"Not Now, Honey. Mommy Has to Blog."

The other night, my mother and I attended a Memorial Service for my dad at The Inn (his name for the nursing home where he lived for 7 years while doing his slow dance with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia.) My dad lost his battle 2 1/2 months ago on November 18th after suffering a major stroke. We received an invitation in the mail from The Inn to attend an evening of remembrance for those who have been lost in the last 3 months. Though the invitation wasn’t unexpected as I knew they did this on an ongoing basis, it was still a hard thing to swallow.

It would be the first time we returned to The Inn since losing my dad.

The Inn has been a huge part of our lives for a long time. For almost 7 years, my mother and I – between the two of us – would visit my dad almost daily. He was a wonderful, charismatic and tender-hearted man who loved nothing better than to compliment strangers and flirt with the nurses. He loved using his one-liners such as, “Tell me, do you find me handsome?” or telling staff, “You have my permission to take the rest of the day off!” to the reward of hearing someone laugh. People loved my dad. They would laugh good-naturedly at him, even when he recycled his favorite corny lines time and time (and time) again.

Staff at The Inn have been like a second family to us. You get to know the people there on a personal level. You celebrate birthdays, learn about their lives. They are on the front lines of caring for a beloved family member. They are invaluable to us. When we lost my dad, we also lost many friends. They are still there, of course, but we haven’t mustered up the courage to go back and visit just yet. This has been especially hard on my dad’s longtime roommate, Charlie, who adopted my dad as a “second father” and who also views my mother, sisters and I as “family.” Charlie calls me frequently and I try to explain that we will try to see him soon, but it’s just too fresh a wound right now.

He understands.

The night of the memorial service, my husband stayed home with the kids and planned on putting them to bed so I could go with my mom.

As I drove the familiar side streets to my mom’s house – just a short 5 minutes away – I felt a twinge of nervousness. As I pulled my car into her driveway, her garage door opened almost immediately, evidence that she must have been watching for me. She had her coat on and walked out her door. She was ready to go.

I watched her walk out to my car, toting in her arms a bag. As she opened my car door, she explained that she brought a framed 8 1/2 x 11 photo of my dad I had given her. (The people of The Inn invited us to bring a photo to share for the occasion.) The photo was a great picture of my dad wearing his favorite navy-blue striped flannel shirt.

I think he wore that shirt at least twice a week.

My mom shut her door and fastened her seatbelt as we made the short, familiar pilgrimage to The Inn. Night had fallen, and I noticed how different the trek looked, since I usually went to The Inn during the day to visit my dad. Often, I’d wait for my girls to catch the bus to school, then I’d head over for a morning visit. I’d catch my dad eating his breakfast, amiably chatting with his table companions. He’d spot me walking toward him, and light up like a Christmas tree. He did this every time he saw me.

My dad always made me feel like seeing me was the highlight of his day.

I’d pull up a chair and sit next to him, and my dad would introduce me to his friends by proudly saying, “This is my youngest daughter, Teresa! She’s our #7!” The men would smile politely – after all they knew me well – but played along with my dad just the same, since he insisted on doing this each time.

—-

My mom and I drove into the parking lot of The Inn just before 6:30 pm.

“Wow,” I said to my mom with a lump forming in my throat. “It is so weird being back here.”

“Yes. It is.” she said quietly.

We sat in the car a minute more. I turned the engine off. From the outside darkness, we could see the first floor of The Inn all lit up. I spotted the gym through the windows on the far right of the building. This was the physical therapy room where I spent many a morning with my dad when he was receiving ongoing physical therapy. I saw the stationary bike my dad rode to strengthen his legs, and the various equipment that he used to help with his arm strength, and balance.

I recalled how my dad absolutely hated to exercise, and he would try his darndest to get the physical therapist assigned to him for the day off track through his art of conversation. In so doing, he could sometimes catch a fleeting break or rest.

He’d say, “So, Robert, tell me again where you were born?” followed by, “And Robert, what made you decide to become a physical therapist?” Unfortunately for my dad, the staff were all on to him. They’d laugh and say, “Now, Ed, stop trying to distract me and let’s finish this “set.”

And my dad would soldier on.

—-

My mom and I walked to the front door of The Inn and pressed the automatic button to open it. As the door slowly swung open, I flashed back to the numerous times my two daughters, ages 6 and 7 would visit my dad after school or on weekends. As I parked the car and they unbuckled their seatbelts, it would become a free-for-all to see which one could scramble out of the car and race to press that button first.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that coming back to The Inn would be a flood of memories. I bit my lip. Tears formed in my eyes.

My mom looked at me and held my hand.

She felt it, too.

We walked into the lobby and hung a left to the main dining room. Inside, there were chairs set up in rows, for other families who would be there, too. The 5 or so staff from the Recreation Department were there as they had put together this program. They smiled and greeted us warmly with hugs.

It was a reunion.

We put my dad’s picture on a table.

As I looked around at the dining room, I remembered visiting my dad during meals. I spotted his familiar table next to the window where he would devour his Raisin Bran. Across the room, I saw where he used to sit when they would convert the dining room into The Inn’s famous “Bingo” tournament.  I would watch as my dad would work several cards at once. (Boy, those older folks were out for blood during that game! Once, during a particularly heated game, you could hear a pin drop as the tension mounted and then a little old lady from the back row would suddenly blurt out,

“BINGO!!!!”

I watched as her table mates  clapped politely, while barely masking the daggers of jealousy they shot her. “Bingo” was serious business!)

—-

There were only a few other families that had come to the memorial service. It was a particularly foggy night, and many people probably didn’t want to venture out. I was grateful as the tears were now fully streaming down my face. My mom put her arm around me.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered.

“Don’t be sorry, honey.” she said, reassuringly. “It’s okay.”

We took our seat towards the front. There were only about 7 or so people scattered in different seats.

It was a very informal service, as staff took turns reading poems, a Psalm, and a prayer. They had a booklet they handed out with everyone’s name who had died. They read them aloud.

I openly wept. I held a box of tissues in my lap. As they got to my dad’s name, I felt a stabbing pain in my chest and my cheeks flashed hot.

While they continued to speak, I found my eyes wandering around the room. Towards the back of the dining room, I spotted a closed door that led to an adjoining room. That room was a big part of my dad’s life. It is where he took his weekly woodworking class over the years.

Every Friday, my dad would meet his pals in that room along with Gene, a wonderful community volunteer, who would gently guide the men in simple crafts. One time they made a mirror and stained it a golden brown color. Another time, they made a key chain holder. It gave the men confidence and a sense of accomplishment.

My dad in his prime, greatly enjoyed woodworking. He constructed everything from building simple outdoor sheds, to seesaws for his grandchildren. I’ll never forget when he made me a tree house when I was little girl in our wooded backyard lot. I helped my dad with the simple tasks that make a child feel important. We built it together. That tree house held many of my childhood memories and its accompanying sweet secrets inside.

As his memory began to fade, the skills of woodworking sadly left him. But Gene was a wonderful, patient and loving instructor. One time, he helped my dad craft a beautiful hand-carved wooden birdhouse. It was a complex project, with copper trim and great detail. Though Gene did the majority of the construction, my dad proudly helped him with some of the finish work. I’ll never forget the day I visited my dad and he showed me the completed project. The look on his face – he exuded so much pride in his accomplishment. It was almost as if he were a school boy presenting a cherished piece of art to his mother. The role-reversal that became achingly apparent in our relationship was on full display at that moment. I felt a swell of pride in him that I could only describe as “maternal.”

I have that birdhouse proudly displayed in my dining room. I will cherish it forever.

—-

As the Memorial Service concluded, my mom and I said our thanks and goodbyes to the staff who put the evening together. My eyes were swollen from crying; but no one seemed to mind.

Leaving the room, my mom and I stood briefly in the lobby of The Inn. The lights were dim and it was empty. The receptionist desk was abandoned. Many of the residents were upstairs, perhaps in bed. The halls were quiet and we just stood there, taking it all in.

It felt like we were finally closing a chapter.

We made our way out to the car in silence. It was an emotional evening for both of us. We both felt weary.

When we got to my mom’s house, I got out of the car to help her inside. We hugged each other goodbye and I promised my mom I would see her tomorrow.

