough head for the job. And she’ll likely outgrow it by kindergarten. Fox Hollow was a nice kind of valley. 

 

There was otherwise no joy in Memory Mudville last evening. Four times, Dad inquired about the purple mound on his dinner plate. Four times, I told him it was a finely ground coleslaw made with purple cabbage. Four times, he gamely (though dubiously) opted to taste it, poking gently with his fork. “Well…I’ll TRY it….” And four times he declared it inedible.  

Dad’s brain was plainly and simply refusing to compute, batting away anything new and forsaking even his well-known repertoire of knowledge from childhood.

 

It’s hard to choose just one low point of this visit, but here’s a defining window. We had entered his room quickly due to the nature of the issue and the light was off.  The sun was beginning its descent, so shadows were reaching across the room. My dear broken father bended himself completely in half in a standing position, touching his feet while stubbornly insisting on untying his own shoes. I gently begged.  Pleaded.  He was embarrassed that I needed to assist him with a wardrobe change, and he was unrelenting. It was a new kind of horrible valley. I was honestly afraid his tenacity would result in him falling to the floor from orthostatic hypotension. I’m almost 28 years younger and there’s no way I could touch my toes in that position (for that length of time) and then remain conscious when standing back up. I was at a loss and suddenly brusque, nearly yelling at him with my insistence. Raising my voice to my father has never before happened. I had to force my Dad, against his will, to sit down and let me serve him. He sat.  It was a sorrowful sight. He was stunned and defeated by his own traitor of a brain and I fear he was also feeling flattened by his fretting daughter who was trying without much success to be helpful.

 

I’m down in the hollow. In four decades of nursing, I’ve effortlessly and effectively helped countless people with these kinds of things. 

 

This was the first time the task ripped my heart from my chest. 

55  The Park

 

Green Lane Park holds a lot of history for my family. It’s where we swam, camped, and skated questionable figure-8s on the bumpy ice when I was a kid. 

The site of many extended family reunions and picnics, afternoons of folding chairs, frisbees, elderly aunts, rocks to climb, and potato salad on which to gorge oneself. 

Green Lane Park is where I learned to watch for goose-poop, snakes, and poison ivy, and where my family drove boldly over an all-too-see-through metal truss bridge to see the rising floodwaters during Hurricane Agnes in the summer of 1972. 

We listened to many a band concert (pre-bandshell) in that park and I unexpectedly caught my first fish in the waters flowing from Deep Creek Lake. (I instantly wished I hadn’t.) 

This is the place where my high school boyfriend accidentally dropped me into the murky brown water while we were dating and where about a year later, he dropped to one knee with a diamond hidden in his sock, asking me to marry him. (spoiler- I said yes)

 

Dad and some of the Harmony House crew were taken to the Green Lane Park today, for a picnic lunch. My mother texted me in the middle of the day, saying “Don’t let Dad tell you he didn’t go to the picnic. I saw him get on the bus, and he was the first one on.”  When I showed up less than five hours later, Dad remembered NOTHING about the park, the bus, or the picnic lunch. In fact, he thought I was dead wrong that he'd had an outing at all. 

 

In the age of texting and Snapchat, I remain a person who likes to send things by snail mail while still regularly complaining about the rising cost of first-class postage. Of late, I’ve also become a person spending 12 cents more per stamp, just to lend my pittance of support to Alzheimer’s research. When something hits this close to home, it becomes easier to open one’s wallet. There’s now a face on the disease and it’s my Dad’s. 

 

He was very disoriented when I arrived tonight. 

Questions and comments included:

1)Does anything here look strange to you?

2)Why is my mind so mixed up?

3)Where is Mom? (He couldn't quite say whether he was looking for HIS Mom or MY Mom.)

4)Do you want THIS, because I don’t. (Holding a soggy Brussels sprout on the tines of his fork.)

5)Something isn’t right. 

6)I just don’t understand what’s going on here. 

 

When I turned on the news for Dad, as I usually do before I head home for dinner, he noticed the temperature weather map was reporting 79 degrees for our area and he decided he’d better go take a walk. So out we went. (I wasn't about to miss that opportunity.)

Dad was impressed that I knew the door code. “It’s all in who you know, Dad!”   He answered, “Yes…but I didn’t know that person would be YOU!” He suggested he'd have to learn that "trick" so he could "get out when he needed to." 

 

It was a lovely evening, suffocating clouds of pollen aside. The Kentucky Yellowwood Tree was in full and fragrant bloom. Fat bumblebees were buzzing like weighted helicopters around the petals. 

A robust leatherleaf viburnum was also an interesting find. We identified both plants on my phone's SEEK app (which positively amazed Dad). “How the heck can a phone KNOW that stuff?!” 

He liked the feel of the leathery leaves and held onto them for a long while. 

We spied six different kinds of birds while sitting on the porch and Dad wondered what all their tweets were trying to communicate to us. I suspect they were telling me just to be still with my father and soak in the good bits. Tonight’s excursion outside with Dad was a gift. 

 

He didn’t remember being at Green Lane Park today, but we surely enjoyed our own little park for 45 minutes after dinner. 

56   TICK-TOCK

“You know what’s been bothering me a lot?” 

What’s that, Dad? 

 

“I don’t know where I parked our truck AND we are running out of time. It’s all going too fast.”

 

An irony is that I've had an old camp song stuck in my head for the last three days.  I scrolled by it on a social media reel.  Hearing the melody on one of Molly Whuppie's nostalgic videos unlocked a long-forgotten memory for me.  The song is called My Grandfather's Clock.  Where it was once a snappy little tune we Girl Scouts sang while seated around the campfire with marshmallows on sharpened sticks, the lyrics now hit me like piercing harbingers of doom.  

Dad’s talk was existential and rather depressing this afternoon as he shared concerns over how old we have all become and how quickly time is flying by.  He asked me three times to tell him his age, and then he was discouraged to learn MY advanced age. I guess he still thinks I’m a kid. “Our family is OLD,” he declared. He called down the hall to someone visiting their family member. “Hello! I’m almost 89!” The visitor tried hard to care.

 

When I asked Dad if he wanted to take a walk, he said, “Well, we’d better go while we still can.” 🙄

Then it was all about the “tick-tick-tick” of time and how we are speeding toward our expiration dates. Oh my.  At least it was a beautiful day for morbid conversation.

"My Grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf, so it stood 90 years on the floor....." Ugh

57  Singing on the Porch

 

It is a discipline to NOT think too hard about what Dad might be feeling or doing when one of us is not there to lend a sense of normalcy to his day. I can’t let my mind go there too often because my anxiety rises to the occasion, making a ruckus in my brain and in my gut. 

 

I feel so much more peace about Dad’s situation when I’m seated next to him, assessing him for myself, tidying his space, holding his hand, and telling him nonsense from my day. 

 

Mom tells me that some mornings she comes upon Dad singing and playing the tambourine when there is special music in the common area.

 

Dad and I heard someone strumming a guitar this afternoon and soon after, a couple of musicians started playing and singing out in the main courtyard.  We were hidden from view in the shade of the side porch, watching the birds toss tiny less desirable seeds willy-nilly from the feeder, presumably to get to something better.  

In between bird sightings, Dad was enjoying his gift cup of Wawa coffee, holding onto it with both hands and carefully sipping from the hole in the lid, the way a small child drinks from a sippy cup. 

 

He was also asking how one gets to the other side of the fence and how long the “people who live in this place” usually have to stay. 

 

From time to time, Dad sang along with the tunes coming from the other patio. Hearing him recall lyrics so effortlessly was fascinating when so many other parts of my father’s brain no longer get the job done. 

“You still got it, Dad.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“I do! Not bad at all for 88.”

 

He considered this and then agreed, most sincerely. “I think my voice is getting better.” 💙

 

Memorial Day selections included Grand Old Flag, The National Anthem, When the Saints Go Marching In, You Are My Sunshine, My Country ‘Tis of Thee, Daisy Bell, Under the Boardwalk, and God Bless America. 

 

Besides exchanging the usual ‘I Love You(s)’ today when it was time to say goodbye, Dad issued a very paternal warning. 

 

“Drive safe and don’t let anybody take advantage of you.”

 

“Okay, Dad. I’ll keep my eyes open.” 

58 Baloney

 

Dad: “You ought to hear what some of these people say to the nurses. It’s a lot of baloney.”

 

Me: “Do you ever give the nurses baloney?”

 

Dad: “Not TOO often, because I hear what they have to go through.” 😂

 

There is good news. Edward is improving and has been moved from the hospital into skilled nursing down the hall to heal from his hip fracture. I’m sure he is ecstatic to be near his wife as he recuperates. The nurse says the plan is for him to eventually return to the memory care unit. (Huzzah!)

 

At the dining table across the room, there is a particularly annoying, tirelessly gossipy lady with extraordinarily efficient ears. This woman doesn’t miss a trick. Nightly, she grasps onto tidbits from my hushed conversation with Dad so she can regurgitate our discussion to the others at her table (often with embellishments I do not appreciate). She repeats my words like an anchor on the nightly news. Her pontificating report (in the most hypernasal voice you can imagine) coupled with her bionic hearing ability is almost too much to take. I want to glare at her, sending daggers from my eyes…but I try my best to keep my attention on my Dad and my back to her histrionics. I’m a seasoned professional and a well-intentioned pacifist, after all. (insert canned laughter here....) 

 

The busybody overheard me asking the nurse about Edward tonight. I will tell you, I was literally whispering my question!

 

The eavesdropper was practically giddy with her newly acquired earful but erroneously “remembered” that fractured ribs were Edward's malady, rather than a fractured hip. She started asking questions of the bossy know-it-all gal seated to her right.

 

Eavesdropper:  (attempting to gauge the timing of Edward’s return) “How long do ribs take?” 

 

Bossy Resident: (pouring syrup on her suppertime pancake) “Ribs? Why are we talking about ribs?”

 

Eavesdropper: “Because Edward….” (intentional long pause to draw out the juicy tidbit tale on her tongue)

 

Bossy Resident: “Ribs.  I don’t know exactly how long...but I cook them low and slow for a couple hours.”

 

Eavesdropper: (blank stare)

 

Me: (ineffectively stifling a laugh) “You done with your coffee, Dad?” 

 

Dad and I capped off our visit with some catchy music and dance moves in the sunroom, far from eavesdroppers, baloney, and unsolicited news bulletins. 

 

59  FERHOODLED

 

I spent my lunch break with my Daddy today, watching him pace back and forth in his room, looking out the window and plotting next steps.  He was seriously *ferhoodled.

He barely had time to greet me before launching into his exasperated tale.  He had THINGS TO DO.  He needed to MOVE HIS ITEMS. 

I tried to tell him he could just have a seat and relax, but he was not having it.  “You don’t understand.  I’m right in the middle of this project and I can’t remember where I put it.” 

Me: “What are you looking for, Dad?”

Dad: “I can’t remember where I parked.”

Me: “Dad, it has been a really long time since you drove a car.”

Dad: (getting grouchier by the second) “I KNOW THAT!”

Me: (watching the confusion play out on Dad’s face)

Dad: “I don’t drive a car…I drive a TRUCK.”

Sigh. 

My father hasn’t had a truck for about 50 years.

Then he started taking inventory.  First he pulled the curtain which partitions off his restroom area.  He was satisfied with whatever he saw.  “Good.  All of this is in order.”

Then he was off to the bureau.  “You see all these things here?” (pointing to his framed photos of family and his beloved cats) “All this needs to be secured.”

Me:  “Dad, everything I see belongs to you and it is all VERY safe here in your room.  You can leave it exactly where it is.

It was evident in his expression that he didn’t believe what I was telling him.  He went on to tell me how full the drawers are and how important it is to hang up the dress shirt which was hanging outside his door, recently laundered.

I did my best to decrease his anxiety over the non-existent crisis, but his mind was not in a place willing to receive logic. 

All I could do was kiss his cheek, hug his increasingly bony frame, and tell him I love him.

 

*ferhoodle (v.)

"to confuse, perplex," by 1956, from Pennsylvania German verhuddle "to confuse, tangle," related to German verhudeln "to bungle, botch." Related: Ferhoodled; ferhoodling.

60  Going to the Chapel 

Dad has always loved a good church service.  I caught the last half of the sermon in his new home’s chapel this morning and it was really lovely.  A comforting liturgy, eloquently spoken words with just the right balance of call and encouragement, time-tested hymns rising with a surprising fervor from those weary old throats, and gray heads bowed in heartfelt prayer, both for the gathered and for the troubled world beyond their sheltered community.  It truly hit all the right notes.

 

I watched Dad emerge and I couldn’t tell if his palpable joy was springing from spiritual inspiration or from the freedom one feels when finally exiting a crowded event. 

 

He was grinning from ear to ear, adorable in his pressed collared shirt, sporting his new haircut, and all swept up in the throng of aluminum walker and wheelchair-dependent worshippers. 

 

Punctuating his already buoyant mood, his smile cracked even wider when he spied me waiting for him in the chapel hallway.  

 

When we finished our trek to his room and I closed the door he parked his walker and asked, “Weren’t there others?” I doubt he expected the entire horde of devotees to come along, but he clearly felt the sudden absence of the churched crowd. 

 

We passed the 45 minutes until lunchtime leisurely paging through the photo book I previously made for him. It was probably the 50th time we’ve sat together looking at it, but to my father, each turn of the page is the first time. He loves it and with great satisfaction, he asked three different times, “What would we do without pictures?” 

 

Dad’s usual practice is to point out all sorts of photo observations as he runs his fingers over the thick page. 

 

This is one of my favorites. “There’s your good-looking mother.” He fell in love with her when she was only 15 years old and that will be seventy years ago this summer. In fact, he met her at Red Hill's St. Paul's Lutheran Church...in the catechetical class. 

Despite his muddled mind, every cell in my father’s being still manages to adore and give preference to my Mama. 

 

Today’s pressing questions included:

1)”Where were we before we were here?”

2)”Does everything look normal to you in this room?” 

3)”Do I like asparagus?” 

4)”How old am I?"

p.s. Dad very much enjoyed his salmon lunch and he was pleasantly surprised by the asparagus.

 

61  Remember to Forget 

Occasionally, Dad will realize just how forgetful he’s become. Last night he was discouraged when in the middle of a sentence trying to tell me something, his brain abandoned him. His train of thought suddenly derailed. 

 

“I can’t remember anything. I hate it. It’s scary to think of all the boo-boos I’m going to make in my last days.”

 

I promised him no one would hold that against him. 

 

“But what if my company finds out?”  Like so many men, Dad's sense of worth has always been inseparably tied to his occupation.  He was so pleased to be the Traffic Manager for Teleflex.  He clawed his way to the top of that department and he had every right to be proud of it. But when I consider that he is the kindest and most loving and devoted soul I've ever encountered, all of that job-worth falls by the wayside like the mostly-insignificant stuff it all turns out to be.

 

I assured Dad he’s been retired for a long time and there’s nothing his company can say or do about his forgetfulness. 

 

He is honestly the sweetest soul and was so visibly relieved it made my heart just ache. He thanked me for putting his mind at ease and was gratefully able to delight (at least for a little while) in the freshly delivered bowl of chocolate mousse, just landing on his scalloped edge paper placemat.

62  Family Man

Dad has had a good couple of days checking in with family.

His brother, Bill and sister-in-law, Joan came by yesterday. 

Last evening, he received FaceTime calls from grandson, Isaac AND my sister, Carol. 

And tonight, his granddaughter, Aubrey came by to sit with him during dinner and show him her newly-acquired engagement ring. His response? “That’s a nice rock!”

Dad went on to make silly noises and nonsense jokes, all for Aubrey’s benefit. She always finds him to be hilarious.

Aubrey: “You crack me up, Poppop!”
Dad: “Well, that’s the idea.”

