The Birthday Party

Today is my father's birthday. He is 78 and still vigorous enough to inflict dark bruises on my mother's arms and shoulders. For a while she had fingerprints on her neck but I knew better than to ask about that.

My mother baked a chocolate cake and frosting sweetened with Splenda, half honoring his diabetic diet. She asked me to come for the birthday celebration, to help make the event more festive. "We are a loving family," she said. "We will surround your father with love and familiar faces even if he seems not to recognize us."

My mother's greatest joy is to bring my father home and feed him lunch or dinner, or both at once. She pays the aide an overtime rate for this outing, but no matter. Recently I stopped in during lunch and found them all together in a scene reminiscent of a Dickens nightmare. The television was tuned to a football game, cranked loud enough to hear the players' helmets crash together. Dixieland music seeped from the Bose sound system in her bedroom. "Isn't it great music?" She vamped her shoulders, dancing in place. "That's your father's favorite CD." The furniture was pushed to the side, the rug was rolled up along the wall. The aide, a lovely Nigerian man who claimed to have a Masters degree in business, stood near the wall of the tiny apartment bemoaning diminished funds for the civilian police forces in his home country. My mother sat on the sofa, knitting and waving gleefully. "Come in! Come in!"

My father walked up close and peered at the shiny charm hanging from my necklace. I leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Hey, Dad." He bent toward me and my heart skipped. He was going to hug me! Instead, he lunged and tried to bite the heart-shaped charm at my throat. "Be careful," my mother laughed. "Your father is feisty today!"

On the table was a single setting: placemat, linen napkin, three colorful plates loaded with food. "Lisa, let me make you a plate," she said, rising. "We're having short ribs and mashed potatoes, three kinds of vegetables and a big caesar salad just like your father likes." She had poured diet Coke into a wine glass for him.

"What did you eat?" I asked her. She shrugged. She wore rumpled pants, held around her waist with one of my father's old neckties. Her shirt was untucked, unbuttoned and stained. She was not only thin; she was sunken. "I'll eat if you'll eat," I challenged. She smiled and danced past me to retrieve a cup of Ben and Jerry's ice cream from the freezer. "I'll eat later," she lied as she speared a spoon into the cup. "Your father loves ice cream."

I'm guessing right about now my mother is serving a plate of chocolate cake topped with ice cream to my father. I am not going to the birthday party. In truth, my father never really liked that sort of thing anyway.

Missing

Here's the problem with dementia: you do not get to grieve. I miss my father. I miss his humor and his strength. I miss asking him how to adjust my computer settings and how to dissolve the corrosion on my car battery. I miss telling him about my sons, and listening to him laugh when I complain about their antics and about their mischief. I just miss him. Instead of grieving I am supervising the care of my living father, my demented father who wears a diaper and speaks in gibberish.

Today I will sit with my father at the window where he will try and grab the raindrops speckled on the outside of the glass. I will watch him apply all his energy toward this task, toward capturing a raindrop. He will not know that I am silent with missing him, and aching with love for him.

Turnover

There were three deaths in the dementia ward this winter. I don't know the names of the people who died but I know their sounds: one belongs to The Moaner, who emitted a sonorous wail with every exhale, even in sleep. Her bed was along the hall at the nurse's station, parallel-parked in a row of other 'mostly dead' inmates. There is someone else parked there now, half dead, mouth agape.

The man who wore the helmet is gone, along with his incessant and relentless knocking. He never spoke. Instead he rapped his knuckles on any surface within reach: on the table that trapped him against the wall (for his own safety, or so they said), on the window or wall behind him, on the wheelchair parked next to him. He even knocked on his own helmut.

The woman who masqueraded as a staff-member is among the dead and the ward is strangely muted without her vile language and passionate accusations. She used to push other residents around in wheelchairs, bashing into tables and walls, shouting obscenities and threats to anyone or any thing in her way. In truth, I was a little afraid of her. But now that she's gone I will miss the boisterousness of her voice.

Oh, I just realized that The Folder is missing! She needed to fold. My mother surmised that this woman had once been in the linens business - she was never without a pile of towels that she'd fold and unfold and fold again, saying with each completion: "there you have it." I can guess where she is now. No one leaves the dementia ward for a better life. It's a one way place.

There are several new faces, new noises. I'm only getting to know them now: the man who pulls his shirt up to hide his face inside the collar; the woman who puts her hand in my pocket as soon as I come into the ward.

My father is still there. Still walking, still eating, still talking in his peculiar gibberish.