“Are you going to be okay, honey?” she asked me worriedly.

“Oh, I’ll be fine, mom.” I promised. She nodded and made her way inside, carrying my father’s picture with her.

When my father died, we were going through some of his things that we retrieved from The Inn. There were items from his dresser, his wallet, his watch. And his clothing.

I suddenly spotted something that had great meaning to me. It was my dad’s favorite navy-blue striped flannel shirt. I asked my mother if she minded if I kept it, and she said, “Sure! Take it!”

Right before Christmas, I had folded his shirt and stuck it on the counter in the laundry room, not quite sure what to do with it and forgot about it. A few weeks ago, when I was doing laundry, I was organizing some things in the room and out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father’s shirt.

The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, clutching his shirt to my chest with tears streaming down my face, not recognizing the primal sounds coming from my mouth.

My daughters had come to be well acquainted with this occasional sound of sadness coming from their mother.

It didn’t scare them; they understood.

They would spring into action and come running. My oldest, would find me and bring me a box of tissues. She would sit down next to me, put her arm around me and say, “I know it hurts, Mommy. I miss him, too.” My youngest daughter would come running after quickly grabbing her favorite stuffed animal. She would give it to me and say, “Hold this up to your heart, Mommy. It will make you feel better.”

Love can illuminate even the darkest moments.

Those moments of grief have become less frequent now. A few months have passed, and the shock of losing my dad has worn off.

The reality and acceptance are starting to take root.

Some say grief is like a river. It comes in waves. I tend to agree with that.  It’s hard to predict how ones journey with loss will ebb and flow.

The other day, after the memorial service, it hit me like a tidal wave.

But tomorrow, perhaps, it will be more like a puddle my daughters splash in during the unexpected winter thaw we just had.

For now, my father’s shirt has found a new home. I have hung it proudly in my closet. I look at it every day. Sometimes I tear up when I see it. But ever so gradually, I’m finding that it makes me happy to see it there.

Because I know my dad will always be with me.

In my heart.

In my memories.

Even in my sadness, when I know he’s holding my hand.

And I know, eventually, when I think of him, I will be able to smile again.

I love you, Dad.

When I was a junior in college, I was just about an hour away at the University of NH. I had my car at school, so one Friday afternoon, I came home for the weekend.

As I came through the garage door into the basement, dirty laundry in tow, I heard the familiar booming voice of my dad. Judging by the charismatic, yet polite, tone of his voice, it soon became obvious he was on the phone. So, I sat down on the couch behind him and listened to his end of the call, while soaking in the familiar sights and sounds of my childhood home.

I heard him say,

“Well, that’s just great, Karen, I think you should feel VERY proud of yourself.”

I assumed it must be an old friend or work associate, judging by his warm and encouraging words.

A minute later, the receiver to his ear, my dad turned around and spotted me. His eyes flashed open wide and a huge smile crept upon his face. He held up his index finger as if to say he was about to finish up the call, and I nodded.

Then as he prepared his conversation “dismount,” I heard him say,

“Well, listen, Karen, I have to run. My daughter just walked in the door. But I wish you so much luck with that decision, and I’ll be thinking of you. Okay…you, too…bye-bye.”

He hung up the phone and he walked over to me and threw his arms around me in a big bear hug.

“Hi Dad!” I said! “Hi, my darling!” he exclaimed.

As he bent over to pick up my laundry basket, I asked, “Who was that on the phone?”

He looked at me blankly for a minute as if trying to register my question.