He tried hard to encourage her to eat half of his sandwich and one of his over-large cookies, telling her it was his job to take care of everybody. She agreed that he is really good at that.

And then, as though he had just won a major award and was being called to the podium, he began his grateful speech. “Thank you for joining me for my dinner. Thank you...thank you...thank you.”

63  A Message

 

I didn’t sleep much last night. Once a month, I have a marathon day when I go right from work to a board meeting. It’s usually a 14-15 hour day away from home. On these marathon days, I run over to see Dad on my lunch break instead of dinnertime, which was what happened yesterday. I took him a dark chocolate pecan bar, which he happily ate with his lunch as a precursor to his chilled cube of frosted spice cake. A veritable dessert smorgasbord. (I said as much to Dad…and the Eavesdropper at the next table wondered aloud if THEY were going to have a smorgasbord over there, too.) 🙄

 

I wearily dragged myself through the garage door at 9:45 last night and checked my messages. Harmony House had called right after the meeting started and left a message to call them back. With a sense of dread I called them right away and apparently, my father had fallen. There were no specifics given. (The aide is probably instructed not to say anything which could later be misconstrued where a fall is concerned.) She insisted he was “fine” and that the nurse would call me back THIS MORNING. The last time Dad fell, it was the next day when we discovered four rib fractures. 

 

So…there was not much sleeping. I decided to not tell Mom until this morning so at least one of us could sleep. When I phoned her, I suggested she go over a little earlier today to see how he is. Especially since I don’t think he’d admit to anyone except us if he’s hurting. He told me yesterday he’s embarrassed by his forgetfulness. 😢 

 

An example. Rather than ask for assistance from the floating vessels nearby, this man almost slipped under the waters off the coast of St. Croix once when he realized he was not going to make the swim to shore.  He had recently lost weight (including muscle mass), and was surprised how peacefully his drowning seemed to be unfolding. Typical for my Dad…he didn’t want to bother anyone. It was a good thing my mother noticed him sinking serenely to the ocean floor. Thankfully, she was on a catamaran between the cruise ship and the coast. This was the same fateful trip where my mother had visual hallucinations from the scopolamine patches designed to prevent motion sickness. The two of them are a pair…I tell you. But small inconveniences like near-death by sea or drug reaction did not stop them from embarking on a total of 28 cruises and visiting 38 different countries together. They’ve had wonderful adventures.

 

My mother called me from Dad’s room less than a half-hour after I called her to report the fall this morning. She must have flown immediately out of the house in her PJs to assess the situation.  Predictably, Dad doesn’t remember falling. Mom doesn’t see any bruising, but notes with concern his increasing weight loss, despite hearty meals and double-dessert courses. 

 

Dad apparently fell around 4PM when he was galavanting around without his walker. My father has started folding up his walker and hiding it in the back of his closet. When I find it there and pull it out he opens his brown eyes wide and says, “what’s that?!” (as though he’s never seen it before.)   He’s fascinated that this unusual artifact mined from the depths of his closet is marked in black Sharpie marker with the word “Bob.” 

 

I’m hoping no actual damage was done during Dad’s abrupt meeting with the floor.  A bloodshot eye and decreased appetite are the only unusual findings thus far. Mom will keep an eye on him this morning and I’ll be seeing him this afternoon. 

Addendum:

When I arrived this afternoon, Dad was wielding a green pool noodle.  He, a program leader, and several of Dad's cohort were in the thick of a cut-throat game of "Noodle Ball."  I sneakily sat down behind them to watch so I could gauge Dad's response time and see how he looked when he didn't realize I was observing him.  His Noodle Ball reflexes were in top form and other than that subconjunctival hemorrhage, he seemed okay.

64   Legs

 

Mom and Dad ventured over to Rehab this afternoon, to visit Edward. His recuperation is coming along and the friends were happy to see each other. The unfortunate word on the street however, is that Edward will not be returning to the Memory Care Unit. It’s so disappointing. But another gentleman (for purposes of anonymity we’ll call him Kirby) will soon be joining Dad for meals. Kirby lives on the other side of the unit and I’m hoping he and Dad can develop a mealtime friendship at the men's table. 

 

Despite my daily visit, Dad was visibly surprised and delighted to see me later this afternoon. “Did you just take a chance I’d be home?” He said it was a good thing he hadn’t gone out for a drive. 😂

 

I had reservations about going out in my skort this afternoon but at almost 90 degrees, I was too uncomfortably warm (and too Sunday-afternoon-lazy) to change my lounging attire. With six decades to my credit, I don’t usually flash my knees around in public anymore. Almost as soon as I arrived, Dad gave me some unsolicited reassurance. “Hey, your legs still look pretty good.” I had to laugh. “Funny you should say that, Dad. I was just fretting over my pasty white legs and my spidery purple veins.” He dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand. “Well that’s a waste of worry.” I do love when my Dad throws some unexpected wise words my way. (Although it’s funny too, since he’s the one who passed down these ridiculous chicken legs to me.)

 

Dad has a great view of the parking lot from his room and he sure does keep tabs on the comings and goings. He admitted to spying on everyone this afternoon. 

• “I’m pretty nosey so I see what’s happening out there.” 
• “I’m glad we bought this place. It’s relaxing.”
• “See that lady walking out there? “ (I did, indeed, see her, minding her own business exiting her car.)
• “But I’m okay with these people walking through my property.” 

Dad often admires the interior of Harmony House, too, and takes full credit for its decorating and design.

 

“I’m glad I built that case into the wall over there. It’s a perfect fit and serves its purpose.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him we’d brought that bookshelf from his house in Sellersville as an afterthought and were thrilled to discover it was a perfect fit for the weird space in the wall. 

 

We watched some mind-numbing television golf, the PGA Canadian Open, which my father enjoys as much as I despise it. It was, however, a magical sound to hear my Daddy gently chuckling at Nick Taylor’s shot when he led the pack by two. “I had a shot just like that one…earlier today.” 

 

At least Dad still gets to "golf" in his imagination. 

65   Kirby 

 

Dad introduced me to his new table mate and accurately identified me as his “middle daughter.” It was rather amazing. 

 

It was a pretty long walk for Kirby to venture over to the opposite dining room to join Dad for dinner, but he soon commented on what a nice “restaurant” it is. 

 

Kirby is sweet as pie and the closest person I’ve ever met to a real-life Elmer Fudd. With a shy and nearly-toothless smile under the wide brim of his bright red Phillies cap, this new companion is just what the doctor ordered.  And JUST as concerned about me having something to eat (and whether I’m driving a reliable car) as Edward seemed to be. 

 

Kirby grew up in a little place near Columbus, Ohio in a house which shivered like it had a fever every time the train passed through town. He says he was speedy on the ball field…and sought-after for shortstop duties. 

 

“I never got married. Is that okay?” I told him it was just fine. No one to disagree with, but a downside is having to wash all the dishes by yourself.  This made him laugh out loud and his eyes just sparkled. Dad seemed to enjoy listening to the chatter while he convinced himself he had nothing against Brussels sprouts. 

 

Kirby asked me 5 different times if I’d already eaten breakfast and at least 3 times where I’d grown up. The third time I answered, “East Greenville,” the Eavesdropper rolled her eyes dramatically and stopped parroting the conversation. (A marvelous turn of events!)

 

Between Kirby and Dad, I think I’m going to spend a lot of evening hours repeating myself. 😂

66   Pharmaceuticals

 

Dad was really out of sorts tonight. “Boy, am I glad to see you! What a day. I’ve been on the phone constantly and I don’t know where the others are.” (Turns out he was looking for his brothers and sisters.) 

My Dad doesn’t have a phone. 

The beef cubes in tonight's soup gave Dad's dentures a real workout and he refused the rest of his meal so he could sit and chew incessantly...making very little progress for over 15 minutes. He chewed and chewed like a ball-player on the mound...positively refusing to give up and just spit it mercifully into his napkin. “I’ve worked so hard. The investment is too much to stop now."

And his best rationalization yet:  "If I wasn’t chewing with someone else’s teeth, it would go better.” 

Oh, Dad. 

 

The vanilla ice cream was his reward. 

 

Soon after Dad’s diagnosis, he was prescribed Aricept, to slow the progression of his cognitive decline. The medication not only failed to tap the breaks on the Alzheimer's, but caused so much nausea and weight loss in my Dad, he was twice hospitalized. It took the doctors a while to admit the medication was a problem. 

 

Dad hasn’t taken Alzheimer’s medications since.

 

It’s too late to make a difference for my father, but today I saw that Biogen is calling for broad insurance coverage for its new Alzheimer’s drug, Leqembi. They are touting this new drug as the "first to breach the disease’s fortress wall.” 

 

And all for a mere $26,500.00 annually. That works out to an obscene $73.00/day. A tiny sliver of hope can be expensive as heck when people find themselves in a no-win situation. $73.00/day is exactly the kind of money folks on a fixed income DON’T have just sitting around. Healthcare in our country only works for those with considerable means.

 

I’ve apparently forgotten the party line, again. Please tell me once more how socialized medicine is going to "kill us all." Explain it to me like I’m 5 because an even playing field where everyone gets a shot at living without bankruptcy regardless of their medical situation sounds much nicer than the scenario we've currently got on our hands in the good old U.S.of A. 

67    Gams

 

An impressive thunderstorm blew through the area this afternoon. Dad and I spent a nice hour on the patio after the storm. My sister FaceTimed too, so with the three of us and all the noisy birds at the feeders, it was quite the party. 

 

Once back inside, Dad asked me (again) how old he is. He can’t fathom that Mom is going to be 85 on Monday and he’ll be 89 in three months. His response was rather dramatic. “We’re getting pretty close to the end now. It’s only a matter of days!”

 

Oh my.  I told him I hoped it would be longer than that.

 

The doomsday talk didn’t last too long, though. As soon as we cracked open Dad’s photo book (for the zillionth time) and he spotted his sweetheart on the beach in Ocean City, he said, “And here’s a beautiful lady with nice gams!”  

I mean...to be fair, Mom's legs at 85 are still better than mine.... (And does anyone else use the word gams interchangeably with the word legs, or is that just my parents?”)

68   Father’s Day

I don’t take it for granted…this 62nd Father’s Day with my Dad. It is not lost on me how fortunate I am to have my dear father in my life for all these years.

When I arrived this afternoon, he was wearing a Father’s Day t-shirt from his home church. Apparently all the Dads received one this morning. Mom brought it to him this afternoon and a couple of hours later, he was wearing it proudly but had no idea from whence it had come.

We’ve misplaced the supply of iron-on laundry tags bearing both my father’s name and the Memory Care Unit’s name. The tags are meant to ensure that most of Dad’s laundry gets back into his drawers and closets from the CCRC laundry.

Without the tags, I wasn’t even sure it was a good idea to give Dad his new soft blue golf shirt for Father’s Day. But it felt somehow incomplete to visit with just a card, so I ended up pulling out a Sharpie marker and defacing the inside collar of Dad’s nice new shirt. As though I am his overprotective mother and he is ten years old and heading to camp for a week. (As far as I know, there’s only one Bob, so after three blotchy black permanent ink letters, I stopped pushing my luck before the ink soaked all the way through.)

The ladies at the women’s dinner table tonight knew it was Father’s Day but had no idea of the date. Instead of intently powering through their bowls of Italian wedding soup (like Dad and Kirby) the women were spending an excruciating amount of time wondering aloud about the day of the week and the date.  Wild (and incorrect) guesses were being made around the table. In a rare opportunity for a little reverse rudeness, I spun around in my chair and told the eavesdropper, “It’s Sunday, the 18th.”

The eavesdropper’s eyes opened wide behind her thick glasses. She seemed shocked but almost pleasantly surprised by actual interaction with the person she’s been parroting for three months.

Before she had a chance to respond, Kirby stopped slurping, his grin spreading widely across his face. He’d heard me say the number 18 and put down his spoon. “Hey!" (he accused).  "Are you telling those girls at that other table how OLD we are?” He looked for all the world like an 18-year old with a practical joke, giggled at his own nonsense, and looked to my Dad for collaboration.

Dad grinned too. Not because he understood the joke, but because Kirby was visibly pleased with himself and Dad is literally the sweetest man on earth.

I laughed too. Because in that moment, both men were so happy. And for once, the eavesdropper was at a loss for words.

69   Off-Road

Aubrey and I joined Dad on the porch this afternoon. The two of us were sweating to death in the heat but Dad, who enjoys wool sweaters year-round, was quite content watching the birds in the shade. 

 

Well, he WAS content. But then two other residents joined us and brought the chaos. One was a little bossy, and the other was just a storm in the cutest little old lady package. She struggled mightily trying to come through the door, which was held open by just a small rock. Her rolling shiny blue walker with a seat and storage compartment was a lot for her frail frame to drag through the heavy door, so she needed assistance from the get-go. Exiting the watchful eyes of the resident assistants, she immediately threw caution to the wind, parking her rolling ambulation aid in the dust and going completely rogue. This defiance was despite our best efforts to curb her death-defying enthusiasm. Eschewing things like paved walkways, the little lady went directly off-road. She persisted in taking risky steps on uneven ground, searching for a bucket of water for the too-dry raised garden, lifting her petite legs over the side of the wooden bench like a carefree second grader at recess, and generally giving me a heart attack. Gosh, she was speedy. Aubrey and I both took a turn chasing her down with her walker, hoping to prevent a fall. Our well-meaning interventions were repeatedly thwarted as she raced forward from one dangerous endeavor to the next, suddenly shooting off all the fireworks of independence she’d been storing up during her Memory Care incarceration. 

The woman suggested it was too hot outside for a 100-year-old and Aubrey challenged her age declaration as an impossibility. “You don’t look 100!” 

In response, this amazing human struck a hilarious pose, giving us her very best impression of a dried-up centenarian. 

You can’t tell a book by its cover. I’ve been passing this tiny speechless woman in the hallways for three months and never once imagined she had so much chutzpah tucked inside.

70   Falling

 

Other than pointing to me and telling Kirby, “She’s a great help to me,” pretty much NOTHING Dad said for the first twenty minutes of my visit tonight made any sense at all. 

 

Dad insisted it was a frustrating day from start to finish. He unfortunately fell again during the night and has a bruise on the back of his sweet little head. But when I fuss at him, removing his St. Andrews Golf cap for my assessment, he tells me his overnight fall is “old news.”

 

He had zero appetite for dinner and the sight of a cheeseburger and accompaniments arriving on his plate made him immediately distraught. Save two bow tie noodles shakily lifted from a steaming bowl of chicken soup, he ate nothing. 

 

Instead of sitting there watching Kirby eat, we went outside to perch ourselves on the overstuffed bench cushion, watch the drizzle, and listen to the birds squawking their territorial complaints at us. As if we were there solely to confiscate their mealworms. 

We called Mom on speaker-phone too, because Dad wanted to know what she was doing and wished to tell her he loves her. Sixty-seven years of living in the same space makes it a particular hardship to be apart. 

 

The resident Guinea pigs offered a little distraction, tossing a straw basket around their enclosure. Counting the fish in the tank helped too. (They hide REALLY well in the colorful fake plants accenting their little lagoon.) 

But most of the time, Dad was grouchy...telling me he feels lousy today, but he can’t put his finger on the cause.

 

“Maybe my belly,” he finally said, his hand guarding the area as we counted the fish. The belly complaint grew more convincing over the next 40 minutes, his left lower abdomen emerging more clearly as the culprit. He was pretty sure it bothered him enough by 6:00 to let me ask the nurse for some Tylenol. He has no fever so I’m guessing he bumped his lower belly when he fell during the night. Insisting he doesn’t want his belly checked, he decreed, “It will just have to take care of itself because no hospitals.” 

