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

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.

What a difference a week makes.

The other day, as I made my way down the hall to my dad’s room at The Inn (my dad’s term for his nursing home), I was greeted by one of his nurses who I’ve become quite friendly with. (One of the perks of having a family member who has been a resident for several years is that many of his caregivers have become like extended family.)

This particular nurse is a pal. When she saw me walk towards my dad’s room, she smiled brightly at me and said, “Guess what? He’s doing GREAT!” She then reported that much of his flu-like illness had resolved and he was feeling much better. His fever was gone. His appetite had bounced back. Vitals were all good. I thanked her and breathed a sigh of relief. Buoyed by the good news, I made my way toward his room.

The lights were off and I found him lying down in his bed. When he heard me walk in, he propped open his eyes in surprise. Then I heard his familiar booming voice exclaim, “Well, HONEY! What a surprise! I’m so glad to see you!” He struggled to sit up on his own. “Hi, Dad! You look like you’re feeling better!” I said. He nodded and said, “Oh, YES! I’m feeling much better!”

I walked over to him and offered my hand to help him sit up a bit, and instead he grabbed it, brought it up to his lips and gave it his signature kiss. “You look just beautiful, today!” he proclaimed, beaming at me. At that moment, one of his aides breezed into the room to drop something off. As she turned around to leave, he stopped her and said proudly, “Do you know my youngest daughter? She’s #7! Isn’t she a beauty?” The aide who has known me for over 5 years, nodded and smiled patiently, then said, “Oh yes, Ed. I know your daughter very well!” She and I exchanged good-natured eye-rolls and she walked out.

Great to have you back, Dad.

Next month my dad turns 88. He once told me, “I’m not old, I’m chronologically gifted.” Well, anyone who is “chronologically gifted” combined with a rather complicated health history can sometimes be rendered incapacitated by a brief illness. Add to that the challenge of Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia, and one shouldn’t be surprised to see a period of decline. We are fortunate he has started the slow process of bouncing back after a few weeks under the weather.

I know better than to count him out just yet. It wouldn’t be the first time he pulled a fast one on us.

Six years ago, when my siblings and I made the heart-wrenching decision to bring him to The Inn, we struggled with the idea that we were “putting him out to pasture.” But he had become too ill for my mother to continue to care for him. Like many spouses who desperately try to manage the care of a partner when they become ill, my mother put my father’s health needs before her own. She became very ill as a consequence, requiring temporary hospitalization. It was then that we realized we had to step in and find a long-term solution when we discovered how my dad’s memory impairment and physical problems required around-the-clock care. My mother hadn’t wanted to alarm us, and so she had been caring for him quietly and with dignity, as best as she could. But the time had come.

When we brought him to The Inn, it was the hardest day of my life. I couldn’t do it. My oldest sister, a nurse, bravely took him over while I spent most of the day wracked with guilt and feeling like I was in mourning.

But when he arrived at The Inn, he began to thrive. He started to exercise and participate in group activities. Being around people reinvigorated him. His memory even improved. He regained his love of woodworking through taking classes and even authored a column in The Inn’s newsletter entitled, “Ed’s Famous Last Words,” where he would interview residents and staff on various topics he chose.

(The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.)

As my dad rebounds from this illness, he has an incredible army of aides and physical therapists by his side whose main responsibility is to help residents reclaim and maintain their independence. The only problem now seems to be that he has gotten way too used to his shiny new companion: his wheelchair.

In fact, I do believe he’s smitten!

No longer does he have to labor with trying to navigate his walker, which exerts great energy and exhausts him fairly easily. The wheelchair makes his life very easy. Too easy.

We want that thing GONE. 

The other day when I was with him, he rhapsodized about how great his wheelchair was. It was as if he were talking about a new lover. “It’s just so convenient!” he told me. “I just get pushed wherever I need to go. It’s really great!”