Then he replied, “Oh that? That was just a wrong number.”

~~~

Today, we are all here to tip our hat to a wonderful man. A man who has had a profound influence on all who knew him.

Together, we toast the man, the myth, the legend of Ed Dugan.

My brother, Pat, reminded me the other day, that if my dad were speaking right now, he’d start by saying in his perfect straight-faced style:

“I was born at a very young age…in a manger…”

For one of his great gifts, was making people laugh. He had many jokes, anecdotes and one-liners that he employed year…after year…after year.

I sometimes like to refer to them simply as “Ed Dugan-isms.”

In fact, he was so fond of joking around, that early on in our family, we learned the necessity of employing a very simple rule to be able to tell when my dad was kidding, or when he was telling the truth.

If he said something that seemed hard to believe (which was pretty often), we’d say, “Honest, Dad?” And if he was joking, he had to confess right then and there. If he replied back with  “Yes, HONEST!” then we knew it was the absolute truth.

Such was the way of my childhood.

My dad had a great love for people. Whether stranger or beloved friend. He loved nothing more than making people laugh or paying them a compliment. To all his daughters, he would say, “You’re beautiful!” at just about every chance he’d get.

And as for my mom – well, he would often gaze at her as if it were the first time he had ever laid eyes on her.

To use my husband’s great description, “My dad was a character!” Growing up, on special occasions, when would go out to eat at a restaurant, at the end of the meal, when the waitress would bring our check, she would ask the obligatory question, “Was everything alright with your meal?”

Immediately, my father would steal a glance at her name tag and reply without missing a beat, “Shirley, the food was ALMOST as good as the service!”

After a few seconds, it registered with her what my dad was saying, and she would brighten up and gush, “Oh, thank you!!!”

My dad would smile as she walked away, pleased with earning yet another loyal customer.

The Shirleys of the world loved my dad.

My father was in sales all his life; a profession that took him all over the country travelling while my mother dutifully raised the kids.

He learned early on that the key to getting a customer’s loyalty was to become invested in them on a personal level. But this natural curiosity extended far beyond his business life and became his own personal mantra wherever he went.

He genuinely loved people.

You could always hear him striking up conversations with anyone who would listen. At church, at the supermarket, in the waiting room of a doctor’s office.

You know that rule about people not speaking in elevators? Well, that didn’t apply to my dad. I think some of his best friendships were born in elevator cars.

He loved to know what made people tick. What they did for a profession.  If he knew someone was a mechanic, for example, he’d ask, “So John, just how did you get into the business of fixing cars?” For, he knew people LOVED to talk about themselves and when they would tell their tale, my dad would fix his eyes on them as if what they had to say was the most important thing in the world he ever heard.

And he also learned the art of how to disarm a difficult or disgruntled customer with his charm and his grace.

One day, I remember my dad came home after getting a speeding ticket. He was known to have a bit of a lead foot, so this wasn’t terribly unexpected. My dad recounted the story of when the officer pulled him over. As he got out of his patrol car, and walked over to my dad, he was  red-faced and angry, demanding to know if my father had any idea how fast he was going! The officer was extremely scolding in his tone and was obviously very displeased with my father’s lack of rule-following on the road.

My dad listened calmly to the officer and when he was finished said,

“Officer, I want to thank you.”

He looked at my dad, slightly confused.

My dad continued,

“I know that you did not enjoy having to tell me all that. Clearly, I was wrong and I deserve a ticket. And I want to thank you, Officer, for having the courage and the honesty to tell it like it is.”

The officer, at a loss for words, hastily took the rather pricey ticket from his pad, handed it to my father and walked away. My dad drove off and eventually made his way home.

A few hours later, the phone rang.

My dad answered, “Hello?”

“Mr. Dugan?”came the voice. “This is Officer so-and-so. I stopped you today for speeding. I am calling to let you know, that YOU sir, have my permission to rip up that ticket I gave you this afternoon.”

My father – rather surprised – asked “Really, Officer?”

The officer continued, “Mr. Dugan, in my 30+ years on the police force, I have never had anyone treat me with the amount of humility and respect that you did today, sir. That ticket has been expunged from your record.”

My dad thanked him profusely, and hung up the phone, absolutely glowing.

CLASSIC Ed Dugan.

Like any proud parent out there, my dad loved nothing better than receiving a compliment about his children. And he loved sharing those compliments. The only catch was, in order to get my dad to tell us the compliment, WE had to tell my dad a compliment that we heard about HIM first.

He called these “TL’s” which stood for “Tell Last”. This meant that he would tell us the compliment last – only after we spilled the beans about something nice we heard about him.

Out of the blue he’d say, “Teresa, I have a “TL” for you.” I’d immediately get excited and ask him to tell me the nice thing someone said about me. Then he’d narrow his eyes and look at me and say, “You know the drill.” So then I’d roll my eyes and scramble to remember something nice someone said about my dad, like, “OK….dad….yesterday the kid down the street said you were funny.” Then he’d say, “Really? Which kid?” Inevitably followed by “Oh, I always liked that kid!”

Bottom line, my dad loved to hear praise in any form.

Recently, one of the nursing assistants at his nursing home – where my dad hung his hat for the last 7 years – told us that when she once introduced my dad to her grandmother, his first response was,

“So nice to meet you. Now tell, me – do you find me handsome?”

Perhaps the greatest lesson my dad ever gave to us, was the love he had for my mother. All my life, he has only seemed completely at peace when she was by his side.

Even when I was a young girl, when he would be watching TV, I’d walk into the room and he’d say, “Where’s your mother?” when she was only feet away in the kitchen.

(I always secretly thought that would make a great tattoo if he ever got one – “Where’s Your Mother?”)

My parents were a team. They went to the grocery store together. They went to the gas station together. They were pretty much inseparable. He adored my mother and longed to be with her all the time.

Their love story was epic.

In the twilight of his life, my dad began his slow-dance with dementia. He did so gracefully, and sweetly – always with a smile on his face and a compliment to a nurse or staff member.

He loved to tell people, “You look beautiful today.”

The one thing I will truly miss about my dad was the way he told his family that he loved us, every time he saw us. I’ll miss his blue eyes twinkling when I came into his range of view, and the way his face captured his joy when he saw my face.

He’d say, “Hi, my Darling!” as he seemed to convey with every cell of his body how happy he was to see me.

When we would part, I’d say, “Okay, dad – I have to go. But I’ll come visit you tomorrow!” Then like clockwork, he would take my hand, bring it up to his lips and softly kiss it. It was his signature send-off.

I’m going to miss that very much.

He was a simple man. At times, he was a complicated man. But always, he was a loving man.

Though his death won’t make the evening news, nor will an article on his passing grace the pages of his beloved “People Magazine,” the story of his life is no less important or extraordinary. For he was larger-than-life to this daughter, a legend in his own time, and not someone I can ever possibly forget. I will miss him deeply, and today our family’s grief is great. But my faith tells me I will see my dad again, a belief that today I cling to. And as my nephew Brendan pointed out to me just the other day, our faith tells us that today, he is more alive than ever before on earth.

Until then, I will proudly make small talk to strangers in elevators, pay random compliments to waitresses and people at grocery stores, in his honor.

I will never miss an opportunity to make someone smile with a corny joke. I will cherish my family, and tell the people I love how much they mean to me, all in loving tribute to him.

I know my dad is having a wonderful time up in Heaven – greeting people, making people laugh – introducing himself to everyone with his famous opening line,

“Incidentally, I’m Ed Dugan.”

And I also know he’s giving God an earful while asking,

“So, God, tell me. How exactly how did you get into the business of Creation?”

I love you, dad. And I’ll miss you forever.

“HONEST.”

Once a month we have a family “care plan” meeting where we meet with staff – usually the charge nurse and the social worker at The Inn. (my father’s term for the nursing home he calls home, and where he does his slow dance with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia.)

These meetings are fairly routine with both parties discussing any issues in care that come up. For example, a favorite plaid shirt that may have gone missing in the laundry; or arranging for him to have an extra blanket for nighttime.

Last week was meeting day.

As my mom and I walked into the meeting room and made ourselves comfortable, the social worker, MaryAnn, and Karen the charge nurse sat opposite us as we exchanged early morning pleasantries. Staff have become extended family, as my dad enters his 7th year at The Inn. We often have our share of laughs at these meetings, as we continue to find the funny moments that can be a part of his day.

But early on this morning, I could sense something else was on their mind other than the usual agenda of this-and-that.

MaryAnn began with, “We all know that Ed has experienced some changes over the last few months, and we’ve seen him start to decline, both physically and cognitively.”

My mom and I nodded in agreement. This wasn’t news to us, after all. The last month, in particular, my dad has become increasingly lost inside himself; weaker physically; and often refusing to eat lunch, or sometimes dinner.

She continued, “So, as a team, staff have been meeting to discuss how we can best help Ed, going forward.”

Karen the nurse continued, “We wanted to talk with you as a family to begin to consider the process of offering Ed “care and comfort” in the future.”