 

I understand his reluctance to open another medical can of worms and though the nurse in me wants to identify the issue, I don't disagree with his firm decision on this.  

It was hard to leave my father tonight. Harder than it’s been for several weeks. 

Walking back to my car was a two-Kleenex job. 

71   Lunch Panic

I spent my lunch hour with Dad. His greeting to me was, “Hello. I’m glad you’re here. We’re in a panic situation.”

He tried and failed to recall the exact details of the emergency but he was very certain there were two different crisis situations unfolding.

Chocolate cream pie arrived. “Well I’m glad they brought me my dessert. If they hadn’t…on top of everything else…that would have been IT.”

His appetite is back and he denies belly discomfort today.

He ate that pie with relish, lifting imaginary chocolate crust crumbs from his khaki slacks like he was on the clock and being paid overtime.

Oh, how I adore this man.

I told the nurses I’d be off-grid until Sunday night and they should call Mom first if they need us. And now I’m going to put all of my energy into enjoying a music festival with my husband. 

(If you heard laughter after that bold statement of relaxation, it was mine.)

72   What a Zoo 

 

Dad had a big day today. At lunchtime, there was an outing to the Elmwood Park Zoo and Dad joined the entourage. By the time I arrived at 4:45, he had forgotten completely about seeing any animals, but recalled the long ride to “nowhere.” 😂

 

I was in VA with my son and his family over the weekend. At one point, he and my granddaughter were outside and I was looking at them through the glass window at Magpie Diner. When Isaac realized I was going to take their photo, he began a series of silly faces. I showed my Dad these photos this evening during my visit and he was SO very pleased. It’s exactly the type of thing my father has always liked to do. He recognized his kindred spirit, too. He asked me- “Do you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to duplicate me! He’s taking after his Poppop.” He was so proud. The comedy-genetics are strong with those two.

 

As soon as a knock on the door announced dinnertime, Dad’s younger brother, Bill and his wife, Joan arrived for a visit.  They had an enormous fruit basket in tow. Dad’s caretakers are great about holding and reheating meals, so Dad was free to enjoy their visit, and enjoy, he did. It was nice to hear my dad and my uncle say that they love each other. 

 

Life is a zoo (whether we remember it or not).  That's for certain.  But when everything else is stripped away, we are still richer than many when we have family with whom we can share silly traits and trade sweet assurances of love.  

73   The People at Home

 

My sister, Carol is in town. We got to see Dad together yesterday on my lunch break and she went to visit him again at 7:30 this morning! The early bird gets the worm, and all that. My mother was there soon after (as is her daily pattern) and when she left, Dad told her she should stay longer because he was already missing her. 

 

Despite all this attention and my arrival this afternoon, Dad’s opening words were, “Thank goodness you’re here. The people at home are looking for me.”

 

He asked, “What time is it at home?” The same time as here, Dad. 4:45. He was amazed by this news. In his mixed-up mind, it just did not compute. 

 

I told him about the news of the day and he was so excited for my daughter, Aubrey. She landed her dream job today. 

 

But his excitement turned a little sour as he pondered his situation. “I’m on pins and needles because I can’t contact my grandchildren.” With no phone or obvious way to independently communicate with the outside world, he wondered how I find out these things. He wanted to celebrate with Aubrey, so we called her number on speaker phone and it just rang and rang. She didn’t pick up but Dad left her the sweetest message. His recording involved the following: the fact that it was her grandfather calling, that he didn’t know where he was, that he was proud, that her news was good, and that he loves her. Tears sprang immediately to my eyes. She’ll probably never erase it.

We walked out to the dinner table and Kirby greeted us with an indecipherable Italian phrase.  I requested a translation, and he recited: “Old age is a terrible beast.” An apropos expression.  Kirby had learned it from his mother. Dad tried and failed to respond to Kirby's offering of Italian words with his own limited German vocabulary.  He thought really hard but came up short.  So, I changed the subject to the first thing I could think of.  Dad’s missing shirt button. “What happened to your button, Dad?” 

 

He smiled because he had an answer for that one. 

“It left the shirt! I think it jumped right off!” 

It feels like a good day for a Poppop to be missing a button. My Grammy used to tell me she was so proud of me, her buttons were popping off. I think Dad feels the same way about Aubrey today. 

 

Rest assured, Dad. All the people at home know exactly where you are.  And we all love you more than you can imagine.

74  On the Green

Last night I brought Dad a scotcharoo and he was feeling quite sneaky receiving a second dessert after he'd already snagged some chocolate cream pie. 😂

 

This afternoon Dad and I watched Talor Gooch win $4 million (obscene) at an LIV golf tournament in Spain. 

Dad adores television golf (well...ANY golf) but he was visibly stressing over watching the competitors attempt to hit their balls around a stand of trees. 

He also spent a lot of time noticing the way the professional golfers held their arms.  He so admires their swings.  As he has been doing for about the last 40 years, he paused to instruct me once again how to hold my arms for a better golf swing. As if I will ever hold a golf club.... 😂. 

 

I do my very best to appear interested in his favorite sport...saving amusing golf reels on my phone so Dad and I can look at them together. Today’s prize footage consisted of a beetle (which was apparently attending a golf tournament), pushing a golf ball unexpectedly onto the green.  Quality content.  (See below)

 

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CrLw1yBtT2n/?igshid=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ== 

75 A Good Evening

It is a good evening when I find Dad socializing out in the common area.  He and a gentleman I've never met were side-by-side in matching wing chairs, engaged in deep conversation.  I hated to interrupt.  Dad was so surprised to see me, (as though I haven't seen him almost every single day for the last five months....)

There was chocolate mousse for dessert, which always makes Dad purr.  

And since he was on such a happy streak, we set up the putting green where he proved he's still got it.  6 out of his first 7 balls, right into the cup. 

76  Stolen Bells

 

I’m heading to VA to watch my granddaughter for several days so I took an early lunch today to visit Dad. 

 

I relieved Mom of her duties, sitting alongside Dad in the common area recliners while enjoying an impressive lineup of songs. 

An assortment of memory care residents participated. The tunes seemed to bring even the flattest and most catatonic faces to life as they mouthed the deeply embedded lyrics or nodded along. The musical interlude was led by a nice young man with a guitar. He possessed a seemingly unlimited supply of patience and a beautiful singing voice. The residents rang their bells, tapped their drums and shook their tambourines. 

Time seemed to pause around us as we all sang and sang. 

 

When the singing ended, there was an announcement. “Alright friends, I’m going to come around and collect everybody’s instruments.” 

 

Upon hearing this declaration, my sneaky father immediately squirreled away his jingle bells, hiding them under his left armpit and brazenly feigning a nap the very moment the activities director came around to collect them! 

“I’m baffled, Bob…” Seeing Dad’s eyes closed and no bells in hand, the poor guy turned to me and gently asked, “Did I already collect his?” 

 

I shook my head “no” and shrugged apologetically with not a small measure of mortification.

 

My father….

 

Well….

 

My Dad played dead. 

 

Most convincingly so. 

 

Even I (holding six decades of history with Dad’s shenanigans) glanced at Dad’s chest for evidence of breath. 

 

Oh my word. 

 

Predictably silly, my fathers eyelids fluttered playfully open to the sound of the young man’s departing stride. Dad promptly moved the bells to his left shirt pocket and five minutes later, to his right pants pocket. 

 

When I stood to return to the office, I put out my palm and ordered, “Okay Dad…hand over the bells.” He did so, sheepishly, but with residual satisfaction written all over his face. 

 

I have a strong feeling my Dad’s insatiable wit will be the last bit of cognitive function to go. 

77   Too Hot

It was around 90 degrees and humid today, yet when I entered Dad's room, I found him sitting in his recliner with a dark blue wool sweater pulled weirdly over just the top half of his torso like an ill-fitting sausage casing. He was struggling with a pair of suspenders, their stretchy striped arms reaching well beyond the desired length, their metal clips dangling ineffectively over Dad's knees.  He was concentrating hard but at a complete loss. "I've got a project here.  I'm trying to figure out how to adjust these straps."

Finding one's parent in the vulnerable position of a toddler is a unique sadness.  

"Dad, how about we get rid of this really hot sweater, first?"  He was wearing a more weather-appropriate shirt beneath the thick winter layer he'd clearly added after his care assistants turned their backs.  I pulled off his sweater and tucked it beneath his stack of better mid-summer choices.

The root of his suspender predicament became immediately obvious once the wool layer was gone.  The back straps of Dad's suspenders were draped only an inch below his shoulders, connected to nothing.  Once I attached them to the back of his pants, he was ecstatic to discover his suspenders were working just fine.  

He moved on to the next problem weighing on his mind.  "It's a really hot day and my guys are all down in the warehouse working in this heat.  I feel sorry for them. As their supervisor, I should go down there, but I just can't bring myself to suffer in the heat."  (This from the man choosing a wool sweater....)

" Dad, the guys are doing well in the warehouse.  You don't have to go down there.  You just need to walk with me to the dining room for dinner." 

He wasn't fully convinced, but accompanied me, nonetheless. After yesterday's beef soup, which caused a remarkable amount of chewing stress, I was actually pathetically thrilled to see cream of broccoli soup, which is one of Dad's favorites.  Kirby agreed with the deliciousness of the soup du jour, loudly slurping like the never-married guy he always reminds me he is. "This is the good stuff," he told my Dad.  "It fills you up just looking at it."  He chuckled at his own clever wordplay.

Kirby's declaration was seemingly prophetic because both men were completely unmotivated to tackle their matching plates once they'd returned their empty soup bowls.  I convinced them to taste the mashed potatoes and that's as far as things went until one of the aides mentioned cherry pie.  As has become the pattern for my father and his shy tablemate, Kirby and Dad traded their dinners for a sweet fix.

 

Dad wanted coffee and he reminded me (after shockingly recalling and reporting to Kirby with some embarrassment that his daughter is strictly a tea-drinker) "Coffee is just MADE to drink."  Honestly, coffee is one of Dad's most predictable remaining pleasures.

It was too hot to drink, so I carried it back to his room for him while he steered the walker he pretends not to need. 

 

 

Me: "Dad, tea is delicious, too." 

Dad:  "I'm not going to comment on that." 😏😏

 

Adorable suspenders, right?

 

78   Rough Patch

 

Dad was super agitated and confused last evening. I could barely break through to the Dad I know. He was repeatedly flushing the toilet and turning on the faucet without using the restroom. Then he was rapid-fire pushing every button on the DVD player. He absolutely could not sit still. I persistently tried to gently guide his shoulders back into the chair. But he frustratingly kept popping up like a slice of untoasted bread when one doesn’t initially realize the toaster is unplugged. My father is convinced he is supposed to be solving some big problem at work and that he’s still the boss. I told him he’s retired and he said, “I know but I’m STILL IN CHARGE.” 

 

Dad was downright angry and there was just no calming him with my usual tricks. I tried to get him to relax and told him there was nothing that needed his attention. He looked at me like I was a pitiable toddler. For almost 90 years (or at least the 6 decades I’ve known him) my Dad has cushioned every reaction with a veil of kindness. That veil was missing tonight and it was with barely-disguised disgust that he made it abundantly clear he didn’t appreciate his daughter telling him what to do about his occupation. “You just don’t know.” 

 

I walked him out to the sunroom and took the rock out of the door so he wouldn’t go outside by himself when they’re not paying attention. I pretty much begged the aide to keep an eye on him when I left for home.

 

It feels wrong to hope one of Dad’s other underlying medical conditions gives him an eternal peace before this personality deterioration gets any worse. But if I’m being honest, that’s where I’m at.  I don’t want to lose my Dad, but we’re losing him second by second as his brain turns him into someone I don’t know. Someone HE doesn’t know. 

 

A relative suggested that I should reconsider my pattern of visiting my Dad every single day. It’s true that it is (as she says) “getting harder to watch.” 

 

But it isn’t that simple. 

 

It’s the little things. Like the evenings I arrive and he’s sitting there with an almost-cold cup of black coffee. My father likes creamer for his coffee. But now, he won't think to ask for it and he isn’t sure of the answer if they ask him for his preference. He’s stumped by the simplest choices. Coffee is one of the few pleasurable things he still has. The same dilemma occurs with ketchup or mustard on his burger or hot dog. I need to be there to ask for the ketchup because he just can't remember. Sometimes the “little thing” is redirecting him to a photo album when he's spiraling. Pointing out something…ANYTHING that might bring a moment of serenity to his troubled mind.

 

I couldn't live with myself if I didn't go. Imagining the 10-11 waking hours I’m already not with him each day is torture enough. 

79   Riding Shotgun

My husband bought himself a new (used) car and when my father heard about it, I knew from his excitement that he'd need to check it out for himself.

Jim and I went by this evening and found my father in the hallway with one of the care assistants in his blue plaid PJs and red plaid slippers.  They were looking at dog photos on her phone.  SO ADORABLE but so NOT ready for an outing! 

Though he would not "officially" be exiting the car, Dad was not comfortable with the notion of a public exhibition of his PJs. So I helped him change into a pair of athletic pants and sneakers for the excursion.  We talked him into keeping the pajama top.

He was a little hesitant about climbing into Jim's little Mini Cooper, but Jim and I can both be extremely persuasive and in no time, his aluminum walker was being shoved into what little back seat was available and Dad was being fastened into the front seat by my seatbelt-wielding spouse.

The walker and I just barely fit into that small space behind the seats, but I wouldn't have missed this trip for anything.  

As soon as Jim hit the gas, Dad was "all-in" for the jailbreak. Before we were even out of the parking lot, Dad (riding shotgun) was singing the official song of the U.S. Air Force with WAY more vibrato than necessary.  "Off we go...into the wild blue yonder...."

Yodeling soon followed...demonstrated both by the man who raised me and the one who married me.  I know what you're thinking, and I agree.  I'm more fortunate than most to be surrounded by this master-level of devoted tomfoolery and I wouldn't trade either one of them. 

Jim was inspired to drive over to Clemens Food Group to show my father all the trucks.  Dad worked in traffic management for many decades and he is ALL about the trucking industry.  My father clearly loved having such a unique vantage point for the rows of shiny white cabs and the orderly lines of waiting trailers.  Jim pointed out the highlights and wowed Dad by flashing his employee card around to lift security gates for our trip around the facility lots.

Next stop was the Wendy's drive-through and soon our dear passenger/precious cargo was headed back to Dock Woods with a chocolate frosty in his hand (garnished, of course, with the occasional salty french fry).

It is fair to say, our spontaneous adventure was a success.  I signed Dad back into the unit, walked him to his room, and slipped him back into his PJs and slippers. 

Other than the chocolate and french fries on his breath, no one was the wiser.  In fact, the kidnapped passenger (our only eye-witness) has likely already forgotten. 

80   Sundown Central

 

I had a dinner date with a friend tonight so by the time I arrived in Dad’s room around 6:50 PM, he was dressed for sleep, stacking various unrelated belongings on a pile atop his bed, and wearing a thick wool Civil War cap. 

 

The shades were drawn, the lights were off, and it was Sundown Central. 

 

I added some light to the situation and helped Dad put away his miscellaneous pile of things. 

 

He was glad to see me but he had a whole lot of trouble stringing together any coherent thoughts. His sentences were jumbled and disjointed as he searched in vain for words. Coming up short, he replaced his elusive thoughts with other phrases and words when he couldn’t find the ones he wanted. 

 

(Drawing my attention to the parking lot light outside his window): “At a certain time of night, that satellite comes on.”

 

(Referring to the expanse of his room with a flourish of the hand): “I like having this office space here.”

 

(Chewing and chewing on some minuscule remnant from his dinner, his dentures clattered like a small typewriter in his closed mouth.) I remarked about it and asked if he wanted to rinse. He thought it was just fine. “It’s good to keep my teeth active.”