Delicately, I said, “That’s nice, dad, but you know the wheelchair is just temporary. We really want you to go back to your walker when you get your strength back.”

He looked at me with confusion. “Why would I want to do THAT?” I went on to explain that the more he sits in a wheelchair, the more deconditioned he becomes. I went into great detail about how important it is to remain active and “upright.” His walker gives him much-needed exercise. It keeps him young! (Throwing him a bone about retaining his youth is always a crowd-pleaser!)

He thought about it for a minute, nodded and then said, “But it’s really great! I get pushed wherever I want to go!”

This may be harder than I thought.

Well, what can I say? My dad always did have a knack for finding the shortcut.

But then again, he’s “chronologically gifted.”

So for now, that’s how he rolls.

My dad has fallen ill the last few weeks. He has developed a flu-like illness that has depleted much of his energy and drained his typical charm and charisma. It’s not unusual this time of year in nursing homes. Lots of bugs go around and it’s something we’ve learned to navigate around. ‘Tis the season. Like everything else, you just adjust. And you wash your hands.

A lot.

When I have visited him this week, I have found him listless and in bed with a new companion by his side. A wheelchair. He has been too unsteady to stand, so for his own safety, he has been transported here and there with these new wheels. I noticed his walker was folded and leaning against a wall in the background. Times seem to be changing.

His typical bright greeting to me has been replaced with a groggy and sleep-filled smile. My attempts at breaking out in cheerleader-mode to get him out of bed, (“Hey, DAD! Let’s get up and go for a walk!”) have been met with heavy sighs and “Oh, honey, not today.”

I really shouldn’t complain. My dad turns 88 next month so I guess I should give the guy a break. I would be knocked out, too, if the flu came calling at that age. But easier said than done.

I’ve spent a lot of time at The Inn (his term for his nursing home) lately because I’ve got my eye on him. I know that at his age and debilitated condition, a simple flu-like illness can wreak unexpected havoc. People his age don’t bounce back so easily. So I’ve been creeping around, hanging out with his nurses and aides (who I’ve come to know and have become quite friendly with) and hovering around The Inn as I negotiate visits inbetween carpool pick-ups and kid playdates. 

We’ve dutifully added the “God bless, Grandpa” phrase to our nightly prayers and I’ve been emailing my six brothers and sisters – several who live in the midwest – to give them updates and funny anecdotes, so they can feel part of the process, even though we all know they sometimes feel helplessly out of the loop when my dad becomes ill.

I’ve tried to be a good daughter, fun-loving mother, engaging wife, and available friend, but truth be told, when an illness or problem strikes with a parent, things can get a little topsy-turvey. I try to figure out where I am needed most and race there accordingly. It’s a juggling act that I am sure is not unique to my family. It can be stressful, but I do not like pity parties, so I will not be inviting myself to this one.

But surprisingly, this story doesn’t belong to my dad. Not today. For I’ve discovered there is a power-player far more important right now. This person remains largely in the background, yet wields great strength and influence.

This person has been my father’s companion, best friend, partner in crime, caregiver, and steadfast supporter for the last 62 years. It is my mother that I tip my hat to for her bravery and unwavering love for my dad.

For the last 6 years since my dad has been at The Inn (where he struggles with the slow-motion thief that they call Alzheimer’s,) my mother has quietly and without fanfare, visited him almost daily. She often joins him for their lunch date in the Inn’s “restaurant” (dining room) and walks with him afterward upstairs to the third floor when his afternoon nap calls his name.

My mother lives in town, a short 5 minutes from The Inn, in a single-story home directly behind her church. She patiently answers her phone when my dad calls her repeatedly, asking when she will be coming over to visit. When I have been at her house and the phone rings, I hear her cheerfully answer the phone as if it is the first time she heard his voice that day, instead of the seventh.

Now, that’s love.

A few weeks ago, I popped over to visit my dad after lunch and found my mother in his room “tucking him in” for his afternoon siesta. I don’t know why, but I stood there in the doorway for a while without letting her know I was there. I just stood and watched.