I looked over at my mom, who continued to nod, and then back at MaryAnn and Karen.

Then I felt an unfamiliar pang in my chest. It slowly started to hit me what they were saying.

“You mean…are you saying… it’s time to look at hospice?” I asked.

They both nodded, as I felt like a bullet hit me between the eyes. Hospice? Really? Are we really at that point?

They went on to reassure us that hospice is often surrounded in misunderstanding. That really it’s often another “layer” of care, but specifically focused on my dad. He’ll still stay at The Inn. He’ll still receive the care from staff. But an additional team will now come in – often several times a week – and make sure my dad is comfortable, perhaps play him some favorite music; assist him in any way he needs them; keep him company. Additionally, they can encourage him to eat and will be looking at all his medications to see what can be discontinued, and no longer adding value.

“I’m sure he would love the extra attention!” I suddenly heard my mom say from next to me. I looked over at her as she sat in her chair, her poker face on, bravely and cheerfully accepting what they were telling us. I silently wondered how that must feel, to be told your husband of 62 years is entering into this new phase.

She is the strongest woman I have ever known.

The more we talked, we learned that hospice is not necessarily a death-sentence; rather it can be a “blessing in disguise” to provide more focused care specifically for my dad. They will look at his activities. They will keep him company. They will give him his meds when needed.

I was surprised to learn that some people even get discharged from hospice, if they gain weight; or make other small improvements. It’s just more focalized care. Staff at The Inn are in charge of many patients. Hospice will only focus on my dad.

Really, it’s a win-win.

Our meeting finished up and we went to see my dad. He was having a good day – smiling, eating his breakfast. He recognized us right off the bat and brightened up immediately.

(Hospice? This doesn’t look like a man who needs hospice.)

But I understand that my dad’s good days are starting to diminish. That today is no longer the norm. When we spotted him at the breakfast table, though he was happy to see us, he proclaimed, “I’ve just finished having breakfast on this wonderful train. The conductor sat me here.”

For some reason, when my dad is confused lately, he often talks about being on a train. But instead of correcting him, we have learned to just play along. “It’s a really nice train, dad,” I agreed, kissing him softly on the cheek.  My mom looked at me and smiled, rolling her eyes. (You have to keep your sense of humor, after all.)

My dad smiled and took my hand. “Thank you, darling,” he said.

Then my dad looked at my mom and said, “Barbie, can you tell me again how my mother died?” My mom answered him right away. “She had a stroke.” My mom looked at me and explained, “For the last couple of weeks, he’s been talking a lot about his mother.”

That’s weird, I thought.

Yesterday, my mom and I met with the hospice nurse who came to assess my dad. She will be his “plus-one” going forward. She was lovely. She sat us down and asked us all about his health history which she dutifully tapped into her laptop,  and then a few minutes later, we were joined by her colleague, a social worker, who questioned us about his religious preferences and other things.

Suddenly, and quite out of the blue, it became very important to me that these people learn every possible detail about my dad. About his 7 children who he and my mom raised; how he was in sales all his life – once winning a prestigious national sales award. We discussed how he was a devout Catholic, never missing mass and how proud he was that his older brother, in his 90’s is a retired Catholic priest. We talked about his beloved Notre Dame and how growing up, watching a Notre Dame game was a “religious experience” on the Saturdays of my youth. We talked about how his family has rallied around him and that many of my siblings – even those who live in the Midwest – have come out to see him as often as they can.

We told them about his personality, how he is a charmer, and a people-person, who up until just a year ago, could get anyone’s life story after talking to them for 5 minutes. We talked about his love for corny jokes and one-liners, and making people laugh, (that this daughter has adopted.)

We talked about how to this day, he’ll still say to a random nurse, “You look beautiful, today!”

I wanted them to know my dad. He’s not just a patient. He’s not just a number on a chart.

He. Is. MY. Dad.

They asked us if we are plugged into any support groups. Like Alzheimer’s support groups or anything like that for family members. I was surprised by the question. These hospice people actually were asking about us. Kinda cool.

The hospice meeting began to wrap up with my mom and I feeling much more encouraged and grateful that this layer of care existed for people and their families. It felt like we won the lottery! This was going to be a good thing! And, as they said, people can often be on hospice for a year or more…with some even getting discharged if they do better!

(Maybe that will be my dad, I hoped!)

As we prepared to leave, they asked if we had any last questions. One suddenly crossed my mind, but I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to ask or not, but what the heck.

“I’ve never had anyone close to me die before. If my dad gets worse, and things start to progress, will you be able to help my family and I recognize some of the signs?”

The two ladies nodded sweetly. The nurse said, “If and when your dad starts to decline further, our care will only increase. Instead of being here a few times a week, we will be here more and more. We’ll be with him closely. We will keep you in the loop every step of the way.”

She went on to say, “Everyone is different. Your dad is still able to speak and often can communicate what’s going on. And I can tell from meeting with him that he is a man who is very in-touch, emotionally.”

“He is a very loving person,” I added. “He tells us he loves us constantly. He always has.”

The social worker chimed in, “That’s wonderful. Sometimes we see people begin to talk about people in the past. Someone close to them they may have lost. They often try to reconcile what’s happening to them by remembering a loved-one.”

My mom looked at them and said, “Last week, he asked me if I could drive him in my car to take him to see his mother.”

The two women looked at each other and nodded. The nurse said, “We frequently hear people talking suddenly about a parent; often the mother.”

Crap.

She continued, “The idea of travel – like him wanting to drive in your car, as you mentioned – is also a frequent theme. He is, almost literally, “traveling” through this process.”

“You mean like being on a train?” I whispered.

“Absolutely!” they said.

“My dad’s been talking about being on a train a lot – like on a dining car.” I explained.

Both women nodded emphatically.

A lump formed in my throat. My face started to get hot. I shifted in my chair and smiled at a staff member walking by to try to distract myself.

(Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Keep it together. I scolded myself.)

I heard my mother say, “When Ed and I were younger, we often traveled by train.”

The social worker continued, “You see, your dad is on a journey. What you need to understand is that all this is  perfectly normal – the things he is beginning to talk about – his mother – wanting to see his mother – being on a train…”

(Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Damn, my face feels hot!)

I tried to focus on the women’s faces, but suddenly they became blurry. They were looking at my mother who was bravely taking all this information in.

(Don’t cry in front of mom! Don’t. You’ll just upset her. Keep it together.)

Too late. My eyes welled. The ladies stopped talking. They looked at me with concern and understanding. It’s not like they haven’t seen it before, right?

The nurse started to get up and find a tissue.

“I’m good!” I smiled, reassuringly. “I’m good.”

My mom looked over at me and her eyes flashed open.

(I’m a pretty upbeat kinda gal. I’m not known to cry.)

Immediately she took my hand. “Oh, honey,” she said.

(Oh crap. She sees me.)

My mom squeezed my hand while she explained to the women that I have been trying to juggle it all. “She’s been doing such an amazing job trying to take care of her dad all this time…she even takes care of me – getting my groceries. And she has two little girls. She tries to do it all.”

(What is that trick to make yourself stop crying? Look up at the ceiling? Let me try that.)

The social worker went on, “Your dad’s deep faith in God could be a comfort to him now. The next time he starts to ask about his mom, if you and your family so desire, you could talk about his faith that he may see her again.”

My eyes gradually dried as I took this in. The more I thought about it, I realized how important it was to hear this. For once, someone was empowering our family with the tools to help my dad on his journey. It’s okay to talk to him in a way that is reassuring to him; that provides a sense of peace.

I suddenly had a very strong feeling that these women would be our “guardian angels”as we navigate this road.

I composed myself after a minute and glanced at the clock. “Mom, I have to get the girls off the bus, I’m sorry…I gotta go,” I whispered. I was her ride home so she stood up to leave.

We thanked the ladies profusely and explained that for the first time in a long time, we were feeling like we are heading in a positive direction. That we are feeling a sense of control in an out-of-control time.

“Call us anytime,” they said. “We mean that. We’ll see you soon.”

As my mom and I rode home, I didn’t want to talk. In just 15 minutes, my two little girls would be getting off the bus with playground-stained clothing and toothless grins racing up the driveway to tell me all about their day.

For now, I have to compartmentalize what I’m going through with my dad. Until I can better process how to think about it, I have a 5 and 7 year-old who are dancing through their childhood with complete joy and abandon. And they need me.

As the bus pulled away and I watched my little girls throw their backpacks to the ground and race off, it hit me that there’s so much “life” that surrounds me.

Life in so many stages.

My dad is in the Winter of his life…my babies are basking in Springtime.

Each stage is a gift.

I’m blessed to experience it all.

I love you, Dad.

Today as we prepared to visit my dad at The Inn (his term for the nursing home where he does his slow dance with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia), I casually mentioned to my daughters that we were going to “go visit Grandpa.”