 

(Hearing one of the Care Assistants helping a resident in the hallway): “The people who work at this port are glad for the carpet I laid down.” Nodding emphatically, he conspiratorially added: “Sometimes they even knock to come in....”

 

Sigh. 

Sweet dreams, Dad. 

 

May the respite of sleep and the comforting glow of your own parking lot satellite generously reboot some of the tangled cerebral pathways tucked under your over-warm (and out-of-season) cap.

 

And preferably before my mother’s arrival in the morning. 

81 Bananas

Dad has always enjoyed a banana.  After his Alzheimer's diagnosis, Mom would sometimes discover him puttering in the kitchen, nibbling recurrently at a breakfast cake or peeling some sorry overripe brown speckled specimen within minutes of their supper dishes being washed.  

My mother was worried today.  She had taken Dad out for a morning courtyard stroll and he stopped to rest to the point of falling asleep on three separate stops.  This was unlike him. 

So, I was expecting a pitiful Dad this afternoon and I armed myself with the only viable cheery incentive at my fingertips.  A lovely banana I had only just acquired.

When I walked onto the unit, Dad was not slumbering as expected.  He was out in the common area (predictably without his prescribed walker) compulsively straightening the lines of "crooked" chairs.  These chairs are bulky with thick ornate wood and beautifully upholstered seats.  Not so easy to maneuver.  But my Dad was determinedly muscling them around with unbridled annoyance at the other less-tidy residents.  He reminded me of a mother who has just finished cleaning when a gaggle of teens arrives on the scene, flopping sideways onto the furniture with an offending bag of Doritos. 

He looked anything but feeble.

"Dad, where is your walker?"  

He laughed at me, spied the beautiful banana in my hand, swiped it from me, and commenced answering my question as though speaking into an old-school phone.

This nonsensical fruit conversation continued for about five minutes until he decided his "telephone" was for snacking and polished it off with great haste (and a lot of "mmmmmms").

We called my mother so she could set her mind at ease (at least for a little while).  He recalled nothing of their sleep-studded morning walk and holding my phone like the boss he used to be, he told Mom she was "dreaming."  

I retrieved the aluminum walker (which he had folded neatly in his room).  We took a walk near the playground, watched the birds, considered the poofy clouds, moved Dad's wedding ring to his right hand (it's starting to fall off), talked about when Mom might get her call to move into the apartments, and snuck into the far hallway of Dad's unit, where the second half of the memory-challenged folks live.  Dad was amazed that I "knew the code" to tap us back into the building.  "I had no idea this was our property, too."  😉

"Dad, do you want me to give your wedding ring to Mom so it doesn't get lost?"  He looked at me sideways, thinking that was a terrible idea.  (He may be right because I counted 12 women and 2 men at dinner the other evening and some of them are pretty aggressive.)

This journey is completely bananas.  But I'm grateful for afternoons like this one and the gift of sweet hours shared. 

82   Dismissed

 

Dad has had some belly issues this week and is not quite himself. When I arrived this afternoon, he and Kirby were sitting side-by-side in upholstered wing chairs, plotting the specifics of a fictional appointment for which they couldn’t POSSIBLY be late. There was a real sense of urgency and importance in Dad’s speech. My father appeared to be the ringleader, complete with watch-checking and a supervisory tone. He was calling the shots and sweet Kirby was nodding, smiling, and going along with whatever Dad said. Kirby’s ears have undoubtedly heard plenty of nonsense in his 97 years on this spinning orb, so my father’s perplexing antics did nothing to shock him or dampen his pleasant mood. He looked pleased as punch to have a partner in crime. 

 

Me: “Hi, Dad!”

Dad: “Oh no! We were just about to leave!”

Me: “Where are you going?”

Dad: (stumped, he looked to Kirby and asked), "Where ARE we going?”

Kirby: (shrugs and giggles)

 

Feeling like I was interrupting something, I stood before them and asked them about their day. Kirby grinned a mostly-toothless grin and Dad reported a headache and took off his golf cap to show me precisely where it hurt. 

And then. 

Sigh.

Dad made it clear that in his muddled mind I had indeed interfered. Answering for himself and his unsuspecting accomplice, he said, “Our day WAS going very well before YOU appeared and BLEW THE WHOLE THING UP.”  

 

WOW. It was admittedly painful but I had to laugh. (I mean…what else could I do?) Dad’s sidekick, Kirby laughed along with me…which somehow (pitifully) felt supportive. 

 

A couple of the more normalcy-aware female residents on the unit dropped their gazes, embarrassed by Dad’s atypical tone which had replaced the usual loving banter they’ve grown accustomed to hearing between father and daughter. 

 

MY day was (in fact) rather stressful even before Dad’s unfiltered delusional remark, so NOT hanging around the Memory Care unit for an hour or two tonight was actually a kind of gift. 

 

Having been so heartlessly dismissed, I asked the nurse to administer a dose of Tylenol for Dad’s headache and I took my leave early to head to the store for some supplies Dad requires. 

 

His parting directive to “drive carefully!” felt at least a little more in line with the loving guy hiding somewhere beneath this afternoon’s bossy Alzheimer’s bravado. 

83   A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place

Dad has worried us this week, having a rough few days with belly bothers. He finally seemed better this afternoon. He has lost a little weight and is moving slower than usual but he was well enough to dig into his lunch and enjoy watching a video of one of his caregivers jumping from a plane for her birthday yesterday.

 

I showed Dad a photo one the care assistants took of him during a group ice cream outing to Merrymead Farm earlier in the week and he was quite pleased with himself. “That’s a pretty good-looking guy!”

 

Dad Ioves things to be in order. Everything in its place. No small books under the big books, no placemats resting crookedly on the table, his pants hanging on one side of the closet-shirts on the other, and the common area chairs lined up “just so.” 

 

And he’s very particular about his food. If he sees an unexpected speck, he cannot rest until it is removed and banished from his plate. It matters not if I tell him it is a parsley flake or a piece of oregano. As far as he’s concerned, it is an inedible foreign body. Dad wants every last millimeter of ham rind wholly removed. Today, I did a thorough job…carefully detaching the dreaded baked peel from his lunchtime sweet potato. But the very ordinary and perfectly edible darker brown edge on Dad’s potato still bothered him endlessly. I promised him it was fine to eat but he commenced tediously dissecting every miniscule bit away from that potato as though he was a neurosurgeon who had been called upon for heroism in a life and death situation. 

 

As he finished his dessert, the kitchen door squeaked an eerie sort of squeak and Dad sat up straight, opening his eyes WIDE. “INNER SANCTUM” he said, in a knowing voice. I had no idea what he was talking about and told him so. 

It should come as no surprise, it was the “Eavesdropper” from across the dining room who chimed in with know-it-all clarification. “Inner Sanctum was the scariest show.... It gave me nightmares!” 

So I googled it and sure enough, it was a popular mystery-thriller radio program in the 1940s. 

 

Dad can’t recall our conversation five minutes ago but an 80-year old program, he remembers….

 

We spent the second hour of our visit on the shaded porch, enjoying a nice breeze and a FaceTime visit with Dad’s great granddaughter, Natalie.

Her initial shyness when she saw PopPop on the screen turned into something resembling peekaboo behind the drapes before too long. Dad wasn't exactly clear on who she was, but he loved talking to her. 

(They have a history of being silly together as shown below.)

84   R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

 

Dad and Aretha Franklin are both looking for the same thing. A little respect. 

 

“See this guy?” (Points to his name and room number on the plaque outside his door.) “People used to respect him.”

 

He claims fewer and fewer people now do, but I’m not buying it. He definitely garners admiration and appears to be loved by all the people who interact with him.

 

I told him, “Everyone I know respects you, Dad.” But he insists the missing respect is “definitely noticeable.”

 

I suggested this newly identified lack of respect could be related to “spinach sequestration” since he has mercilessly sidelined any strand of spinach found in his soup for two days running. Last night it was some sort of Cheddar Florentine and tonight a hearty but pedestrian Vegetable. He’ll ingest every drop but the dreaded spinach never passes his lips and is left to languish in the melamine bowl like a washed  up clump of seaweed from an overzealous wave. 

 

Dad denies there is a relationship between spinach and respect. It is safe to say, most all of my diversion tactics were of little use tonight. Dinner was eaten with annoyance as ruthlessly stabbed macaroni salad noodles and watermelon cubes were shoveled with vexation into my father’s overfilled cheeks. The sub roll was ripped from the provolone and turkey slices and pressed down emphatically in the discard pile. There was very little table conversation, save Kirby asking me REPEATEDLY if I wanted his chicken. (I tried to tell him they were tater-tots but he was on a campaign to get them off his plate and could not be convinced.)

 

The only good news is that Dad decently ate most of what they brought him tonight. This was a consolation as his weight has dropped to a measly 122 pounds.

 

My mind knows weight loss to be a predictor of advancing disease in Alzheimer’s patients, but my heart isn’t quite ready to admit all of that, so…moving on.

 

“Dad, do you need anything before I go?” 

 

To my surprise, tonight’s Billy Goat Gruff answered sweetly. “You’ve done everything you can do and I love you.”

 

I walked out tonight feeling loved but tired and all used up like that remnant slimy spinach. 

 

I love you too, Dad.  And you’ll always have my respect. 

85   Pasta Night

I brought my father his second-favorite dinner tonight. He hasn’t had spaghetti for five months and with the way his eyes lit up at a recent conversation about spaghetti and meatballs, it felt like time. 

 

Pasta is the runner-up because Dad's favorite meal will always be homemade potato pie (double crust), with warm milk poured over the top. HIS mother made it for him and his five siblings because it was filling, and it was cheap. MY mother made it for him for the subsequent 70 years because it made him purr. (Next to liver and onions, it was my least-favorite dinner.) 

 

He watched me unload my dinnertime parcels with rapt interest. When the spaghetti was uncovered, Dad was ALL IN. “Good thing you’re here with that spaghetti. I don’t know when my father fed me last.” (My paternal grandfather died almost 45 years ago.)

 

It was a 5-napkin event. Dad twirled that pasta like a boss and stuffed himself full. Despite all those napkins, he departed the table with an orange smile.

 

When Dad stood to return to his room, he was a little wobbly. It had been a long day as my mother had chauffeured him to the dermatologist in the morning so he could have some spots zapped. She rewarded him afterward with a strawberry milkshake and a stop at my office to see where I work (as though for the first time). He was adorable with his childlike wonder and his multiple Bandaids. 

 

Walking to his room post-supper, of course he was without his walker (again) when the wobbling began. 

 

“You okay, Dad?” I gripped his arm with more insistence and with the other hand I balanced the salad he hadn’t touched.  (No green leafy stuff but he predictably had “room” for a slice of Boston cream cake.)

 

“I’m fine. Just a loose leg.”

 

Ever the jokester.

 

My father was content with so many carbohydrates on board, so I left him with a kiss on his marinara-stained face while he tsk-tsked at the Action News I-95 traffic report like a man who was headed that way. 

86  Just Checking

My father and Kirby, (the two most adorable fellows in the halls of Harmony House) honestly crack me up.  Every evening is a new adventure with the two of them.

Tonight, while Dad was grinning and drawing attention to the burger in his hand, Kirby (Dad's tablemate who reminds me of a pathologically forgetful Elmer Fudd) suddenly peered at me with great purpose from beneath his baseball cap.  "Excuse me!"  His urgency commanded my attention. "Do I still have hair?"  I reassured him he has a very nice crop of hair for a 97-year-old man. With palpable relief he celebrated the knowledge of his silvery scalp with a swig of his favorite drink.  Hot cocoa. "Thank you.  I was JUST CHECKING."

It's the middle of August, dog-days of summertime, and Kirby is drinking his second mugful of hot chocolate and wearing roughly four layers of clothing. Even my Dad, (in his polo shirt topped with a wool sweater vest) noticed Kirby's excess of fabric.  He told his friend he felt naked in comparison with all those "wrappings."  (I find I enjoy the words Dad comes up with when he searches in vain for a phrase and plugs in something unexpected, instead.)

Meanwhile, Dad was flashing his fistful of burger all around the dining room.  He waved it at residents and employees indiscriminately.  He complained for a solid ten minutes (to anyone who would listen and many who were decidedly NOT listening) about his too-fat turkey burger.  "Look at the SIZE of that!" He showed it to Kirby at least three times. This was wholly unnecessary as Kirby's own turkey burger was languishing untouched on his dinner plate while the chilly man shivered against his personal August-winter and slurped his hot beverage. 

When he showed me his burger YET AGAIN, I said, "DAD!  Do you want me to slice it in half and remove some of it from your bun?"  

He didn't pause to consider my offer at all. Oh, no he did NOT.  

Without a modicum of irony, he responded, "I want to experience the WHOLE THING."

And experience, he did.  

I guess he, too, was JUST CHECKING. 

87  Together Again

 I just spent five days in the mountains with my family. I’ve become so accustomed to my daily check-ins with Dad, the time away stirred up an odd and undeniably unsettling feeling of disconnection. 

 

I was grateful for the trip but also thankful for the familiar rhythm of buzzing in at the entry door and walking the carpeted hallway to my father’s unit this evening.

 

After his big smile greeting and arm-stretching wave as I entered, the first thing I did was clean a dried patch of lunch leftovers from his shirt and walk him to his room to help him shed one of the three layers with which he’d padded his upper half since my mother’s departure this morning. I don’t even know how the sweet man was bending his elbows. 

 

We took a selfie to send to our family members so they’d know we were back in our father-daughter routine. Dad found it necessary to make his silliest face for the shot. 

 

While I showed him photos of my time away, he painstakingly detached every tiny tidbit of rosemary from the rim of his pork. The sauerkraut and onion rings however, met his approval. I handed a utensil to Dad and from across the small table, dear Kirby sighed wistfully and with unveiled jealousy said, “I wish I had MY mother here to take care of ME.” 

 

All of the plates and coffee cups in Harmony House are red, which is a clever ploy based on visual perception. Eating is problematic for many folks with dementia.  Studies have found that people with Alzheimer’s tend to eat about 25% more food when it is offered on a red plate. 

 

Perhaps Kirby is colorblind because he still has zero appetite unless he’s being offered a cup of steaming hot chocolate. Dad worries incessantly about Kirby’s unwillingness to eat.

 

But my father was oblivious tonight to Kirby’s distress at not having someone of his own pulled up to the table to lend support. While I slid my chair more to the center and tried to divide my attention between both men, Dad was happily knocking with his knuckles on the table in time to the catchy music playing overhead. Blueberry Hill. 

 

By the dessert course, most of the dining room inhabitants were singing and humming along with Julie Andrews about “a few of her favorite things” instead of making headway on their chocolate cream pie slices. 

Little pockets of unexpected bliss are a welcome surprise in those halls.  It feels like sunshine on one's face.  Like remembering you are loved...a particular luxury in a place devoid of memory.  

It felt good and right to plant my nightly kiss on Dad's cheek and tell him I'd see him tomorrow.

I also reminded my father (for the fourth time in 15 minutes) that Mom plans to take him for a picnic lunch tomorrow.  With too many onion rings pressing on the walls of his GI tract, he told me (repeatedly) he is glad the picnic is TOMORROW because his stomach is "not ready" for any picnicking tonight.  😂

88  Pizza Party

Dad and I were talking the other day and it occurred to me that he probably hadn't had a decent slice of pizza since sometime in January. That was almost 8 months ago.  A plan was soon hatched to abscond with my father for an al fresco pizza dinner. My mother agreed to accompany us for the outing and switched her usual visiting routine from morning to afternoon.

Tuesday night, we made it happen.  Mom and I walked Dad out, I drove the getaway car, and Dad grinned in the front seat.  Jim, meanwhile, ordered food and secured a nice outdoor spot at Vinny's Pizzarama in Hatfield. 

