Dad <3

While I am on “sabbatical” from working at the store on Fridays, I get to teach five days a week. We are working on Narrative Essays in Grade 12, so I will be sharing one of my own today.

Since I am forever short on time, I decided to share this one with you all as well. I wrote it June 10 (Russ’s birthday) in 2010. Alzheimer is strange and ugly disease. I know many who are dealing with the peculiar loss of a loved one long before they have to bury them in the ground.

There is a process of healing that is unique to having gone through this experience. Writing has always helped me work through the many emotions that come with life on planet Earth. If you are losing someone to the grip of dementia, just know you are not alone <3

Dad

He sits on the hospital bed in stained shirt and pants. Mismatched white socks lead to soiled brown shoes. Attached to wires and machines, he whistles an old hymn in a jazzy style. He is surprised to see me and wonders how I found out about him being there. Then he tells me he really isn’t sure where “there” is. 

He wants to assure me that he did nothing wrong, no matter what they have told me. He doesn’t know who “they” are, or even why he thinks he might have done something wrong. He apologizes for taking my time and asks why I work in a place like this. He doesn’t remember trying to run away from the aides who took him for a walk. He doesn’t remember that his violent refusal to go back in the nursing home caused them to call the police and an ambulance. 

He remembers an old car accident and puzzles it together with bits and pieces of memories and tries to make sense of his situation. He asks if mom is coming. Probably not. She’s been dead two years now. He agrees with me that it was best to not bring her out, and we leave it at that.  

He tries to joke with the medics as they insert an IV, but he makes no sense. They are kind and play along with it. As he is interviewed to determine the level of his confusion, he is in New York and his old hometown of Louisville. At the same time.  He is unsure of the date, the year and the president. He used to know, but now he doesn’t need to know those things, he tells the nurse. When she tells him the day, month and year, his eyes fill with tears. 2010? He has no choice but to believe her. 

After probing and testing and enough time for the medicines they have given him to kick in, he is released. He doesn’t need an ambulance ride so I am allowed to take him home. His relief at going home is short-lived, because as I pull up into the lot of the nursing home he has lived in for the last 7 years, he asks me what this place is. He has never been here before. In the last light of the day, we walk slowly into the empty lobby. My husband follows with a bag of food from McDonalds. 

The adventure of the evening has left dad with no dinner and he is hungry. He sits at the table as I spread out his food. His eyes fill with tears as he looks around. In all his confusion, he is clear on one thing; this was not the place he thought he was going to with me. This is not home. He finishes his dinner and we make our way to his room, stopping every few steps to sip from the soft drink cup he carries. Nothing is familiar, though he thinks he may have met the nurse before. He is docile as he sits on his bed and very ready for the aid to help him get ready to go to sleep. 

Today, he is as fine as he can be. He knows where he is. If I ask him what he did yesterday, he won’t remember. I do.