Suddenly, my 7 year-old’s eyes flashed open wide and she asked excitedly, “Mom! What’s the date today?” I replied, “It’s October 20th.” Then she squealed with delight and raced back to her bedroom. Confused, I followed her and found her at her desk with a picture I had seen her working on the last week or so. I didn’t really know what it was but it looked like she was putting the finishing touches on it.

I asked her, “What ‘cha doing?” as I peeked over her shoulder. Before she responded, I saw her sign her name. Then she turned to me and opened her desk drawer. She produced a wrinkled yellow-lined piece of paper that held some familiar scribbled handwriting. As I looked closer, I saw it was my dad’s writing.

I watched as a wide grin crept upon her face.  “Mom!” she said enthusiastically, “Exactly ONE YEAR AGO TODAY, Grandpa wrote me THIS LETTER!” Her hand thrust forward at me and I took the paper. I saw the date, “10/20/11” at the top.

Sure enough, last year at this exact same time, my dad would often write and mail simple letters to my children from The Inn. He knew they got the biggest kick out of receiving mail and relished in hearing their reactions when they would receive them.

The letter from him to my daughter was brief, and said simply, “Dear Ruby, Lots of Love, From Grandpa.”

Then she showed me a letter she wanted to give to him in exchange, with a picture she drew. She put today’s date, “10/20/12” on the top and wanted to bring it along on our visit to commemorate the one-year anniversary of his effort.

It said simply, “Dear Grandpa, I love you sooo much. Love, Ruby”

She had kept his letter all this time. AND she had the patience and vision to wait for the anniversary – an entire year – from when my dad wrote it to write him back on the same date.

For a seven year-old, this was quite a feat, considering she cannot seem to locate the socks she wore yesterday.

She got up from her desk and excitedly brought it with her as we all piled into the car and headed toward The Inn. She had a smile on her face the entire car ride.

Our family has been coming to terms with a steadily and increasing period of decline with my dad. His happy, bright days are fewer and far between. The light is starting to fade from his eyes as his memory steadily slips away. For the most part he still knows us, those of us he sees regularly. But our new obstacle has to do with his occasionally refusing to eat or even drink. He is gradually losing weight and now requires cues and assistance with eating. As often is the case with people with dementia, sometimes they do not even realize they are hungry. And the simple reflex of swallowing is growing more and more difficult. Swallowing his pills can be a huge challenge.

It’s a “new normal.” And we know the writing is on the wall.

I just wish we could erase it.

Today, my dad was certainly not at his best. He spent his entire day in bed, not wanting to eat or drink much. When we came into his room, he was lying in bed and couldn’t keep his eyes open. He barely greeted us.

My daughter walked into her grandfather’s room with her drawing clutched firmly in her hand. She took one look at him and knew instantly that he would not understand what she had done. So without saying a word, she simply turned and hung it up on his bulletin board on his wall. I watched her step back and admire it, pleased with herself.

I have never felt so proud of my little girl. I whispered to her, “I think Grandpa is going to be so excited when he sees that later.”

She looked at me and smiled.

After a bit of time, we turned and left, promising to see him tomorrow.

Anniversaries are often times of celebration. But they can also be poignant, sad times, too. There was sadness in the room today when my dad wasn’t able to be in the moment to celebrate an important anniversary in the eyes of a child. But truth be told, all that was overshadowed by the excitement and thoughtfulness of a seven-year-old girl who just wanted to do something special for her Grandpa, even if he couldn’t really understand it.

I dropped off my girls at home along with my husband and then headed back to The Inn at dinnertime by myself. I just wanted to be with my dad. He was out of bed, sitting at a table in the dining area, sleeping in his wheelchair, an uneaten sandwich and pickle spear staring at him from his plate.

He didn’t want to talk much, so I just held his hand. I told him that I loved him and kissed him on the cheek. He replied politely, yet absently, “Thank you, darling.”

Tomorrow is another day. I’m hoping it’s a much better day than today was. There is certainly an air of unpredictability lately so you just never know what you might get.

But it’s going to be okay.

This is just my Dad’s story. And, if I think about it,  I guess, it’s my story, too.

I love you, Dad.

I suppose it’s best to face the inevitable.

My dad is starting to slip into the shadows.

But before he does, I’m going to put up one heck of a fight. I’m talking about a knock-down, dragged-out, kicking and screaming kinda battle. I am going to pester the physicians and the kind-hearted nurses that take care of him at The Inn (his term for the nursing home he lives in, where he does his slow-dance with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia,) with all my might to make sure they are on top of his care, that he is given as much stimulation, physical therapy, social interaction and attention they can muster.

In short, I’m going to be a pain.

I’m really sorry about that, but he’s my dad. And I’m not going to give up on him just yet.

I’m going to hang out at The Inn, and strike up random conversations with the people who are on his Caregiver-watch for the day. The nurses, the aides, the housekeeping staff. I am going to do my best to educate them, in every way, about my dad.

When they look at my dad, what they may see is a tired, old man in a wheelchair, with heavy eyes and slouching shoulders who tries his darndest to remember their names, but masks his embarrassment by simply calling everyone, “Dear.”

But this man that they see, is not who I see. No. Not at all.

I’m going to take every chance I get to remind them that my dad was once a vibrant, dynamic and hysterically funny man who kept everyone on their toes. He still has days where this shines through, though those days are becoming less frequent.

I’m going to tell them all about my childhood and bore them to death with the details. I’ll tell them about that time when I would have slumber parties on Saturday nights in junior high, and my dad would rig up his old movie projector in the family room, and comb through his archives of silent monster movies like “The Mummy” and “The Wolfman,” to the shrieking delight of my popcorn-eating pals. He would put on his best “movie voice” to introduce the features, and then leave us all with the parting words said in his most dramatic voice, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll all be safe down here. We have very strong locks on the windows…” My friends would stare at him, wide-eyed, and then we’d all dissolve into nervous laughter after he left.

I’ll also tell them about the times we’d go out to eat at a restaurant as a family. At the end of the meal, when the waitress would come up and ask her predictable question, “Was everything okay with your meal?” my father would steal a quick glance at her name badge and reply without hesitation, “Marie? The food was almost as good as the service!” Then he would smile while she would giggle demurely, with the satisfaction of another well-worn line doing its job. (I must admit, that line has served me well, many times since then.)

I’m going to remind the nurses that at every opportunity I could remember, my father would always sing the praises of my mother, his beautiful bride of 62 years to just about anyone who would listen. I still can recall when I was in sixth grade, when my dad and I would be sitting in the car in our driveway ready to head to weekly mass. My mother was rather notorious for running late, and we’d be waiting for what seemed like hours until we would eventually see the front door open and my mother hurriedly rushing out the door.

My dad would watch her walk down the front steps, his gaze never breaking, as if he was seeing her for the very first time. Then he’d turn to me in the back seat, and say, “Isn’t your mother the most beautiful woman in the world?” I remember I would roll my eyes in embarrassment and respond, “Sure, dad.”

And I will remind his caregivers of the time I came home from college for the weekend during my junior year. My school was only a short hour away, but it felt like I had been gone an eternity. I walked in the door, dirty laundry in tow, and heard the familiar booming voice of my dad, talking animatedly. Instantly I realized he was on the phone, as he had his polite, and charismatic voice on.

I put down my laundry basket and sat down on the couch behind him, and soaked in the sights and sounds of our family room. He had his back to me and didn’t know I was there, as he leaned against our out-of-tune piano with the phone perched on his ear. I listened to his side of the conversation and it became clear to me that he must be talking to a dear, old friend.

I heard him say into the receiver, “Well, Karen, I can understand that must have been quite a shock to you,” followed by, “Well, what a life-lesson that was!” I coughed and he turned in surprise to see me, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. He motioned to me with his finger up as if to say, “One minute!” Then he spoke again preparing his conversation dismount: “Well, listen, I’m so glad to hear all is well. I wish you all the best.” Then he said his goodbye and hung up the phone.

“Teresa, my love!” he exclaimed brightly, as he bounded over to give me a hug. After I hugged him back, casually I asked him, “Who were you talking to?”

He responded, “Huh? Oh…that was a wrong number.”

True story. My dad befriended a total stranger on the phone who had called the house by mistake, and in the span of only minutes, learned their entire life story.

The funny thing about that moment? I remember just taking it in stride.

That is, after all, my dad.

This past Saturday, I found myself in-between my daughter’s soccer games with some time to kill. My youngest daughter just finished hers and I had a full hour before my older daughter’s game began. My husband was taking the girls to Dunkin Donuts and since I had taken my own car, I thought I’d go visit my dad.

When I stepped off the elevator on the third floor, I found him in his wheelchair, at the nurses station, as they were giving him his morning medication. He looked tired and not quite himself. A bit disheveled. His eyesight is now starting to fade so I put my face up close to him and said brightly, “Hey, Daddy-O!” He smiled politely but it took a minute to register who I was.