Pepperoni pizza slices and fries were plentiful.  Dad chewed ever-so-slowly and sipped every last drop of his tall Diet Coke...milking the outing for all it was worth.  

It was a good night. 

 

Definitely better than tonight...where things were unusually dicey at the dinner table.  

The first issue began when Dad questioned me as to whether I'd recently spoken with his father.  As I've mentioned before, my paternal grandfather has been gone for decades. I've learned (mostly by trial and error) NOT to tell my father his parents are deceased.  It just upsets him anew and he accuses the whole world of maliciously keeping this information from him.  So, when asked... I now try to answer in the most creatively evasive terms I can manage (on the fly), hoping I can steer the conversation to something else.  Sometimes it works.  Tonight...not so much.  

No sooner did I semi-recover from the awkward conversation about Grandpop...then Kirby started in on me.

"Are you done borrowing my watch?", he asked.  "I'm sorry...(I said his actual name here), but I didn't borrow your watch."  His eyes accused me, and his mouth followed.  "YES, you did."   I tried again.  "Maybe one of the nurses set it aside when you had your shower or got ready for bed?", I offered.  His annoyance with me continued to escalate.  "I would not have given it to a NURSE.  I would ONLY have let YOU borrow it!" 

Oh boy.  Even my father looked at me suspiciously.  🙄

I asked one of the patient care techs to help Kirby look for it after dinner.  

They must get really weary of searching for lost items.  I realized this evening, I breathe a sigh of relief every time I open my father's bedside table drawer and actually find the remote control where it belongs. 

The whole "watch" conversation was extremely ironic since for the entirety of tonight's meal, sweet Kirby sat with my father's very tiny black Eagles cap atop his head like a pimple.  The hat didn't fit Kirby at all and neither he nor my father realized it was on the wrong person's head.  I'm guessing Dad set it down somewhere and Kirby picked it up.

Mom is going to assess the situation tomorrow to see if we need to intervene. There's always a new mystery to solve! 

The Eagles are playing tonight at 8pm.  I've asked the staff to be sure my father's television is tuned to the game.  Hat or no hat, he'll enjoy watching his team on the field.

89   Zen

You know how some people use a tiny tool to rake sand in their Zen Gardens? My father uses a fork for the same therapeutic purpose, arranging the Graham cracker crumbs from his lunchtime cheesecake.

 

90   Running

I’ve had two really nice days with Dad. He’s been pleasant and loving. Sweet and funny. Inquisitive and playful. But this evening was quite another story.

 

I should have immediately known things were off when I arrived at dinner service to find him wearing his stifling wool civil war cap and a gruff expression on his face. 

How was your day, Dad? 

“BAD.” He shook his head resolutely and asked, “Has there been productivity today? I need to know what my people achieved. I’m waiting for their report.”

I assured him they’d be sure to update him when there was something new to report. 

Dad is running from distorted memories of his employment.  He is running from the residual stress of supervising others.  He seeks an elusive clarity he will never again find.  The clarity needed to tie all his loose thoughts together in a manageable bundle of logic. 

The nurse told me they had to lock Dad’s room this afternoon because he’s been coming out into the hallway with armloads of his belongings. Pulling everything from his closet and generally trying to relocate the whole room’s contents. The staff secured the top closet lock so firmly, it took me longer than it should have to trade that ridiculous wool cap for his more seasonal Pebble Beach option.

Dinner was an exercise in frustration and trickery. Dad was persistently annoyed and non-compliant while I was trying everything the sneak food between his pursed lips. Breaking his chocolate chip cookie in half and dunking it into his coffee ignited the only spark of an appetite this evening. The spinach in his soup made him grouchy. He nearly pushed the bowl off the edge of the table. Observing me squeeze mayonnaise onto his turkey and cheese sub caused SO much consternation. After cajoling and reloading the fork for him THREE times, a half-pile of mashed potatoes was successfully consumed. But then he dropped a minuscule speck of gravy on his athletic pants which prompted a near meltdown and full stop to our hard-won progress.

Meanwhile, Kirby (who eats basically nothing despite constant coaxing by his caretakers) reported to Dad and me that he was a state champion runner in high school. “Even though I’m short.” He was proud and I pulled myself out of my father’s mealtime drudgery long enough to display the amazement he sought with his declaration.  I told Kirby I'd race him if he likes.  He just laughed. 

I guess everybody is running in this place.  

In the next breath, Kirby asked me with great curiosity if I could tell him where he grew up. He knew it was Ohio, but that was all he could recall. Fortunately, I knew the answer because he’s told me about a thousand times. 😉 “You grew up halfway between Steubenville and Columbus. And your parents lived in a coastal town called Giulianova, Abruzzo, Italy.” My phone and I found some stock images on Wikipedia, which Kirby held in his remarkably ice-cold hands. His mostly-toothless grin was my reward. 

 

My normally-sweet Dad who has spent almost ninety years in deference to others was so unusually bad-tempered, he could barely crack a smile on behalf of his friend. 

It was exceptionally difficult to leave Harmony House this evening. Dad insisted he was heading home too and was visibly angry when I suggested he watch the news and try to relax. I told him to look around at all his things in his room, right where they belong. I added that we should both try to get to sleep early tonight. He shook his head like a petulant toddler and crossed his aged bruised arms. The recent breaks in the paper-thin skin of his right wrist were supplementary daggers in my heart. 

The indignities of aging are myriad.

On my way out, I begged the patient care tech to keep a close eye on him, because I don’t trust him for a second. 

 

I prayed for safety and comfort. 

 

And peace. 

I prayed for a rest from this wearying race.

91 Separating

Dad was unusually drowsy for Mom this morning and then later in the day (for me) he was making inquisitive observations about what he was seeing. He was a little disconnected from his normal self today. It’s hard to explain. 

However, he WAS still his silly self, intermittently. When he and I were walking to the courtyard, he suddenly froze, started to bend dramatically forward, and stretched his arms out. Of course I took my hand off his back and swooped in to assess him. As soon as he got my full attention, he LAUGHED and took off practically running down the hall line like a gazelle. Such a brat. 

He was happy outside because the birds were very active out on the porch. He was inquiring about the fences, the leaves dancing in the courtyard, the open windows across the courtyard, the birds, the road sounds. He was weirdly using the word “separating” in nine out of ten of his sentences today. It’s the first time I’ve seen the verbal repetition of Alzheimer’s in such an obvious way. “The birds are separating, the fences are separating, the leaves are separating, my watch is separating, the people walking are separating from us…” He even said his shoes were “separating.” I pressed him on that one and it turned out his shoes felt too tight to him (he thinks since yesterday). I checked to make sure his feet and ankles aren’t swollen. They’re not, but I loosened up his laces. 

Dad examined the ring I was wearing for about five solid minutes. He asked about it, so I handed it to him. He just couldn’t quite fathom how someone fashioned a piece of jewelry from an old china plate.

We search for a constant stream of missing items.  There were several this week, the most crushing is his lost photo book.  This is the book I created for him with photos, old and new.  The one he pores over, practically every day, as though it’s brand-new to him. Today, several workers and I tore everything apart looking for it, but we had no luck. Fortunately, I’d saved the file from it in my old projects folder and was able to order another online today. It should arrive next week.  (Probably around the time the original album resurfaces....)  

Addendum:  The album was found.  Soon he will have two.

92  The Backscratcher 

Yesterday when I entered Dad’s room, he was perched on the edge of his bed with his nose in a book. “What are you reading, Dad?” 

“I’ve just started this book.” If he could actually still read, I might have been convinced. Amusingly, it was a Nora Roberts novel he’d picked up from the common area. Let’s just say there’s no way in heck he’s “reading“ that. 

I could tell by Dad’s sign-in book that his brother, Don had been there 2 hours before. Dad didn’t remember the visit at all and was disappointed to have “missed him.”

For the last week or so, my job list during my visit has expanded to include chief back-scratcher. Dad’s back is so very itchy and lotion does nothing. But my goodness…Dad adores having a back-scratcher in the family. He practically purrs. 

My mother was fully prepared to shave Dad this morning, but when she arrived, the job was done. He claimed responsibility, which I wholeheartedly believe, because he left a telltale tuft of hair on his right cheek. Mom has some stylish new glasses, but I think she missed that tuft, too. 

Brushing invisible lint from his trousers is also a 24/7 occupation for Dad. Especially when he’s wearing dark pants. It’s such an incredibly tedious task for an irritant that doesn’t actually exist. He burns a lot of calories in a day with this routine. 

 We are in a heat wave this week, the temperature hovering around 96 degrees. Dad was in a cardigan today, which I convinced him to shed.  I was hanging up his jaunty camel-colored sweater and by the time I turned around, he’d managed to somehow pull a golf shirt from his drawer and yank it halfway down his torso. On TOP of his shirt-sleeved dress shirt. So we fixed that fashion statement too, before heading to dinner.

I had the opportunity to pull out one of my old school nursing tricks tonight at the dinner table. Soon after the cream of mushroom soup he loves, Dad began a cadence of tenacious hiccups, which would just not quit. I used one of my school nurse hiccup cures (the one involving breathing and swallowing at certain intervals) and managed to alleviate my Dad’s hiccups. He, the nosey gals at the eavesdropping table, and Kirby were all amazed by my superior skills. 🤣

Out of the blue, Kirby asked, “Did you say we’re becoming millionaires?” No…I most certainly did not say that. (He was obviously disappointed, certain I’d just told him someone in Italy “left us a bundle.”)

The adorable resident with the wry sense of humor and cotton-candy pink clip in her smartly-trimmed hair was trying to cut a new pocket into her pants with the very dull butter knife which had arrived with her pork tenderloin. Much to her dismay, the sharp-eyed nurse confiscated the butter knife, thwarting her wardrobe alteration progress. 

Dad couldn't decide what to eat when asked mid-afternoon, so he compensated by ordering everything on the menu tonight.  This caused a ridiculous crowding situation (let's call it a smorgasbord) on his melamine plate. Roasted parsnips were just one item from this evening’s line-up and they sat largely untouched next to the assemblage of overcooked broccoli. 

Predictably, the man ate every morsel of his lasagna and cherry pie. 

A nice distraction from the chaos of dinner was the FaceTime call we received from Isaac and Natalie.  Dad's great-granddaughter wanted to show us her new baby doll. Dad loved the call but kept right on plowing through his dinner while he listened to us chatter. 

It was a night for confusion where Dad’s television remote was concerned. He aggressively worked at tapping buttons willy-nilly until the volume was unbearable and the channel was not the one he actually wanted. When his frustration grew to near-combustion, I decided to walk him out to the fish tank and situate him in an oversized plush cranberry-colored wing chair, planting a Living Bible from the shared bookshelf on his lap. Hopefully the soothing motion of the finned swimmers and the familiar feel of that green leather book of scripture in his hands will bring some evening calm after my departure.

 

93  Sadness

I realized today, I can handle Dad’s “mad” much more easily than Dad’s “sad.”

Literally minutes after Mom or I have been there with Dad, he has forgotten our visits. 

I spent my lunch hour with him today and he was unusually sad.  So extremely sad. 

He completely refused his lunch. 

When he asked about Mom (as he always does), I told him for the zillionth time that she comes to see him every single morning, just as I come to see him later each day. 

“I can’t remember anything,” he said.

I reminded him he is still pretty good at recalling things from long ago but I had to agree that recent happenings are soon forgotten.  “I’m sure that is really frustrating for you, Dad.” 

I told him we will continue to do our best to remind him of anything important. 

“I promise I’ll be back tomorrow, and Mom will be here even before me.  She’ll come after breakfast, just like every day.”

His eyes brimmed with tears as he gently asked, “Will she really?”

Yes, Dad.  Nobody could keep her away.

His heartbreak is our heartbreak.

This disease is devastating.

94  A Lot

This last four days has been a lot.

Mom's hearing is less than ideal (even when she capitulates and wears her hearing aids) but Friday afternoon her hearing ceased completely in her left ear.  She did not let this inconvenience dissuade her from going to the Jamison Public House for dinner with Jim and me. In fact...it was over dinner when it was revealed to us that she was half deaf. She wasn't keen on visiting an Urgent Care Center that evening but promised she would go in the morning if things didn't improve. Before leaving her to her bed, I requested her thermometer and blood pressure cuff so I could do a quick assessment and decide how bossy I wanted to be. But both tools were idling lazily in the drawer without viable batteries. Mom has packed so many hundreds of boxes and bags for Care & Share, it is a miracle they were there at all. Mom is more stubborn than me (if you can imagine) so I tend to consider carefully upon which hills I wish to die.

Not only did things not improve...soon the debilitating dizziness and vomiting piled on.  So, I did what I had to do. Left messages with her doctor's answering service, used my own blood pressure cuff, begged, rationalized, cajoled, pleaded, and finally dragged her (just shy of kicking and screaming) to the ER.  She was vehemently opposed to seeing me pack her an overnight bag. She would have been quite happy to just lie down for a week or six, but there were little annoyances like the threat of stroke or an untimely leaking from her known aneurysm to consider.  It was non-negotiable, and deep in her "just enough medical knowlege to make her dangerous" core, she knew I was right.

The medical team was on her like white on rice, whisking her off to radiology for a brain scan. Once all the worst diagnoses were ruled out, Mom settled in begrudgingly for a couple of sleepless hospital nights while they tried to determine why she wasn't hearing and why the room was feeling too much like a teeter-totter. 

She is a very strong woman and she hates dependency. But more than that, she was missing my Dad.  Their 70 years together has had many stages, the most recent of which has been spending every morning together on the Memory Care Unit. My Dad seemed to know Mom was missing, even though he no longer has a concrete framework for the passage of time. By Sunday evening, it had been just 2.5 days since they'd been together. Dad said to me, "You know what's odd? I haven't talked to Mom in about a week." We decided it was best not to tell him she was in the hospital because he would worry (until he forgot), there was nothing he could do, and he would be so very upset not to be by her side.  

The first place Mom wanted to go (after her shower) when she was discharged on Monday afternoon, was to see Dad.  I drove my tipsy, exhausted mother over to Harmony House and my parents finally reconnected.  Their reunion was punctuated by TWO walkers. (This feels a little surreal for a couple who was still considering the possibility of their 29th cruise only 18 months ago.)  I ordered Mom a walker-bag like Dad's...but hers will sport butterflies so they can tell them apart.

95  Almost Triple Digits

It was dinnertime the other night when Kirby asked me one of the questions he so frequently asks.  

He regularly rotates through:

• "Are you planning any trips?" 
• "Do you work here?"
• "Is he your father?"
  
• "Can I get some more hot chocolate?"
• "Who brought us here?"
• "What state is this?"
  
• "Are you cold?"
• "What month is this?"
• "Where did you grow up?"
  
• "I never got married.  Is that okay?"
  
• "I never had children.  Did I miss anything?"
• "How old am I?"
• "Is it storming outside?"
• "Do you lose your appetite as you age?"
• "Have you been to Italy?"
• "Do you want this?" (when trying to pawn his food off on me so the nurses don't give him a hard time for not eating 😂)

The question that evening was, "What month is this?"

It's September, Kirby.  September the 10th.  

He set down his hot chocolate mug and looked at me with wondering in his eyes.  "I think it might be my birthday."  I could tell he was almost afraid to suggest such a thing.

One of my favorite patient care technicians was walking through the dining room, so I asked her to go take a look.  She came back with a big grin, laying down the beat with her enthusiastic clapping.  Then she began to shout like the wonderfully joyous rabble rouser she often is. "Everybodeeee!!! We've got a birthday in the house!" 

As we all sang a rousing chorus of the Happy Birthday song, Kirby beamed and directed the song like an orchestral conductor, his 98 year-old gnarled hands, swooping gracefully like the swallows of Capistrano over his untouched plate of food. 

And he laughed. 

Kirby has a beautiful laugh.  