I saw my mother lovingly and gracefully pull his covers up around his neck as he lay motionless in bed. She smiled sweetly as he began to softly snore. I watched her pat his shoulder gently and stand there staring at him, satisfied that he was safely launched into sleep-ville. It wasn’t unlike a mother checking on her child. It was pure sweetness.

With my dad’s present illness, my mother was discouraged from visiting him for a few days so that she didn’t  get sick herself. She complied, though it was hard for her. I kept up my daily visits so he wouldn’t get lonely and every day he would ask me where she was and why she wasn’t visiting him anymore. When I explained it was because he had been sick, he couldn’t understand. He’d think about it and then say, “But she always comes to see me every day.” I replied reassuringly, “Maybe she’ll come tomorrow, Dad.” He’d nod and drift away.

After 5 or so days, I could see that both my parents were really missing each other. I spoke with my dad’s nurse who mentioned that perhaps they could visit in a “common area” like in the living area downstairs in the lobby. It was a large, ventilated area that would be much safer than her spending her visit up on a closed floor.

So I called my mother and told her she could come over that day to see him. I decided not to tell my dad. I thought it would be a nice surprise.

Yesterday was the day. I went to see my dad right after I dropped my daughter off at school. He had just finished breakfast. I wheeled him over to the couch in the lobby and pulled up a chair next to him. The first thing he said to me was, “Have you heard from your mother?” I said, “Yes, dad. I talked to her a little while ago. I’m sure she’ll visit you soon.” He looked at me pensively and said, “I sure hope so. She used to visit me every day. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like myself when she’s away.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to chase away the tears welling in my eyes.

15 minutes later, I glanced out the window to see my mom’s 2001 white Honda Accord slowly creep into the parking lot. I watched as she took her walker out of her car and moved slowly to the main entrance.

A few steps later and she was inside The Inn. I met her at the door and gestured to where my dad was sitting in the next room over. She walked right over to him and stood in front of him. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up with the widest and most joyful smile. “My DARLING!” he shouted exuberantly. They embraced slowly. She straightened his collar and sat down in the chair across from him. I watched as an immediate look of peace washed over his face.

All was well again.

I remember thinking, in that moment, how incredibly lucky I am. The greatest gift my parents ever gave me is the love they have for one another. My mother loves my father unflinchingly. She is like a silent warrior, forever in the background, yet always available at a moment’s notice. 

No matter who her husband becomes as he is molded and shaped by memory loss and occasional illness, she is there. She loves him without fail.

It is the greatest love story I’ve ever known.

A gift from God.

I am grateful.

I dropped off my daughter at preschool this morning and darted over to pick up my dad to take him to the barber. His slow-dance with Alzheimer’s has progressed to the point that when he now leaves the familiar surroundings of “The Inn,” (his term for the nursing home where he hangs his hat) he is filled with a bit of apprehension and anxiety.

No big deal – you just adjust. Today, this adjustment took the form of giving him lots of encouragement and coaching as we walked arm and arm into the barber shop. “You’re doing great, Dad,” I said. “Just a few more steps.”

Once inside, I saw that there were a few men of varying ages ahead of us, waiting for their turn. Their heads were bent down, enthralled with their iPads and phones. I helped my dad find his chair and folded his walker and stored it against the wall. Then, as is so typical with my dad, he soon took stock of the people sitting in the room. I saw his anxiety lift and he perked right up, anxious to make their acquaintance. That familiar spark found his eye as he began to informally chat with one, then two of them, pulling them out of their private electronic cocoons.

Out came his humorous quips and one-liners – things that Alzheimer’s has yet to steal. I watched as slow smiles crept upon the men’s lips. Before I knew it, he had these three men talking and laughing.

After a little while, my dad leaned over to me and whispered, “Honey, can you tell me again, how old I am?”

I whispered back, “Almost 88, Dad.”