Oh. I could tell immediately it was one of those days.

He took my hand and I saw fear in his eyes. “Honey…please…can you tell me where I am?” I looked at him and in an instant I felt myself switch over from being his daughter to feeling like he was my child. “Dad,” I said reassuringly. “You’re at The Inn. This is where you have lived for 7 years. They take such good care of you here!”

He looked at me with great confusion. “Honest?” he said. “Are you telling me the truth?” I rubbed his back as his aide told me, “He’s a little out of sorts this morning.”

We wheeled him over to the dining area so he could have his breakfast. I saw the elevator open and my mother stepped out on her way to visit him, too. She was surprised to see me as we don’t often time our visits together. I walked over to her and whispered, “He’s having a bad day.” She looked at me and instantly knew what I meant.

“Oh. OK.” she said.

We walked over to the table where they wheeled my dad for breakfast. “I’m sure he’ll feel better after he eats,” I reassured her.

My dad took one look at my mom and instead of feeling instantly at ease when he saw her, took her hand and said, “Barbie? Why don’t I live at that house where we used to live?” She replied, “Honey, we moved out of that house a long time ago. You live here, now.”

My dad stared at her, trying to process the information. Then he looked at me, then back at my mom, and said,

“Am I in the middle of a nightmare?”

His words stopped me in my tracks. As heart wrenching as they were to hear, those words were also fascinating to me. What an amazing description of what it must feel like. He actually had that moment of clarity – in the midst of total confusion – that things were not making any sense.

And he was scared.

We just sat there with my dad, as he drank his orange juice and began to eat his scrambled eggs. There wasn’t a lot to say after that, except to just be with him.

My dad’s illness is like a slow-dance into the shadows. He’s still a lovable, sweet man, but more and more frequently, we are seeing days where we lose him into darkness.

But each day is still a gift. After all, he is here with us.

And each day that I see him, whether its a good day and he’s laughing and flirting with the nurses, or it’s a bad day and we sit while smiling politely at each other, I will remember the man he was.

And still is.

It’s been a little while since I’ve written about my dad. There’s no particular reason; sometimes life just gets in the way. My children’s school year wrapped up, and so did some other projects I was working on. My focus has shifted back to my 5 and 7 year-olds as they happily envelop me into their world of endless summer days and wind-whipped beach hair.

For those who are new to my story, my dad is 88 and lives at The Inn, his term for his nursing home here in town, where he does his Slow Dance with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia. Gratefully, he still knows me and my family, and my mother, the Silent Warrior and his bride of 62 years who visits him almost daily, and is responsible for the light washing over his face whenever she enters the room.

But he’s still my dad. He loves to flirt with the nurses and make random small talk. His favorite accomplishment is earning the admiration of strangers through a humorous quip or corny joke. Though his memory is fading, I can always tell it’s a good day when these utterances or one-liners escape his lips. And you can feel the joy when he gets the line right. It’s a beautiful thing.

My dad has had his ups and down for the last 6 years while at The Inn. His health is frail. He’s had a host of maladies ranging from strokes, to mild heart attacks to COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) over the last 15 years. He is on a pharmacy of medications to keep him going, but you can always judge the kind of day he’s having by whether or not you see his walker, or a wheelchair in his room.

Today I found the wheelchair parked by his bed. That’s never a good sign. His walker – his trusted steel companion – was abandoned in the back of the room holding his beloved Notre Dame license plate my sister gave him that he carts around with him every day.

I got a call this morning from his nurse that my dad developed a bad cold yesterday. The cold turned into a fever last night and for a man who is “chronologically gifted” (to use one of his catchphrases), this can sometimes throw a giant wrench in things. He is prone to pneumonia so they have ordered a chest x-ray and full panel of blood work to check what’s going on. In the elderly and especially someone with my dad’s health history, things can change dramatically and fast.

I walked into his room to find a lab tech preparing to take his blood. I saw my dad laying listlessly in bed, his normal jeans and golf shirt replaced by a “johnnie.” Though he was very groggy, he still managed to greet me with his familiar, “Darling!”

His dementia often worsens when he’s sidelined by illness. But as is typical with my dad, he still tried his darndest  to charm the young woman who was now struggling to find his nearly invisible veins. He opened one eye and brightened up when he saw her bright pink shirt and weakly uttered, “Who’s this BEAUTIFUL young lady trying to help me?!?” She giggled and said, “Oh, Ed! I’m SO glad to see you again. Can I get my hug?” He opened his other eye and tried his best to lift his arm around her. “You ALWAYS make me feel so good, Ed!” she beamed. My dad started to perk up. After all, there’s a lady in the room to charm! And my dad always comes alive – especially in the presence of strangers.

As she finished getting her samples and turned to leave, she leaned into my mom and said, “Your husband always makes it a point to tell me how much he loves you whenever I see him.” She continued, “I always look forward to seeing him because he makes me believe there is someone out there who will love me like that!” (She’s single.) I smiled and said, “My parents have a great love story.” She nodded in agreement and said, “It gives me hope!” Then she left, smiling.

I looked over at my mother, sitting quietly by his bedside. I could tell there was worry in her eyes. She gives very little away, my mother, but you can usually tell by looking at her face that she is deep in thought as she looks watchfully at her husband.

As my mom and I sat quietly in his room, my dad drifted off. I glanced at the wall of his room at the family bulletin board we filled up with photographs to help my dad hold onto some of the fleeting memories. There were pictures of my parents as newlyweds, during middle-age, and present-day with their grandchildren.

I spot a photo of my mom and dad as young parents at the beach with their little children. My dad looks youthful and happy with horn-rimmed glasses and a goofy grin. I imagine that day at the beach – long before I was born – with them darting around after their kids. My mom is dark-haired and slender; always beautiful, while I imagined she watched with delight as her babies raced around in the warm sand.

I look at another photo of my dad a little older, but still in the prime of his life – with his dark, curly hair that my mom said she always loved. He was giving one of his trademark goofy expressions. His waistline was thicker then, as I flashbacked to his fondness for Snickers candy bars and how he would often run to the grocery store from time to time and come back with his chocolate bar “six-pack.”

.

There are other pictures, too, of me and my six siblings; other photos with our children. I see the last professional photo taken of my parents when they celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary and remembered that day when we dressed my dad up in one of his old suit jackets and rushed him out of The Inn in time to make their portrait sitting down the street, praying he would remember how to tie his tie that day. (He did!)

Then out of the corner of my eye, I spot the hand-drawn picture my 5 year-old daughter made secretly on the nurse’s whiteboard depicting her love for her grandfather.

I observe all these photos on my dad’s wall. The snapshots of a lifetime. My dad’s memories preserved for him.

The love surrounding him.

Then I look back at my dad as he lies motionless in bed; his eyes closed as he continues to slumber. I look at the silver waves of hair draped messily over his head – still a full head of hair at 88!  I see his weathered face peppered with age spots and deep lines. I look at his tired, heavy eyes. He starts to softly snore. My mother watches him and smiles. I see the look of love in her eyes. I wonder what she thinks? What is it like to watch your beloved companion as they navigate the twilight of their life? Is it hard? Is it frightening?

Then it occurred to me that there is beauty in this room. Even on a bad day like today. Love can be found everywhere. It’s hanging on his bedroom walls, captured in the smiling faces of the people from another time staring back, perfectly preserved in a photograph.

It’s in the caregivers who hug my father as if he were their own; who are inspired by him.

It’s in a spouse’s eyes as they watch over their loved one with concern and worry.

It’s in the silent prayers I know my mother is saying, as she steels herself for a possible period of decline.

There is beauty in this moment because I am able to share it with my dad. As hard as it is to see him like this, it also a gift to be here with him.

There is beauty everywhere. You just have to look for it.

My oldest brother, Pat, came out to visit us last week from Wisconsin. He tries to come out a few times a year to see our parents either with his wife, or solo. His last visit was about 6 months ago, and recently, I suggested that he may want to schedule a trip in the not-so-distant-future to see our dad since his slow-dance with Alzheimer’s has left him with gradually diminishing “good days,” as he gradually drifts into the shadows. Since he still has those unexpected moments of clarity, I thought he would appreciate having some quality visits with him before he fades even more. He was all too happy to oblige. He is a great brother and son to my parents, and has always been happy to help in any way.

My brother was 18, and in college when I was born. Family legend has it that I acquired his bedroom immediately upon my arrival since he had, for all intents and purposes, “flown the coop.” I did not really grow up with Pat. Truth be told, he was more of an “uncle” to me, who I’d see occasionally on holidays. We grew up a generation apart, yet in many ways, I feel the closest to him. He is very level-headed and non-judgmental, and we share a common (slightly warped) sense of humor. For some reason, we just connect. I find it endlessly fascinating that he has a whole different “family history” than I do. It’s almost like he is from a different family. I’m the youngest of 7, but in a way I’m an only child. He grew up with siblings. I really didn’t. And, he knew my parents when they were young! How cool is THAT.