Dad sang his sweet tenor and hadn't even picked up his fork to restart his meal when Kirby asked me with all seriousness and curiosity, "Is somebody having a birthday?"

YOU are, Kirby.  

And he was positively delighted.  All over again.

Addendum:  A few days after his birthday, Kirby fell and broke his hip.  One week later, he is still in the hospital and had recent surgery to stabilize those 98-year-old bones. We are all hoping for the best for our sweet friend.

96  Another Celebration

Dad turned 89-years-old this week and the occasion was commemorated for several days running.  

The Activities Director first brought cupcakes and songs were sung.  This occurred the day before Dad's actual  birthday because she was not going to be working on his official day.  He promptly forgot about this.  

 

The next day, a slew of family members arrived with a surprisingly heavy sour cream pound cake (with decadent raspberry swirl), balloons, cards, and a festive party hat and badge, which were foisted on the cooperative Birthday Boy. He was a very good sport, considering the near-tourniquet qualities of the rubber chin strap affixed to his cone-shaped hat. 

Chubby 8 and 9 candles were lit and subsequently extinguished by the flapping of a yellow envelope, recently shed by a birthday card.  This flapping seemed preferable to blowing out candles on a birthday cake which would be shared by 20+ folks on Dad's unit.  Particularly in this resurgence of a new annoying strain of COVID. 

When we arrived the day after Dad's birthday cake extravaganza, he had true-to-form forgotten we'd ever been there the previous day, so we popped him in the car for Day 3 of festivities.  

This time it was a spaghetti dinner at a local Italian restaurant.  The sheer volume of salad, garlic knots, spaghetti, and meatballs consumed by my painfully-skinny father would fell a lesser man.  It is safe to say Dad enjoyed our outing and will revel in his leftovers again tomorrow...probably wondering from whence came that shiny takeout container which now bears his name in Sharpie marker.  

Happy Birthday, Dad.  Hope you remember (at least for a little while) how well you are loved. 

97   The Eagles

Dad has been a diehard Eagles fan for my entire life.  Though he now forgets when they are playing, he is still excited when someone puts on the game for him.  The Activities Director helped the whole crew make some festive hats for the big game today.  Their arts & crafts must have brought luck, because the Eagles remain undefeated after their game with Washington this afternoon.  

(that's a green bean my father is smoking....)

In the morning, Mom and I will be looking at an open apartment on the 3rd floor of Dock Woods.  Hoping this is the beginning of the move closer to Dad that she has been waiting for. 

98   News 

(Dad and me- 60 years ago)

I've had a sadness that is hard to shake.  I've lost another friend to cancer and I haven't felt physically well for a long time.  For too many reasons to name, I have found it difficult to write anything of substance.  It feels like just getting up every day and breathing is challenging enough.  Where writing usually helps me to process tough emotions, right now...putting words to a page... it just hits like I'm experiencing everything more than once.

While every day is different, in many ways every day is distressingly the same where my dear Dad is concerned. His caretakers do a wonderful job giving the residents opportunities for activities, serving them delicious foods, engaging them in conversation, taking them on outings, and meeting their physical needs.  But right now, it all feels like mashed potatoes, clothing changes, falls, bruises, and the sensation of a continual goodbye following me around like a persistent black cloud. 

Geez, I sound like I need therapy and some medication.  I'm okay, honestly.  I just shouldn't be writing.

The big news in our family is that an apartment has opened up for my mother.  She will be joining Dad at Dock Woods with a lovely apartment on the third floor.  She'll have just an elevator ride to the first floor and a walk through a beautiful courtyard to get to my Dad. She was quite disappointed by the absence of a personal balcony, but she doesn't want to wait any longer.  She has a meeting to select paint colors (and such) next week and her new space should be ready for her by mid-December. It will be a relief to have both parents in the same general vicinity before winter weather arrives in force. 

Other news in Dad's world involves not one, but two new mealtime tablemates.  His party of one has become a crowded table for three and his question to my mother was, "WHY are they at MY table?" Thankfully, he still manages to maintain enough social aptitude to avoid asking those questions of his new companions.  (At least while I've been in earshot.)

New friend number one spent his first four days begging me to call his wife for him.  He asked Dad to look up her contact information "in one of those fat books" (he was looking for the words phone book) and my father (who hasn't seen a phone book in over a decade) readily agreed to get right on that. New friend (we'll call him Chad) asked to borrow my phone to call the police.  He wanted to get his own missing person report on file.  His recurrent polite but pitiful pleas for a "simple ride home" or some "help calling his people" are enough to rip my heart out.  How many times can I play the part of a person who doesn't give a flying fig when someone desperate is asking for help? This betrayal of someone in need is just not in my nature. Last night when he was eating his salisbury steak, he saved half of it on his plate so that when his wife finally arrived, he'd have something to feed her. Fifteen minutes later, he was forking over large chunks of cold meat into his mouth in obvious disappointment. The congealed gravy just punctuated an already disheartening scene. 

Chad does love music, however.  He will break out in song if there is a familiar tune playing from the overhead speakers.  His fine singing voice gained immediate attention from the lady's table, where the Eavesdropper suggested Chad come over and dance for them, too.  Let' just say the gals were in rare form that evening.  I began to think the grape juice in their little plastic cups had fermented. 

Yesterday I discovered that Dad's second new friend (we'll call him Dan) is also a musician.  He told me he played a trumpet and had even performed with the Coast Guard Band, marching through the streets of New Orleans during Mardi Gras. It was hard to picture this quiet man on Bourbon Street. He inquired hopefully...wondering if his wife would be joining the rest of us at the table.  Though I wouldn't know her if I tripped over her, I told him I'd keep an eye out for her.   

In lieu of recent photos, I'm going to share some old images I was able to pull from some of my maternal grandfather's slides last weekend.  Dad and Mom enjoyed seeing these fading memories, as well.

(photos from the late 50s and early 60s- some while Dad was stationed in Germany)

99   Do Not Enter

 

There is a prominent sign outside the entrance to Harmony House advising visitors NOT to enter if they have a known exposure to COVID. I’ve been grateful for that sign as it protects my Dad as much as possible from those who erroneously consider themselves impervious to illness. 

My husband is a guy like that. His silent motto in most areas of his life is “mind over matter.” Jim has said ridiculous things to me while in this delusional state of optimism. An example of his Oscar-worthy denial: the day my husband’s lungs performed a musical interlude across the room while he simultaneously announced to me (a decades-long health professional), “I’m not wheezing.”

My stalwart and positive spouse began with clues in his throat about five days ago but didn’t admit he was symptomatic until we were traveling in a car together and I asked him why his voice was so low. The following night he could not physically lift his body from a horizontal orientation. 

This is day three of my banishment from Dad’s unit and even if I manage not to test positive, it will be at least another week before I can enter Dad’s memory care community with full confidence that I will not be bringing a pathogen with me. 

The separation is difficult and my hope and prayer is that Dad is not expectantly looking for me. 

Like most of the daughters I know, there is not much that can pierce us more effectively than disappointing our fathers.

100   Window Visit

As a 'close contact' to the dreaded virus, I haven’t been able to see my father for an entire week. The end of our forced separation is not yet in view as my hubby continues to test positive and due to complications of my own, I am without a full complement of vaccines to shield me.

This photo was captured during my window visit with Dad and Mom a few minutes ago. The grassy morning dew threatened ruination of my favorite pair of shoes as I lurked like a creepy criminal outside the Harmony House unit. 

Unfortunately, I think I managed to confuse my sweet Dad even more than usual by talking on the phone with him as he peered at me through his bedroom window. The scene and my words made no sense to him, at all. At least for this morning, he appears to have blissfully forgotten everything about Covid. 

If only the rest of us could erase that chapter so completely from our minds and our lives.

101 Back on Schedule

It has been so odd not seeing my father during this two-week period of my husband’s bout with COVID (and MY subsequent toe-tapping until the risk of transmission passed). 

I felt both relief and sobering heartache to see my Dad today and realize he hadn’t really noticed (in any meaningful way) that I was gone. 

Nonetheless, we had a lovely time this afternoon, sharing chocolate frosties , admiring the reddening trees outside Dad’s bedroom window, and cheering for the Eagles, who just barely scraped by with the win. 

We took two breaks from the game because Dad insisted he needed to "go downstairs to check the outlets and make sure all the other televisions were off."  After two speedy turns around the unit (with me in tow), he was satisfied that his "rounds" were accomplished.  It should be said we didn't check a single television or outlet on our outings.

“Drive carefully!,” he admonished, after the requisite kisses and I love yous. "There are a lot of crazy people out there."

He's got that part right, at least. 

102  Here We Go Again

Just as I was falling back into my daily routine with Dad, several of the residents in my father's hallway tested positive for COVID.  With my inability to fully vaccinate due to side effects experienced with prior doses, I am advised against putting myself at risk of known exposure.  And so, we are back to infrequent window visits for the foreseeable future.  Thankfully my mother (with twice the vaccines as her daughter) was visiting and actually carrying her cell phone (a rarity!) so Dad and I were able to catch up a little bit today.  

He was predictably adorable and happy as a clam because my mother was at his side.  She was turning his watch back one hour to match this weekend's Daylight Savings shenanigans while Dad and I chatted about the day.  He had forgotten eating lunch (an hour before) and thought he'd been to church yesterday (it was two hours ago) but it was wonderful to see him clowning and grinning through his bedroom window screen. 

Mom has been making great progress with the impending move.  She hopes to be relocating to a lovely apartment in my Dad's community in the next month or two.  She's been busy packing boxes, selling excess items, meeting with realtors and getting quotes from College Hunks Hauling Junk.  She and my daughter rehomed the cats last week, returning them to the caring rescue from which they were once adopted.  Those felines went back older, fatter, and probably a bit sassier after the spoiling they've experienced during their years with my parents.  Moving them to the "senior wing" of the rescue was a difficult but necessary step in the next chapter of my parents' story.  Mom's world has turned upside-down along with Dad's the last three years and she has rolled with the punches like a survivor.  Rather amazing for a woman of 85. 

103  Nothing New Under the Sun

I’ve recently been having a hard time writing about Dad.

What is there to report when words run out? When day after day, the routine is the same? When a lifetime of working, supporting others, and finding purpose by giving of oneself has been diminished to a mundane pattern of basic survival? Lifting one’s aching body from a twin-sized bed, day after day in a place that doesn’t quite feel like home? Rising at the behest of well-intentioned strangers (who incidentally get paid to be there) just to begin another 11 hours of shuffling from one recliner to the next and of searching one’s mind for the pieces that have gone missing…. An existence where mealtime becomes the only real highlight, save the arrival of a familiar face (or two) to remind a tired soul he still has connections who adore him in this confusing and too-often cruel world. 

I’m grateful for kind caregivers and for small joys like cardio-drumming, young men with guitars, and the chocolate mousse (which Dad loves). But some days it all feels like lipstick on a pig. 

Dad remarkably escaped Covid, though it was all around him in his hallway for weeks. And though he shares a dinner table with someone who is still coughing and whose long arms easily extend to rearrange (and occasionally remove) Dad’s silverware and napkin. AND though most of the staff succumbed. 

I see my father declining. It’s getting harder to make sense of his words and increasingly difficult to bring him along in conversation. He is losing the ability to notice and care for his own needs. Alzheimer’s and garden varieties of dementia are methodically extracting life from the dear people in Harmony House. Adding insult to injury, a few of the residents are now chronically altered from battling a persistent concurrent viral foe. Some have been moved to the nursing wing for higher levels of care. I’m so done with Covid. Seeing its toll on this unit is more than a little hard to watch. One of the ladies is positively ashen. As if the life has been sucked right out of her. My own face is hidden behind a mask again when I visit Dad. I’m trying to protect both of us, but it feels like a futile endeavor some days. 

Dad’s glasses have gone missing again and I scoured his entire room multiple times over the last two days in search of them. I found an aged single Tastykake, deep in the depths of Dad’s closet. There it waited, ironically snapped into a hard eyeglass case, its peanut butter and cake layers enrobed in chocolate that would never be eaten. Dad had tucked it (ostensibly for safekeeping) inside the coat pocket of an off-season jacket. 

The last time my father’s glasses were on the lam, they were eventually discovered in the laundry. I’m sure hoping they turn up soon.

104  Another Fall 

My mother called me as I was leaving the office to inform me that my father had fallen again. He fell not quite a week ago, too, in the dark of his room after the aides had helped him into his PJs for the night. (Fortunately, my son's dogs and several Shellys had come for a late evening visit that night and we were able to scrape him from the floor without much fanfare.)   

(This is Dad trying not to share his cheese pie with the dog.) 

Today's fall was more impactful.  It was an unobserved crash to the floor in the hallway of the Memory Care Unit.  Dad lacerated the back of his sweet little head and was taken by ambulance to the nearest trauma-certified hospital. A CT scan revealed a subdural hematoma which bought Dad a fast-track ticket to another ICU admission. 

My younger sister, distraught in Florida, called my cell phone in the ER.  I gave my phone to Dad, and watched him morph immediately from confused patient with a head injury into a dutiful and longsuffering caretaking father, consoling his fretting daughter.  His wisdom (for us all):  "We are always together even when we are not together because we all love each other" had me crying into my mask. 

My father is his usual adorable and funny self.  Confused as heck about where he is and what happened to cause all the tubes, wires, bags of platelets and "gadgets" (his word), but predictably clowning for the nurses and staging elaborate wide-eyed reactions when the poor unsuspecting gal tried to assess his pupils with her pen light for the neuro exam. 

Thankfully, Mom headed home after the ER portion of the evening so she could take her meds and eat something. 

Dad was not a fan of the pulse oximeter on his head.  I predict it (and several other ports and tubes) will be "swiftly relocated" by my father within the first hour of my departure.

Dad and I continued on to the ICU where I answered a slew of questions.  I gave my father the opportunity to answer for himself, but when the nurses asked, "Robert, what do you like to be called?" and he suggested his old CB Radio handle, "Black Bart," I jumped in with "Bob" (and the rest of the answers....) 

I watched more bags of medications being hung, held hands with Dad, tried not to be "that annoying nurse-daughter with all the not-so-subtle suggestions" and I tried repeatedly to reassure my father that he is safe and that the people in this strange new place are going to take care of him. (Please, God.)

Once Dad was settled in and I felt comfortable that his new nurses understood his Alzheimer's needs, I drove home in a semi-zombie state and consumed most of a bag of kettle chips, working my stress-eating skills rapidly and seamlessly next into to the bowl of black raspberry ice cream my perceptive husband had scooped for me. 

A repeat CT scan will be happening at 11PM, after which I sure hope my Dad will qualify for a midnight snack.  If anything (besides my mother or one of his girls) can perk Dad up, it's an unexpected snack.

105  Things Aren't Quite Right

Dad spent 3 days in the hospital and was transferred back to his regular unit where they showered him with love and hugs upon return. 

Hard choices were in play, like do they put him back on the Plavix (which has saved his life for decades by preventing blood clots after his numerous cardiac interventions) and risk continued bleeding from his brain with additional bleeding when he falls again (this was imminent...and happened about a week later) or keep him off the Plavix and stand by helplessly during what looks like mini-strokes...my Dad reporting his tongue is temporarily not working and/or his leg and foot suddenly cause him great pain and he cannot bear weight.  (For ten minutes and then he's fine....) 

Somehow despite these inconveniences, he has found time to tap his foot and sing along to Christmas songs and pose for a fireside photo shoot.  Is he adorable, or what?

But not every minute is joyful.  In fact, when I arrived this evening, he immediately reported it had been the "worst day ever."  This was clearly not true, as his sign-in book told the tale of a steady stream of companions, including his devoted wife, two brothers, and a sister-in-law, all of whom regularly visit my Dad.   But his mood was somewhat paranoid and he was ranting in incomplete thoughts. 

