The Other Guy

The other guy is dying. He'd had a parallel experience to my father's: laborious decline into dementia, a stint in a psych hospital and then, the dementia ward. Like my father, he was combative and aggressive. Like my father, he had a strong and healthy body. The wife was bereft. We'd stood together in the hall, the wife, my mother and I, listening to his sputtering rage. We huddled in the lobby. We compared. We commiserated. We held hands.

Now they've called in hospice. His body is trapped under a belt, his wrists strapped to the bed rails. The medication has reduced him to silence.

"How're you doing, Mr. Hale?" I shout into his room as my father and I pass by. My father walks with a staggered gait, a ghost in orthopedic sneakers. Our elbows are linked; I clench his arm to my side. He is not dying.

How're you doing? What a stupid question.

Don't Pick Up That Phone!

He bit someone. My father bit someone. The man known throughout his professional life as "creampuff bob" bit an aide on the arm. It was an unprovoked bite; he wasn't angry or defensive. Like a shark nibbling on bait, he simply sank his teeth into any arm that presented itself. The aide was taken to the clinic and my father was given a sedative.

The nursing home is required to report violent behavior, so my phone rang soon after nine. "Your father had an event," the nurse started. An event. That's what they call everything. Like they're having a party or something. I wish they didn't call me. I wish I didn't know anything. I prefer my original perception of my father. I prefer thinking about him as funny and inspiring, thought-provoking, challenging and intellectual and witty. I am trying so hard to remember him like that. But then, the phone rings.

Happy Birthday

I arrived at the nursing home with a cupcake and candle, and two pointed party hats. My father was sitting outside in the shade, staring at the parking lot. I crouched in front of him and slid the hat's elastic strap under his chin.
"Dad, guess what? It's my birthday. I'm fifty today." I put on my own matching hat.
He scowled at me, or through me.
"Fifty years ago, you were in the Air Force and Mom's doctor wanted to play golf, so he induced her."
My father's pale eyes found mine. "He did?"
"Yes. There was a tornado that day and everyone was terrified. Do you remember? In Sherman Texas. Perrin Air Force Base."
"I was carry corry carry curry..." his voice stuttered over the repeated sounds.
"You were a captain," I said, placing the cupcake in front of of him. I put the candle into the stiff chocolate frosting and reached for my lighter. When I turned back, he had frosting on his palm and the cupcake was gone.
"Where is the cupcake?"
His pant leg was streaked with frosting.
"Dad. What did you do?" I stood over him. There was a blob of chocolate frosting on his waistband. "Did you put the cupcake into your pocket?"
"Four. Nine. Three and sixteen." He sat still as I felt around his legs and back. The aide came to take him back inside.
"There might be something sticky in his pocket," I said. As they walked away, I snatched off his party hat. It was a ridiculous idea, like dressing your dog for Halloween. I realized, I had stolen some of his dignity. My throat burned with dismay.

I would never, ever do that again.

That Kind of Day

I'm gearing up to visit my father. In order to go into the dementia ward, I have to prepare myself for what I might see. Best case: he's sitting quietly or walking in the main room with the other residents. Worst case: well, it's hard to pick a single scenario. Once, I arrived to find him in a rage hoisting a heavy upholstered chair over his head, intending to throw it through the window. Another time, I found him pinned to the wall, with three security guards jostling to control his flailing fists. At the other extreme, I'm exceedingly distressed when he is slouched in a chair, near catatonic, drooling and non responsive, numb from the anti-agitation medication that he undoubtedly required. There are so many hideous visuals: images that torment me during the night so that my jaw aches when I wake from clenching my teeth.

I start by coaching myself: Today may be different. Today my father might smile upon my arrival and offer me his hand. "Nice to meet you," he'll say. And I'll shake his hand and introduce myself.

I hope today is that kind of day.

Run Away! Run Away!

Before nine this morning I had three phone calls. The nurse from the dementia ward called to report that my father bit someone and would be medicated and in restraints. The head of the agency providing private aides called to inform me that they are terminating our contract in 48 hours due to "failure to meet the unreasonable expectations" of my mother. My mother called to say that the nurses/aides/staff don't know how to handle my father. She was en route to the home at the time, letter of complaint in hand, unaware for the moment of the above developments.

I am running away from home.

Expelled!

The nursing home is threatening to throw my father out. He is acclimated, content and easily managed. He has 24 hour private aides who keep him company and hold his hand while he paces. He has no medical issues, no special needs. So what's the problem? It's my mother!

In her quest to make his last days (more likely, years) pleasant, she has alienated everyone who cares for him.
Don't let him sit in his room
Don't put him in front of the television
Don't give him tuna sandwiches more than once a week
Don't talk to him like that
Don't walk too close/too far from him
Don't feed him
Don't let him go without eating
Don't
Don't
Don't

The nursing staff scatters when my mother arrives, like fish sensing a predator in the water, they flee. The aides who sit with my father ask to be reassigned. The administrator calls ME to express his dismay: "We cannot satisfy your mother." I guess she wrote one too many letter of complaint, left one too many phone messages and emails. Now what?

Now what?

Sniff, Sob

I walked into my father's room with my usual cheery call "Anyone home?" He was standing at the window, fiddling with the lever. He loves levers and latches and knobs. When I was young, he was forever fixing things around the house, puttering with the tools. He loved gadgets and kits. He built a radio and a microwave oven. He built an off-road motorbike and a Bradley GT - a jazzy fiberglass sports car constructed around a VW chassis. His favorite tool now is a Fisher Price toy key ring with giant keys in primary colored plastic.

When I came in, he dropped the plastic key chain and came quickly toward me. I am careful not to touch him without his permission - he is easily startled and often frightened. But this time, he held out his arms for a hug. I wrapped my arms around my father's shoulders and felt his head lower and press into my neck. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of crying. My father was crying.

The aide hovered near the window, giving us privacy. When he saw my anguished expression, he came closer. "He cries a lot now," the aide said. I held him tightly. His whole body sobbed, sobbed against me. The sound was awful! I held my breath, willing him to stop; my heart wrenched with his every moan.

"Mostly he cries when he's happy," the aide said softly.

As if that makes it easier.