Dementia

Father’s Day

Father’s Day

Daddy is already dressed when I get to the nursing home. He wakes easily when I say, “Hi, Daddy.”  He grabs my hand and holds it to his cheek and says, “Oh, my sweet daughter.  I love you!”

I say, “I love you, too. Wanna get up and go have a snack?”

“Do I want to have a snack,” he repeats (because he repeats just about everything I say to him). “Yes, let’s go have a snack.”

I take him to the bathroom first, because he always has to pee. It’s amazing to me that this man, who has forgotten just about everything in his life, is still continent. He may not remember much, but he knows when he needs to go.

I show him where the sink is so he can wash his hands and hand him a paper towel to dry them. He tosses it in the corner wastebasket—also an amazing feat for someone who is legally blind.

I put him in his wheelchair and say, “Here, I’ll give you a free ride.”

“You’re going to give me a free ride? Aren’t you something!  You’re so special.”

“You’re special, too, Daddy,” I say.

I wheel him to the day room and park him at a table. I know where the stash of fig bars is kept, so I get him one and a glass of apple juice.

“Oh, good old cold apple juice,” he says. “Hits the spot.”

He gobbles up his fig bar and drinks two more glasses (which I don’t mind since he struggles with constipation and apple juice just might help him go).

His gaze turns to the window and he looks at the world outside the nursing home, which he rarely sees anymore. His expression is pensive as he stares out the window.

“What’s on your mind, Daddy?”

“Gosh at the traffic,” he says.

“Daddy, are you healthy and happy?” This is the question I ask on every visit.

“Healthy and happy,” he repeats. “Yes, I’m healthy and happy.”

He continues to look outside, humming his happy tune.

“Gosh at the traffic.”

I realize, once again, that my dad lives only in the present. He doesn’t worry about the future. He knows he’ll be fed.  He knows someone will take him to the bathroom. He knows he has a “good ole bed” to sleep in (and puts it to good use, since sleeping is his favorite activity).  He doesn’t know where it is or how to get there, but he knows someone will get him there eventually.

He sits there, humming a happy tune (the same one he’s been humming for almost two years), and looking outside at the traffic.

I wonder if he’s not more fortunate than we realize. He’s healthy and happy, kind to his visitors, enjoys the simple pleasures of the sunlight on the passing traffic outside, and sings his happy tune. Doesn’t worry about a thing.

I think we could take a lesson from my sweet father, so afflicted with dementia that he’s able to recognize hardly anyone these days, couldn’t troubleshoot anything to save his life, can’t dress himself without help, remembers almost nothing about his past, and most of the time admits that his mind is a complete blank. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know how old he is. He doesn’t know how pitiful his once brilliant mind is now. But he knows he’s going to be taken care of and he’s happy just knowing that.

Why can’t I be more like my father? I know I’ll be taken care of, too. My heavenly Father will provide for all my needs.  Daddy wants for nothing. That’s how I should be. Satisfied with what the Father gives to me so graciously.

My father has been my hero for all my life. And now, as I become a member of the senior set myself, I recognize that he’s still teaching me important stuff about life.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.

Posted by Deborah Howard in Days of My Life, Dementia, End of Life Issues, Grief, Musings and Meditations, 2 comments

Against All Odds

My grandmother once told me that the hardest part about getting older was losing everyone who shared a memory with her. We might all know the stories, but we weren’t there at the time, she said. She was 84 when she died. By then she’d outlived most of her friends and all of her sisters and brother.

In a week, my father will turn 84 years old. He’s outlived most of his friends, too. That’s astonishing considering that no one expected my father to live beyond 33. That’s how old he was when he was found to have two brain tumors. We were told their location was so complex the only doctor who would have any chance of successfully removing them was in St. Louis—Dr. Henry Schwartz, at Barnes Hospital. Dr. Schwartz gently told my mother that there was a high probability Daddy would not survive the surgery, and that, if he did, he might need to be institutionalized for the remainder of his life. Yet, it was a certainty that he would die without the surgery.

He survived. He did not require institutionalization. He was severely impaired, at first, and needed a lot of care, which my mother selflessly provided. But then he began to improve. No, he was never the man he was before the surgery, but he was able to return to his life and career as a band director on a limited basis.

My parents had lots of friends. I believe most of them suspected Daddy wouldn’t be with us long—that, as fragile as he was, there was no way he’d survive long-term. They felt sorry for my mom who valiantly rose to the occasion, taking care of Daddy for the next 50 years.

Ironically, most of those friends have died by now. And my mother’s health is failing. But Daddy’s doing fine. He’s healthy and happy. He’s outlived almost all of them.

The surgeries took their toll on him, mentally, though. That once bright mind began slipping. For the last twenty years, he’s drifted away from us in a slow downward spiral. He’s retained his sweetness and charm through it all, but now he’s a mere shell of who he once was.

I still see glimpses. That smile. Those beautiful, soft hands. The kindness. The Southern politeness and propriety. I still get to hold his hand and tell him what’s going on in the family—even though he may not remember who they are.

My father never felt sorry for himself. He counts himself blessed and never complains. Since he requires 24/7 supervision he lives in a nearby nursing home. The other day I took my mom for a visit. They sat together in the day room holding hands.

She asked, “Joe, do you know where you are?” “Yes, I know where I am,” he replied. “Where are you?” she asked. Daddy looked around (and doesn’t really have a clue where he is), but he beamed at her, “I’m somewhere sweet.”

That’s all that counts.

Posted by Deborah Howard in Days of My Life, Dementia, End of Life Issues, Musings and Meditations, 3 comments