A flourish of the arm. "I don’t know how many people it took to organize this mess." He pointed at nothing. 

He was working hard at being indignant but couldn’t really say what was wrong. 

Do you have any pain, Dad? He chuckled at my naivety. 

“My body has never felt worse.”

A woman down the hall shouted and Dad responded, “There goes that screaming baby again.”

Apparently, the kitchen lost power tonight because the electric company is working on the lines nearby.  So dinner was a cold option. Roast beef and cheese sandwiches on rye, broccoli salad and corn salad. It looked delicious.

Dad’s critique:

(Forking a second load) The broccoli salad is “impossible.”

He was determined to be miserable. “I’m surprised the corn salad is that good,” he finally admitted, after undeniable shoveling.

Roast beef sandwich on rye: “I don’t know how your mother put that together.”  But then afraid he'd been too generous with praise, he added gruffly: “I’ll be eating this 'til midnight.”

I told him we should try to find the silver lining, but he quickly corrected me.   “No. YOU better look at the other side!”

By the end of his strawberry cake and coffee, he was thankfully back to his pleasant self, throwing kisses and smiling at everyone who passed by.  This photo was taken eleven months ago just days after Christmas as he and Mom returned the live tree we'd delivered to their house to usher in some Christmas spirit.  We planted it in our back yard and it makes me unspeakably and irrationally sad that we didn't manage to keep their last shared holiday tree alive.

106 Another Year Begins

It was a whirlwind of a holiday season.  Mom moved from the home my parents have shared for the last twenty years to a lovely little apartment on the third floor of Dock Woods Gardens.  It makes me happier than I can say to have both of my parents not just in the same direction, but in the same community.  Mom can take the elevator to the first floor and walk a circuitous route to my father’s unit.  I’m so grateful she doesn’t need to get into the car every day to see him. 

This is Dad doing some tabletop bowling.  He was having so much fun he didn't want to quit.

Dad continues to have good days and bad days.  The mornings are better than the evenings, as has been the routine since Alzheimers began stealing my father’s perceptions and memories. Mid-December, he was particularly confused when I arrived around dinnertime.  It started out sounding fairly lucid.  His quote that day: “As life slices down, every day feels like less.  The slices are getting thinner.”  Even I can relate to that feeling.  Aging is rough and memory issues just add cruelty to an already frustrating situation. 


Sometimes his words make no sense at all to me.  “The ones trying to get my attention are coming to my ears, but I can’t hear them.”  Creepy…right?  That same evening, he showed me his middle fingernail and told me it was his favorite.  I asked what made that fingernail more special than the others and he considered this for a long while, finally answering, “it’s just better than the rest…that’s why I never fired it.”

A few days later, he was disgusted by a situation I could not understand.  I found him in the sunroom, looking at some wishy-washy book he’d found in the literature rack.  It was something about angels, but not the kind I like to imagine.  The book’s title suggested the reader “ask their angels” for the answers.  Dad shook his head with a clear distaste for this notion.  “It takes a lot of nerve...asking your angels!”   He also was perseverating on the word “nosey.”  He’d point to a leafy plant and say, “Look at all these nosey questions!”  And, “I just don’t know HOW they get away with it!”    Moments later, “How do they think it’s okay to be this nosey?”  And on it went.  A random employee walked by, causing him to compare his plight to theirs.  “The people in the office don’t get HALF the nosey questions WE get!”  I wonder if anyone had actually asked him anything.

I  tried to commiserate.  “I know, Dad.  It’s no fun getting older.”  He considered my observation and responded somewhat surprisingly with, “I probably won’t like it EITHER, when I get old.”  I reminded him he’ll be 90 on his next birthday and he laughed out loud, clearly deducing that I was crazy.

Dad and me eating Christmas cookies and watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

The Virginia Shellys came for a Christmastime visit.

Christmas at our house wasn't the same without Dad this year.

Great-grand-dogs, Pete and Ellie came to visit.

Dad sporting his new Christmas hat and enjoying Pete and a nice hot cup of coffee.  One creamer.

Mom, Dad, Jim and I had a Christmas Day lunch at Yantze Chinese.

Dad enjoyed every morsel.

Dad can tell you detailed stories of photos from 60-70 years ago but not recall something that happened five minutes ago.  He so enjoyed looking at this book of pictures from his childhood and his early years with Mom. Thankfully, Dad narrated the photos a couple of decades ago for me, so I was able to caption the memories while all of it was still fresh in his mind.

Tonight, however, was a lovely evening with my Dad.  He was sweet and loving.  Mom had constructed a homemade potato pie (his all-time favorite) and brought it down to him so they could share a lunch date.  Mom reports that Dad ate half of the pie!  When I asked him about it (about 4.5 hours later), he thought about it, and said he “hadn’t yet tested a potato pie.”  (Jim suggests Dad is just trying to get my mother to make him another one….)

Dad has been losing his glasses and his watch about once a week.  They are most often recovered from the laundry. The watch was cracked and nonfunctional upon return this week, so I took him this new waterproof model.  He liked it a lot.  "Hey!," he said.  "The hands are moving!!"

Our departures are still peppered with kisses, hugs, I love yous, and finally his signature noisy lip popping sounds to emulate additional kisses as I walk away.  This makes the staff laugh (and makes my weary heart glad) to be able to share such sweet and predictable interactions with my well-loved Dad. 

One of Dad’s favorite co-residents/friends on the unit passed away this week.  Dearest Ginny was a light in this world. A tender heart, full of compassion for others and kind words even on the most difficult days.  She was an encourager and she gave great hugs. She will be missed.

107    A Difficult Reality

Mom called me at work this morning.  Dad was given a thorough examination today to determine his need for additional care.  They placed him at Alzheimer's Stage 7.  This is the final stage. 

My father is overqualified for palliative care measures and will begin having regular hospice visits.  They've taken him off his statins because clogged arteries are among the least of his issues now.

I want every single comfort and supportive measure in place for Dad, so on one hand, I'm grateful for more eyes on him and more folks dedicated to his comfort and peace. 

On the other hand, the very word hospice feels so incredibly final.  

It will take some time for my heart to catch up to the logic in my head. 

My blotchy-faced lunchtime visit found him to be his usual silly and playful self. The other family nurse had to assess him (from afar) too, so he was goofing with Aubrey on Facetime, as well.  Sweet, sweet man.

 108  Lunch Break

Hospice paperwork was signed on Saturday morning.  Dad slept through the entirety of the meeting despite all the noisy chatter from the nurse doing the intake, Mom, and me.  He responded to the sound of his name twice, complying with sitting forward for auscultation of his breath sounds and lifting his arm for a blood pressure reading and circumference check. But he was otherwise (mercifully) oblivious to the hard conversation which left Mom a little teary and me with a cavernous ache in the pit of my stomach.  Talking about these things was harder than either of us thought it would be.

Since I have an evening engagement tonight, I spent my lunch break sitting with Dad during his lunch.  

The new thing for today: My father forgot how to eat a hot dog.  He calls them “heiss hund" which sounds more like "haysa hunt,” another German(ish) phrase from his time across the pond. He sat and looked at it for a while, and finally asked me “What is the best thing to do with that?”  I gave him step-by-step instructions.  I helped him pick it up and hold it in both hands.  I told him to open his mouth and bite the end of it.  He complied…started chewing…smiled broadly…and before long, he was “mmmmming” his way through the rest of the dog. In an attempt to help him with his difficulty chewing and swallowing, the kitchen had coined that hot dog before stuffing it in the bun.  This resulted in the occasional frankfurter bomb to Dad's lap, which he seemed (for a change) not to notice as he enjoyed his meal.

He seriously could not be any more lovable. I adore this man.

109 Snow

I took Dad a cup of coffee and we sat by the window and watched the clumsy snowflakes dancing for 20 minutes. Our soundtrack was late Sunday morning hymns on his tinny clock radio. It was remarkably peaceful.

110  Time 

 

Sundays offer a delightful upgrade for my daily visits with Dad. It is a luxury to share some time that is not squashed into a quick workday lunch break or that consists of our usual evening dinner hour together. I love to be with him after my workday, but evenings are much more difficult and stressful with his confusion rising as the sun begins to set. 

He definitely noticed today that I was not visiting at my usual time. Pointing to his watch, he said, "This isn't where it is supposed to be." (Honestly, Dad, NOTHING feels like where it supposed to be these days.)

This afternoon’s visit included snacking on Texas Tumbleweeds and laughing with my Dad at the antics which are predictably on full display during an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies. The chuckles and big grins when Dad’s funny bone is tickled are worth more to me than all the dollars Uncle Jed allegedly collected when that poor but lovable mountaineer (who barely kept his family fed) discovered oil while “shooting at some food.” (This reference will be lost on readers under 45 years of age and will cause the rest of us to have the theme song stuck in our heads for a week....) 

source: https://www.lyricsondemand.com/tvthemes/beverlyhillbillieslyrics.html 

The hospice nurse and Mom were with my Dad when I arrived today. He was holding court with the ladies.  Being his charming and silly self, making both of them smile. It is beyond comforting to know Dad is having an intentional nursing assessment twice weekly. 

My father continues to have good days and hard days. For the most part, Dad is content and ready with a smile for those who are kind to him. 

He still enjoys eating…but only when he remembers the mechanics of the process. It is not unusual for him to just sit unmoving in front of his food, unsure where to begin. When someone loads his fork and hands it to him, he takes his cue. After that first mouthful, he usually plows effectively through his plate like he’s on the clock and a clean plate means a paycheck.

Mom has settled into her apartment well, which is something for which I am so grateful. Her schedule is packed with at least two daily walks to see Dad, balance classes, tai chi, swimming in the pool, meeting with the caregiver support group, art classes, signing up for outings, and making sure she has a reservation at Christopher’s when lobster is on the menu. 

I sent Dad some mail this week, a card with a photo of him and my mother from about seven decades ago. One of my favorite caretakers loved it too, noting that she can’t hold onto a man for 70 minutes, let alone 70 years. I doubt that’s true, but suggested she ask my mother for some tips.

Dad is really pleased with his photo card and has been carting it along in the bag strapped to his trusty walker.  It has joined the throng of important items...things like the half-eaten heart-shaped box of chocolates from his sweetheart, the last two issues of Golf Digest, his large print Daily Bread devotional, a partial sleeve of peanut butter crackers (in that horrific orange hue), a pair of Depends underwear, and a piece of scrap paper he picked up somewhere on the unit.  Occasionally, his plastic denture box, remote control, or a few generic Polident tablets will take a ride in his paisley satchel, as well.

One can never have too much time with the people one loves.  Last weekend, Aubrey and I walked onto the unit after a day of shopping with Mom. Dad was strolling the halls with his walker and zoomed right over to us, planting one kiss on Aubrey's cheek, and one kiss on mine.  He held on to both of our wrists for dear life.  "How is your day today, Poppop?" (My daughter asked.) He grinned from ear to ear.  "It's getting better and better and BETTER!" 

(Just like my Dad)

111 My Heart

My heart has been effectively ripped from my chest.  On my daily visit to Dad's today, he was very confused but oh so sweet.

"Dad, I am driving to Indiana tomorrow to see my best friend.  I'll be back in four days and will see you on Monday, so I won't be here tomorrow like usual."

His downcast face and heartbreaking response absolutely did me in.

He sadly asked, "What did I do wrong?"

Oh my gosh, it made me cry.  I reassured him I love him, and he NEVER does anything wrong.  

112  Rainy Day Golf

My older sister and brother-in-law were visiting Dad when I arrived today.  The big news of the day: my father had stashed his walker someplace where no one could find it.  We searched in all the usual spots, to no avail.  It was finally discovered by the nurse. Dad had tucked it neatly into a vacant resident room.  The last place anyone would look.  He’s sneaky like that.

It’s a dreary day outside. The rain is falling, and the March air feels cold and raw.  Not the types to let the weather dampen our spirits, I unrolled the putting mat onto the hallway floor, and Dad was ALL IN for some golf.  I was his dutiful caddy/ball placer, and he was in top form, gently tapping those golf balls with a practiced precision.  In fact, to the cheers of his fans, he achieved three back-to-back holes in one.  

I’m pretty sure he was showing off for his audience. After pocketing the third in a row, he turned to me with eyes wide and I was rewarded with his cheesy grin.  

Mom, Shari, Dave, and the Hospice Aide (Tony) were all appropriately impressed with Dad’s mad skills.  His short-term memory, verbal skills and comprehension are irrefutably in decline, but it appears the plaque formations in Dad’s head have not yet incapacitated the part of his brain responsible for allowing accuracy in his favorite sport.  

Though confusion reigned and he was completely unable to construct coherent sentences today, his game was on point. 

He had so many guests, we were effectively clogging the entire activity area hallway. 

Mom:  “Hon, you have a lot of company today!”

Dad:  (considering her statement carefully and coming up short)  “I don’t THINK so….”

113  When Irish Eyes are Smiling

Dad and his co-residents were enjoying a St. Patty's party when I arrived this afternoon.  There was a lot of green in the room.  Frosted cookies, ginger ale and plenty of of decorations, too.  One of the nurses showed me a great photo of Dad with his cap in the air. They couldn't give it to me because there were lots of other residents in the picture.  But they gave me this gem.  

Dad's moments of joy are undeniable.  But the hard stuff comes too. Sustained lucidity is rare these days for my father. When the fog of memory loss lifts for a moment, sometimes the sadness creeps in quite unexpectedly and the pain of it can just immobilize me for a hot second. 

This afternoon's sorrow came just on the heels of the St. Patrick's Day festivities.  "Dad, I need to head home, but, I'll see you tomorrow."  His fallen face and verbal response leveled me.  "But why can't I go home?"

My sweet Dad.  

If only.

114   A Star is Born

The clever Activities Director had just finished "shooting" scenes for the blockbuster Harmony House film when I entered the unit yesterday afternoon.  She showed me hilarious outtakes from my father's Oscar-worthy performance and there were soon tears in my eyes from laughing so heartily.  I find several Memory Care Unit staff members to be worthy of sainthood.  I believe today's film is set on the deck of a cruise ship and I can't wait to see all the clips patched together!

Here's one:

115  Sunshine

It's a lovely springtime day, but chilly.  Jim and I dragged Dad from a late Sunday morning nap in his velvet wingchair out into the brisk sunshine of the courtyard.  We were just taking a short walk, but Dad moved like molasses and acted like we'd dragged him onto an icy glacier for a marathon. When we made it back into the sunroom, he chattered his teeth dramatically and landed in the overstuffed couch with a thud.  He was the only one zipped into a jacket for our brief encounter with fresh air, but he made much of his victimhood, nonetheless.  Almost as soon as we turned on the veterinary channel for entertainment, he was fast asleep from the exertion.

116  The Buttonhole Project

There’s a new bed in my father’s room this week. An air bed which hums and clicks as it fills and alternates pressure. This is the latest equipment to arrive, courtesy of the hospice nurses. The bed’s job is to combat the skin breakdown which inevitably occurs when a person becomes skin and bones and rarely moves from his seated position. 

It was a special weekend for Dad because after about a year, Gene and Carol drove up from Florida for a visit. Carol and I look a lot alike and we definitely baffled Dad when we stood side-by-side. We are six years apart in age, yet I think our father has forgotten we are not the same person. He looked from one to the other and back again, shaking his head and verbalizing his confusion.

We all watched and thoroughly enjoyed Dad’s hilarious performance in the Memory Care film on Friday afternoon. He was the star of the show. At least for us. 

It was later than usual on Saturday night when I arrived, which meant Dad was more disoriented than I’m used to seeing him. He was in the hallway being held vertical by one of the nurses, who was coaxing him (with only partial success) to swallow his pills. She was propping him up and he was leaning heavily because ONCE AGAIN, he’d hidden his walker, and the unit-wide search was on. 