I saw him think about it for a minute and then he said to his new friends, “And I don’t like to brag, but I’m almost 88 and the pretty girls STILL whistle!” I looked at their laughing faces. Then I looked over at my dad and felt his pride at being able to still earn the admiration of strangers.

But then again, thanks to my dad, they weren’t really strangers anymore.

(January 5, 2011)

I dropped off my girls at school and then went to visit my dad today. He lives in town, about 10 minutes away from me, and a quick 5 minutes from my mom’s house. He lives at the “The Inn” which is his name for the nursing home he calls home. It’s where he’s hung his hat for the last 5 or so years as he continues to do his slow dance with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia. He’s a month shy of his 87th birthday but has been doing great while battling a host of other medical issues common among “distinguished gentlemen.” He gets around pretty well with his walker – his “trusted steel companion” that steadies him when he stands, and is always by his side.

Living at “The Inn” has prolonged the quality of his life. For so many people, when they make the difficult decision to transition a family member to a place like that, it often signals the end of the road. But for my dad, it became a place that reinvigorated him. The main reason is that it brought him back to the one thing that time and again, has given him the most joy in his life: being around people.  My dad has been in Sales his whole life. What’s that expression? “He could sell ice to an Eskimo.” That’s my dad. He is the kind of man who can get anyone to divulge their entire life’s story within the course of talking to them for 5 minutes. He has always had a natural curiosity for people – where they are from, what makes them tick, and especially, how to flatter them. And oh, how he flatters! To this day, a nurse will walk by and he’ll say, “Hey Paula, you are looking exceptionally beautiful today!” But he’s done this all my life. During my childhood, if we went out to a restaurant, at the end when the the waitress would bring the check and ask how everything was, he’d steal a quick look at her name badge and blurt out, “Carla, the food was ALMOST as good as the service!” The waitress would inevitably blush and laugh demurely, while my siblings and I would do the obligatory eye-roll to each other. “Dad! You’re SO embarrassing!” He’d just smile, pleased with himself at having created another happy customer.

For the last month or so, our family has noticed a slight change in my dad. I prefer the word “change” over the word “decline.” Somehow that makes it easier to swallow. The morning I visited him at 8:30 a.m., I found him still in bed (this from a man who religiously rises at 6 a.m. or earlier to greet the day.)  I walked in, smiled brightly and exclaimed, “Hey DAD!”  He opened his eyes and his face lit up in a smile. “Well, HI!” he said enthusiastically. Then he looked at me carefully. “Who are you?” My heart leapt into my throat. But instead, I laughed heartily, “Oh Dad! YOU know who I am, silly!” I leaned in closer as he rubbed his eyes. Then he laughed along with me, perhaps to cover his embarrassment. “Oh yes!!! I knew THAT!” he said. He tried to straighten himself up in bed while I coughed loudly to scare away the tears that started to well in my eyes. After a minute, he did know who I was. It all came back to him. That’s how it is these days. Especially right after waking up. It’s just a new reality. A few minutes later and after he snapped-to a bit, there we were, father and daughter again. Except now, my dad simply needed a daughter’s help to get out of bed. I helped him get settled with his breakfast, while flashing back to an hour earlier when I did the same thing for my 4 year-old as we raced against the clock to get to school. Then it hit me how remarkable it is that I am living in such seemingly different worlds, and how strikingly similar they’ve become.  Parenthood takes many forms.

After a while, I looked at my watch. It was almost time to go pick up the girls at school. I grabbed my purse and blew him a kiss. As I started to leave he took my hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it gently, as he has done a million times before. “I love you. Have I ever told you that?” “Only about a thousand times, Dad,” I said with the instinctive obligatory eye roll.  As I left his room, a nurse breezed in to take his blood pressure. As I walked away down the hall I heard my dad’s distinctive voice say to her, “Amy, you are looking even more beautiful today than you did yesterday!” I smiled. After all, he’s still my dad.