We prepped my dad before Pat’s arrival, explaining that his oldest son was coming to visit. It would be kinda 50/50 if he would remember him. In my morning visits with my dad, I asked him questions about how it felt when he first became a father, and I asked him other things to get him thinking about my brother. We talked about Pat living in Wisconsin, about my sister-in-law, Sue, and their grown daughters. It still amazes me how memories from long ago can still resonate so clearly with my dad. I hoped that by exercising his brain with those subjects, it might ease any unfamiliarity he could possibly experience when Pat walked into the room for the first time in months. He grew excited at his arrival.

One of the guilty pleasures about having my out-of-town siblings come to visit for a stretch, is that it allows me to have a bit of “respite” from visiting my dad. I struggle with the feelings of guilt in admitting that, but I do find myself sleeping a little easier knowing they are in town, staying with my mom, and seeing my dad regularly. It allows me to detach – lovingly – and shift my priorities to my own family for a few days at least – something that I often have difficulty doing. Not that I am with my dad 24/7 or anything, but I sometimes feel that the role reversal that is so typical when parents age, can feel a bit heavy at times. I literally exhale as I go to bed, knowing that I’m off the hook, so to speak, from the worry. Since I tend to worry a lot, it’s actually quite freeing.

The day Pat arrived, I slowly and without fanfare, backed out of my daily nursing home visits that have become my morning ritual after dropping off my daughter at preschool for a fleeting 2 1/2 hours. Instead, I used the time to catch up on house chores, reintroduce myself to the gym, or tackle some school volunteer duties I have swept aside.

I wasn’t there when Pat first arrived and saw my dad, but I heard the relief in his voice when he said he remembered him. Or at least we think he did. The tough thing about my dad is, he is always so congenial when greeting people that he often tries to “cover” when he doesn’t remember someone, coloring any embarrassment with his typical warm welcome, or joke. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what the real story is.

As their visits progressed, he sometimes confused Pat with my other brother, or with his own brothers, but that was no big deal. Pat soon learned soon enough that my dad’s days were unpredictable. Some mornings he could barely get out of bed and could only be transported with a wheelchair. Other days, he was back to using his walker and flirting with the nurses. That’s how it is with dementia. It’s simply a “new normal.” You size him up when you see him, and you adjust based on what you get. But you love him no matter what.

After all, he’s still my dad.

My brother’s visit wrapped up a few days ago and he prepared to head home to the midwest. It was a great visit for him – comforting, poignant, entertaining, and reflective, all wrapped into one. As I drove him to the airport his past Tuesday, I prepared to re-enter the world that I temporarily left behind. The very next day, I walked into “The Inn” (my dad’s term for his nursing home), stepped into the elevator, and pressed the button for the third floor.

I found my dad sitting alone at his usual table in the dining area on his floor; his walker by his side. I snuck up behind him and greeted him loudly in his “good” ear, “HEY Dad!!!” His eyes flashed open wide and he exclaimed, “My DARLING! I haven’t seen you in AGES!” I smiled and took a seat next to him, while an aide sauntered over to deliver his fresh plate of scrambled eggs. I noticed his glass was empty so I stood up and walked over to the kitchen area and grabbed a pitcher of orange juice. As I filled his glass, he watched me with a smile on his face. Then he picked it up, raised the glass to me and toasted, “To your good health, sweetheart!” I smiled, pleased that he was having a good morning. I hadn’t remember him using that line in ages.

He then said to me, “You know, I had SUCH a nice visit with Pat!” I smiled and nodded, and asked him all about it. Then he added, “You know what?” He continued, “On his last visit before he had to go home, he actually gave me a KISS!” He beamed, a sense of pride washing over him. I watched as he took a pack of sugar from the container on the table, tore into it and brought it over to his plate and sprinkled it on his eggs. “Dad!” I gently interrupted “Don’t you want to put SALT on your eggs instead of sugar?” And he looked up, with confusion, thought about it for a minute, and said, “No, it’s fine, honey.” I didn’t want to push it since I sensed he was a little embarrassed. My heart sank a little.

He polished off his eggs and then dove into his bowl of raisin bran. I was pleased to see him eat so well – the same feeling I get when my daughters do. He wiped his mouth and said to me, “Honey, I can’t tell you how happy it makes me when you visit me. I look forward to it so much!” I smiled at him and said, “I’m glad, dad. It makes me happy, too.”

We sat a little longer in silence, his breakfast finished. I glanced at my watch and prepared to head out to do a few errands before retrieving my daughter from school. He took my hand as I stood up and squeezed it. “I love you, Teresa,” he said, “Do you know that?”

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “I sure do,” I said.

To your good health, Dad.

When the phone rings at 5:15 a.m., it’s never a good thing.

I sprung awake, bleary-eyed and fumbled for my phone. I braced myself for it to be the nursing home, calling about my dad. But as I grabbed it, I saw the word, “MOM” flash across the screen and light up the darkness. Mom? I thought to myself. That’s odd.

“Hi Mom! What’s up?” I answered, worriedly. “Hi, honey!” she replied, with forced cheeriness. “Well…I’m so sorry to wake you. But I found Charlie (her very old dog) stuck on the kitchen floor, and I was trying to help him stand because his back legs gave out.” Then I heard a pause. She continued, “And…well, then I tripped over him, and I fell and…I bumped my head. On the floor. And well, I just didn’t know what to do.”

I stood up mechanically and started to form a mental checklist to figure out the priority of the situation: mother = fell and hit head; elderly dog = stuck on kitchen floor.

“Oh no! Never be sorry – I’m so glad you called!” I said, trying to alleviate her worry. My husband started to ask me questions as he listened to my half of the conversation. “Ask her if she is bleeding,” he whispered. I nodded enthusiastically, grateful that his rational thinking was chiming in. “Mom? Are you bleeding?” She replied that she wasn’t. Then he said, “Ask her if she is dizzy; is her vision blurry?” I relayed the questions and was relieved that her answers seemed to be okay. Then I heard him whisper, “Does she sound confused?” and I whispered back, “No, she sounds good. Clear-headed.” Then I heard her say, nervously, “But Charlie is still stuck on the floor. He can’t get up.”

Then my husband said, “I’ll take care of the girls and get them ready for school. You should go over there and check her out. It’s early. The kids are still sleeping.” So I said, “Mom, I’m on my way!” and hung up the phone.

I darted into my car and began the 5-minute leg to her house. Funny how at this hour it seemed to take forever as I drove through the pitch-black neighborhoods. Some houses were starting to come alive as I noticed single lights turning on. Most of the town was still slumbering.

As I opened her garage door and made my way inside, I found my mom sitting in her nightgown in a kitchen chair, with an ice pack parked on her forehead. When she moved it away, I saw a bump about the size of a golf ball forming just above her eyebrow. Her eyelid was just starting to turn a pale shade of blue. I turned to see Charlie, her 13 year-old Shetland sheepdog, staring at me with interest, his back legs spread-eagle on the slippery tile floor. He was, quite literally, on his last legs. But that’s a sad story for another day.

I helped her old furry friend stand up by grabbing under his belly and raising him carefully onto a rug so his paws could get some traction. His back legs and hips are very arthritic and he had likely been laying on the floor in that condition for hours. I put him onto the carpet and watched as his legs, though wobbly, eventually began to regain strength and he slowly waddled off.

Then I turned my attention back to my mom. As I was taking stock of her head, suddenly I glanced down to see a tennis-ball-size black-and-blue bump forming on her elbow. It was bleeding. “HOLY CRAP!” I blurted out, as we both looked at it at the same time. “Yikes,” she said. “That doesn’t look good.”

I whipped out my iPhone and texted a photo of both her forehead and elbow to my husband. He called a minute later and said I should bring her to Urgent Care. “But it doesn’t open until 7,” I explained, noticing that it was only 6 a.m. “Can she move it?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “Well then that’s a good sign that maybe it isn’t broken. Why don’t you just bring her back home with you, you can get dressed and bring her in at 7 a.m.” Yeah, that made sense, I thought. Glad one of us was thinking straight.

I helped her to my car and we began the drive back to my house. I put on the classical music station, since I knew it was her favorite. Then it dawned on me. Today is April 10th! I looked over at her and said, “Hey Mom! Happy Anniversary!” She smiled tiredly and said, “Thanks, honey. What a way to start the day!”

Today is my parent’s 62nd anniversary. I had arranged with the staff at my dad’s nursing home (where he does his slow-dance with Alzheimer’s,) for them to have a private romantic lunch – complete in their own dining room – for later in the day when my mom planned on visiting my dad. There would even be balloons. “Well, we’ll have to plan your special lunch later in the week when you’re feeling better,” I reassured her. She smiled and looked out the car window. I made a mental note to call to postpone the lunch.

As we drove back to my house, I left my mom parked in the passenger side of my car, promising I’d be back to bring her to the hospital in a few minutes, after I made myself presentable and checked on the kids.

Once inside, I sprang into Mommy-mode, searching for the girls to make sure their school routine was still on track. They had just gotten up and were still in their zombie-trance while sitting at the kitchen table nibbling their breakfasts. I glanced at my watch and hurried my oldest along so we could make the bus in time.