Dad and I walked to his room arm in arm where he spent the better part of our next hour together trying diligently to feed his folded and firmly pressed-down disposable paper medication cup through the lower buttonhole of his gray cardigan. He loves to fold things.  Paper placemats, notes... anything, really.  Maybe I should buy him some origami papers. 

I cannot deny his continued cognitive decline at times like these, particularly since I adjusted his television screen to receive his favorite programming (The Masters Tournament) and turned up the volume so it could not be ignored. For 45 minutes, Dad’s eyes did not lift from his buttonhole project to the professional golfers on the screen.

When Dad ignores people swinging golf clubs, he becomes someone I barely know. But then he says things like, “I love you,” or “my day was wunderbar,” or “drive careful."  Those familiar phrases remind me my Daddy is still in there.

Mercifully, in the final 15 minutes of our visit tonight Dad realized there was GOLF happening and he suddenly became fully engaged. He began commenting and cheering like Howard Cosell. 

“Look at that shot!”

“Look at that crowd!”

“He sunk it!”

“Look at this!”

“They are evenly matched!”

“Do you see this?”

I see it, Dad. And I see you. 💙

117 Dusty Road

Another adventure took place yesterday afternoon.  When my Mama gets an idea in her head, let's just say, you'd best get on board, because it's happening.  She decided she wanted to take Dad to a place he might remember.  (In spite of the good intention, there was no real indication Dad knew where we were.)  

He enjoyed it nonetheless, because his sweetheart was by his side (and she was definitively in charge, a very comforting and familiar feeling for Dad). Mom was the driver, and the destination was Spors General Store in Trumbauersville, a place my parents frequented when they lived down the road more than twenty years ago. 

Spors is an old-school dinette which sits in the back of a general store.  The place looks pretty much like it has looked since I was a kid, with glass soda bottles, candy bars popular in the 60s, creaky wooden floors, and a few slim wooden booths inside which most American bellies no longer fit. 

Dad was more than a little confused for the outing, which made for a lot of repetitive questioning and his complete inability to decide between a homespun milkshake in a metal cup and a dusty road sundae (his old favorite which Mom finally ordered on his behalf).  

He enjoyed his sundae thoroughly, dabbing his chocolaty fingertips repeatedly on the napkins provided. (Maybe a throwback from basic training...the man loves things to be in perfect order.) In the end I retrieved wet towels from the restroom, which were more effective for sticky syrup removal.  

In the interest of warding off fractured hips (and the like), I tagged along, but they likely would have managed without my fretting commentary from the back seat.  My motion sickness and I were wedged in next to Dad's walker, which has unfortunately lost its ability to fold. 

Mom is going to give up her car in less than two months, so these whirlwind excursions with my speedy mother behind the wheel will be ending.  (It should be noted, my almost-86-year-old mother refused my assistance when we stopped for gas.  She can pump it HERSELF.)

The last photo in this entry was this afternoon, where Mom and Dad were watching TV together in the sunroom. This is what 70 years of loving looks like sometimes. 

118 Jamming with the Grandkids

Mother's Day weekend was a gathering time with my kids, so Dad had quite the crowd surrounding him after the Mother's Day Brunch in the Fisher Auditorium.

I made Dad a Memory Book this week with pages for all the things about which he tends to perseverate. It reminds him about his retirement from a job he did well, his family, his cars, his faith, his ability to pay the bills, his marriage, his love for the Philadelphia Eagles, etc. He has been looking at it (and showing it to everyone) constantly since receiving it. He has it on his lap in this photo.

His 3-year-old great granddaughter, Natalie handed out musical instruments to the whole crew, so the family sang two rousing choruses of Natalie's choice. Do-Re-Me and BINGO!  (With FULL percussion.) Aubrey says we need more practice.   My father and my kids continued to shake their maracas and rain stick with aggressive dedication, even after the musical selections ended. (sound UP)

It is always a good feeling to be together.  It was especially helpful to have such a good day yesterday since my Dad introduced me to the aide as his "cousin" when I arrived early this evening.  

He also stuffed at least eight Brussels sprouts in his mouth at one time, shoveling them as quickly as I could cut them in half. He looked just like a chipmunk and tenaciously chewed those sprouts with his dull dentures for a painfully long time. He was determined.

Aubrey adores her Poppop.  His arms have been bandaged

again this week from another fall damaging his papery skin.

119 The Sun is Going Down

It was a rough visit this evening.  I was an hour late arriving because I ran to pick up some medications for my mother before heading over to see my father.  

Jim was with me tonight, which was excellent timing for the situation into which I walked.  

At the time of our arrival, Dad was not to be found in any of the usual places. We finally spied him walking through the nurse’s station at a rapid clip, wearing a cream-colored woman’s sweater about two sizes too small for his shrinking frame. 

Alzheimer’s is a cruel thief of dignity.  

Dad had plucked the sweater from a coat rack in the nurse’s station and pulled it over his golf shirt.  His walker was predictably MIA again and he was moving too quickly for a man with uneven gait, no remaining discernment skills, a fall history, and almost 90 years of wear and tear on recently unemployed joints. (Unemployed unless we count roundtrips between recliner and dining room chair.)  

The sundowning associated with his disease process had completely overtaken Dad’s mind tonight and his body was following the whims of his confusion.  His underlying bent was to find an exit because SURELY he needed to get out.  He was laser-focused on being elsewhere.  Popping up repeatedly like a slice of bread unwilling to be toasted, he was unsettled and fidgeting at the slightest provocation.  I used the word “SIT!” so often in a 30 minute span, it probably sounded like I was trying to train a puppy.  We were inside, outside and we traversed every hallway on the unit.  Sweaters were on, sweaters were off, and Dad’s ruined cognizance was leading the charge. 

This routine is positively exhausting some days.  

120    A Companion

Dad has recently become fond of sitting contentedly with Harmony House’s large stuffed dog on his lap.  “Rocky’s” presence with my father seems to bring a needed measure of peace.  

He sometimes strokes the dog and sometimes he makes observations about the dog, such as, “he’s watching television.”  Most times Dad just talks to the dog (which to be fair, looks convincingly lifelike).  My father tells Rocky what a good boy he is, and we all agree. This dog is undisputedly more well-behaved than most.

My mother turned 86 years-old this week, a number my father refuses to believe.  He shakes his head in skepticism, certain his daughter's math is faulty.  “That can’t be right.”  

When asked if he was going to sing to her, he launched headlong into the birthday song before I could sufficiently capture it for posterity.  I was still fumbling in my purse for my phone as he too began fumbling... (he for his bride’s name).  Several of us reminded him she is called Jean and he picked up the verse, pleasantly crooning his big finish to the delighted birthday girl.   He knows he loves her.  He still grins widely when she walks into the room and whispers to me, “Here comes your mother.”  He just can’t quite come up with her name.

Sometimes they are excruciatingly adorable.

121  Blue Sweater and Blue Days

Two days ago he stole this periwinkle blue women’s sweater right off the nurse's station coat-rack. He had an Oreo cookie smile from his afternoon snack, too. A very confused co-resident was handing out mandarin oranges from her walker compartment because she just “discovered she’s from Holland.” It was the Wild West over there and I was thanking God the kind-hearted Maria was assigned to him that night. 

Yesterday, things were not as cheery.  For the first time, Dad didn't appear to recognize my mother in the morning or me at lunchtime.  

It's a new kind of heartbreak.

122  Another Day

It has been a long time since I’ve added to this blog.

A lovely day outside, today. The temperature has dropped to a manageable 79 degrees. The humidity is gone. We can breathe a bit.

My parents now have dueling walkers. Check out my Mama’s new wheels. Two different visits to the doctor for a provider’s order for durable medical goods. But was my mother happy with a black Medicare-approved rollator? Heck no. She wanted a purple one. With extra-large wheels for February’s adventure to Costa Rica with her granddaughter. Oh…and a padded seat. With a storage area! And don’t forget the purple cup holder which is arriving later this week. The lady knows what she wants.

Dad is declining. Days and nights have become difficult. Though he mostly still knows us and we still get glimpses of his sweet disposition and his sense of humor, he is increasingly confused. His recurring mantra has been “I don’t understand,” or “It doesn’t make sense.”

Dad is occasionally paranoid. He has always been a bit of a wary man, displaying security signs outside his residence though they had no security system in their last house. But this is next level.

Great granddaughter, Natalie coming for a visit
on a day there is COVID in the unit.

My father is becoming more and more belligerent and combative in the mornings. Unpleasant mornings are now outnumbering the sweet ones. This is a particular challenge for those who get paid to care for him and also for my mother, who is often present for these morning struggles. His caretakers continue to provide for his basic needs, though sometimes it is a real problem for them, and it takes three to clean him up and dress him for the day. He is surprisingly strong for a man who will be 90 in just three weeks. In his addled mind, these folks who have their hands on him wish to harm him. It could not be further from the truth of their intentions. God bless the dedicated caretakers in these places. They are underpaid and understaffed for this incredible work. As with any place of employment, there are gems and there are those who would clearly rather not be working. From my years in nursing, I notice everything. For my father's sake, I try not to be demanding or angry. But one day I'll write a letter, commending the many who consistently go the extra mile to the brink of their own exhaustion while others on the clock tuck themselves into a corner and attend only to their cell phones. The stellar employees will likely never receive the recognition they deserve. 

A coworker/physician I once knew advised me not to worry about such things.  "Cream always rises to the top, Brenda" he said.  I sure hope he was right. 

 

I’m grateful most of the patient care techs and nurses came to love Dad too, over these past 18 months. They know these difficult behaviors are not consistent with my Dad’s core. My father would hate this so much. He didn't even like when a stray hair was out of place on his head. He'd pull out his comb and coax that wayward strand (and anything else that was not as it should be) firmly back into place. And he'd splash on some cologne while he was at it. He would want to put his best foot forward and would not want to inconvenience anyone.

My parents have always held hands.
This is what 70 years of loving looks like. 
(Mom will dislike this photo because she has
bitten her nails to stubs, fretting about my Dad.)

Have I mentioned, I hate this disease with a passion? 

I despise the way it robs the person of their sound mind. 

It is a thief of agency and dignity.

Alzheimer's is not satisfied until what remains is just a shell. An empty container which threatens to blow away with a sudden breeze. 

The mind which once held beauty, wonder, curiosity, faith, and devotion is nowhere to be found.  Memories and connections have evaporated. 

Hope resides no more. 

At least not on this side of Heaven. 

 

123     The Hardest Hour

Love the "silly" my Dad offers the world. 

Some days are harder than others.

Listening to his granddaughter, Aubrey tell him cat stories on speakerphone.

These two....

My Dad is really struggling recently.  His dentures no longer fit in his mouth, so he has suddenly taken on the appearance of a sunken homeless fellow.  (What we called a "pappy" when I was a kid.) For the most part, the staff is bringing him pureed food, often with thickener, to help with his swallowing difficulties.  

Yesterday when I arrived, he was finishing up at the lunch table, not unhappily gumming the heck out of a slice of cherry pie in its full wedged form.  I don't know how he was managing it, but he was determined...piling huge sections of the treat and forking them with purpose into his gaping mouth.  

Didn't get a cherry pie pic yesterday, but this was today's cheesecake...which he slept through.

Soon the aides decided it was time to get him some dry pants, and they weren't wrong.  But I hated to disturb his cherry pie bliss.  

Before long there were three caretakers trying to negotiate and subdue my father's displeasure at being manhandled.  It is his last bit of control, telling them with his surprising upper arm strength that HE is in charge, when clearly, he is not. In his addled thinking the aides and nurses are trying to harm him.  Trying to invade his private space.  It is positively heartbreaking to see and hear the effort he expends as he fights back with the tiny fortress of pride to which he still tenaciously clings. He usually allows Mom or me to help him with these things.  He doesn't like it, but he cooperates because he loves us and we are asking for his help. But not today.  Today he was too far gone in his indignation when I tried to help his care team. My father could not see me when he looked into my eyes.  He only saw that his body was being made to sit when he wanted to stand.  He knew that his very sore bottom (which now suffers skin breakdown from the constant sitting) was being handled and was causing him pain. 

Dad doesn't complain about discomfort.  He never has. He sucks it up and looks around to see how he can help someone else.  He won't ask for pain medication, and he'll probably refuse it if you ask him if he'd like some.  So we ask for it on his behalf. We see him wincing and sliding to the very edges of his seat so that he can avoid putting any pressure on his sacral area. We hear him catching his breath from the discomfort. Swallowing Tylenol (and other pills) has become increasingly difficult.  For a time, he tried just chewing his pills (making us all cringe), but he was being his normal agreeable self, taking the expedient route to get them down. Taking his pills as he was told. But now there are days when pills, foods and liquids will not go down.  Days he forgets the mechanics of swallowing.  Days he holds something in his mouth for hours, trying to maneuver it to where it is supposed to be.  The other night his gabapentin traveled around his mouth so long, he returned the empty skin of the capsule to me after he'd swished it about in his toothless mouth for more than ten minutes with no luck.  Some pills defy swallowing in pudding and in applesauce. It is discouraging for Dad, who is trying hard to be helpful. (This is not to say there aren't days when he becomes stubborn and refuses to even open his mouth for any of his medications.)

But back to the bathroom debacle of yesterday. By the time he was wearing clean dry pants, he was utterly exhausted. Weary to the bone from the battle. He refused a walk to the sunroom.  Refused the idea of a more comfortable chair out in the open common area.  He would not depart the safety of his room, even on my arm.  Almost immediately, he slid his sore bottom to the edge of his wing chair and looked like he was going to fall off.  His brain began misfiring, which birthed some wild hallucinations, persistent moaning and intermittent shaking. I didn't actually think he was cold, but I covered him with a shaggy light blue blanket anyway, because it is impossible to watch one's 90-year-old sweet Dad quaking like he has hypothermia and do nothing. 

So uncomfortable.

I moved my Dad (with considerable effort) to the recliner in his room so that I could lift his feet, put his head back, and get the pressure off his bottom.  Despite the maelstrom within his head, the relief on his face was immediate when the pressure was relieved. 

And then the hallucinations, moans, and shaking were unmercifully joined by a violent case of the hiccups.  He hated those hiccups, reacting to each one with what felt like despair.  When I was a school nurse, I had two standing cures for hiccups.  They were foolproof and stood the test of 20 years in that career.  In my father's case, my hiccup cures were positively useless.  He was beyond my ability to reach him with my soothing words, my stories, my singing, my praying, and the insistent pressure of my hand encircling his. Bearing witness to Dad's struggle yesterday was the most helpless (and hopeless) feeling I've experienced since my father's diagnosis. All I could think to do was to ask his nurse for some Ativan gel, which affects the neurotransmitters in the brain.  I was desperate for my father to experience some sedation which would hopefully lead to some peace. 

My father was "seeing" my paternal grandfather, who has been gone since 1977. He was talking about marriage, retirement, reciting various numbers and telling me repeatedly "they filmed me."  I never determined who "they" were.  He occasionally pulled the blue blanket over his entire head, moaning like a tormented ghost under his fuzzy covering.

I honestly don't know how he keeps going.  Alzheimer's is an exhausting, unjust, and horrific final life sentence.

The Ativan kicked in, ending what easily qualifies as one of the worst hours of my life.  The hiccups stopped first.  The moaning silenced.  He opened his eyes and saw me there for the first time in a little while. He smiled.  

The twinkle was back in his eyes, soon thereafter.  His words were still making zero sense, but he was laughing at his own inability to construct a coherent sentence.  He was my Dad again...and at least for that moment in time, he was not suffering and I was grateful.

Note:  For purposes of confidentiality, most names have been changed for the non-family folks who are living with (or working with) my Dad.