Then my husband who works at the hospital, breezed into the room while absently, yet magically, tying his tie. “Why don’t I just bring your mom in with me on my way to work? That way you can get (daughter #1) on the bus and then you can join her.” Ahhh. Now THAT’s why I married him! Perfect solution. Daughter #2 who was in preschool, would get the day off and hang with me.

As the bus pulled away, I piled my youngest daughter into the car and we made our way to the Urgent Care center. Inside, I found my mom’s room and saw her laying on a stretcher, in her ultra-fashionable hospital “jonnie,” with my husband at her side. He leaned in to tell me, “She’s been crying.” and then off he went to see his 7:30 patient. He kissed me on the cheek, and disappeared out the door.

My heart melted when I saw my mom laying there. The familiar role-reversal I had felt with my dad had suddenly crept into the room as suddenly she seemed childlike to me. Her eyes glistened with tears. I went over and hugged her. “Why are you crying?” I softly asked. She swallowed hard and then whispered, “I guess because it just hit me what happened. It kinda shakes you up a bit.”

The doctor came in and examined her. I saw her wince in pain as he poked and prodded. A fall at any age can make someone sore; for someone in their 80’s, it takes on even greater severity. I bit my lip, much like I do when my daughters have to get a shot. By the time he got to her elbow, it had swelled up even more and he checked the site and saw that her skin was badly torn. “I can’t stitch it because the skin is so thin there. I’ll have to put some Steri-strips on it,” he said.

I noticed her right eye was now a lovely shade of lavender. “You see that color on her eye, doctor?” I said straight-faced, “You can’t even FIND that color eyeshadow in stores these days!” He stopped his robotic routine, looked at me and then laughed. I liked him already.

He ordered a CT scan of her head, as well as an x-ray of her elbow and her hip that was sore.

Please, God, don’t let anything be broken.

Daughter #2 and I settled in for a long wait. We told jokes. We traded silly bands. We thumb-wrestled while my mom was wheeled in and out for tests.

I texted pics and updates to my six siblings. I tried to sort out all the medical terminology so I could sound slightly informed when reporting the latest.

All the tests came out fine. No fractures. No broken hips. No serious injury. She was just badly bruised. She will likely be sore for a good number of days. Luckily, it turned out to be just a scare. Thank God. The nurse bandaged her up with lots of gauze. “Look, Josie!” I said, “My mommy’s becoming a Mummy!” She let out a belly laugh. Our spirits began to lift.

I helped her get dressed and tried to pry my phone out of the chubby little hands of my 5 year-old. “You know mom,” she said. “I really deserve a sticker for being such a good girl.” She was right. She was a trooper. It’s Sticker Time!

We made our way out to my car and off we went! Then it occurred to me that we would be driving past my dad’s nursing home on the way back. “What do you think, Mom?” I asked. “Are you up for a quick visit with dad? You have to see him on your anniversary!” She smiled. “That would be nice.” she replied.

I called from the car to ask an aide to bring my dad down to the lobby since our visit would be a brief one. They wheeled him down (he uses a wheelchair when he needs to go long distances) and into the room where we were sitting. He took one look at my mom and lit up as he always did. “My DARLING!” he gushed. She walked over to him and bent in closely. They kissed sweetly.

“Guess what today is?” she asked him. “What?” he said, eagerly. “Today is our ANNIVERSARY!” she beamed. His mouth opened wide. “Really?!? How many years?” he asked. She answered, “62!” He looked at her and said, “WOW! Happy Anniversary, my darling!” and kissed her hand.

They sat together for a while. They held hands. They smiled at one another. They didn’t even have to talk. Suddenly, whatever worry or concern – or bruise – life handed them, seemed to melt away. I just stood back and watched them, grateful that I could share the moment with them.

With both parents safe and sound, and as I prepared to re-enter my world, it occurred to me that I would not soon forget the events of this day. It began in the dark hours with confusion, panic and worry. But as the day evolved, it morphed into something beautiful.

As my friend Kristen reminded me just this afternoon, there is a gift in all we experience. Even the difficult times. As I stood in the same room with my parents today, everything dwarfed in comparison to the love they shared. When they are together, there is no such thing as Alzheimer’s. Or injury. Or even old age. All the bad stuff just evaporates.

There is just love.

And it still burns bright, 62 years later.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Once, every so often, it happens.

I get my Dad back.

As time marches on and my dad continues to do his slow-dance with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia, the window of time between his “good days,” and his “not-so-good days” begins to slowly close.

For a while there, it seemed like we were spoiled and the dad I used to know would always seem to eventually come out from hiding. We saw traces of The Charmer; The Corny Joke-Teller; The Flatterer, who loves to compliment a passerby or insert a humorous quip to the simple reward of hearing a stranger’s laugh.

But for the last year or so, my dad seemed to be vanishing. It was as if someone put a veil over him. Everything started to get cloudy. Due to illness and the resulting weakness and inactivity, we have come to accept that Alzheimer’s had been slowly winning; robbing us of this man we loved. And we watched helplessly as the essence of my dad began to spend more and more time in the shadows.

But, through reasons that defy explanation, every great once in a while, something incredible happens.

I dropped off my daughter at school and then drove the familiar side-street route to The Inn (my dad’s term for his nursing home.) As I entered this “second home” of mine, I walked through the automatic doors and was warmly welcomed by the staff who greeted me by name. One of my dad’s physical therapists who was pushing another resident in a wheelchair spotted me and said, “I just worked with your dad. He went back upstairs for breakfast.” I nodded gratefully, and stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor.

As the doors opened, I immediately spotted my dad sitting in the dining area at a table with some other men – his table companions – and observed him devouring a bowl of Raisin Bran. In front of him, I spotted an empty plate containing the remnants of some scrambled eggs. “Good. He’s got an appetite today!” I thought to myself.

I walked over to him and he looked up at me. A big, bright smile crept over his face and he exclaimed, “DARLING! I’m SO happy to SEE you!”

(Now, I could easily blame the dementia when my dad reacts as if he hasn’t seen me for 5 years instead of just the day before, but truth be told, all my life he has greeted me and my siblings like that. He has always had a way of making you feel like a Rock Star.)

But today, he seemed different. I could tell almost immediately. There was a familiar “spark” that had found his blue eyes again. He was actually looking at me, instead of through me.

My dad was back.

“Dad?” I said with slight disbelief. “How’s it going?” He smiled and said, “Oh, honey, I’m doing JUST great! I had a great night’s sleep and then I had my exercise downstairs in the gym and I feel SO good today!” I smiled at him as he took my hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it – his signature greeting. “That’s great, Dad! You seem like your old self today!” I said with pride. Then he introduced me to his table companions, “This is my YOUNGEST daughter! She visits me almost every day!” I smiled politely at the men who nodded at me.

I knew then that I had been given a great gift. The gift of a clear day.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. I quickly called my mom. When she answered I said, “Mom! You won’t believe it! He’s BACK!” I could tell she knew by my voice what I meant. “It’s like it’s 20 years ago!” I heard her voice excitedly whisper into the phone, “Really?!”

As I sat there with him at his table, I took the brush out of my purse and combed his hair. “There! THAT looks better!” I told him, pleased with how much neater his hair looked.  I spotted him looking at me intently. I hadn’t seen him do that in a while and it actually caught me a little off guard. “Teresa?” he said. “Yeah, dad?” I answered, looking away and plucking some invisible lint off my leg. Then he said, “Please look at me.” I felt a lump form in my throat. I looked up at him. He fixed his eyes directly on mine and said, “Do you have any idea just how much I love you?” I tried hard to keep my composure. I coughed. A minute went by. Then I said, “Yes, dad, I do.”

The moment passed. We sat there for a half-hour more. There was so much I wanted to tell him during this magical moment of clarity. I told him about my girls – how they have blossomed into these amazing creatures; what they were accomplishing in school. (Even though he sees them regularly, I felt I had a great opportunity to reach him with the mundane details he so often misses.) We talked about my mom and he once again professed his deep-rooted love for her and how he longs to be with her all throughout the day. The only drawback to these moments of lucidity is the realization that he is living apart from his family. We’ve learned to navigate these twists and turns. “Don’t worry, dad. She’ll be here soon,” I promised. He nodded and I knew he understood.

As time passed, I glanced at my watch. “Don’t tell me you have to go,” he said, eyes growing worried. “I’m sorry, dad. But I have to pick up Josie from school,” I explained. I picked up my purse and fiddled inside for my car keys that were lost somewhere in the black hole of my belongings. I stood up and prepared to say my familiar goodbye. I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, promising him I’d be back tomorrow.

As I walked toward the elevator, I turned and glanced back at him, and saw he was watching me; a smile on his face.

I’m not naive. I know that tomorrow is likely a different kind of day. Chances are he’ll be back to the way he was; happily confused. I know it is likely that this day won’t be repeated again for some time.

But that’s okay.

Today was a day to celebrate.

A day to say a prayer of thanks to God, for giving me my dad back…even if it is for just a day.

I’ve really missed him.