Minutes disappear. Hours melt into days. Weeks and months become unrecognizable. Whatever the current year is – in a life previously filled with work, family, church, and hobbies – it isn’t relevant anymore. No time, or date, is vital to my dad’s day-to-day life now.
He has dementia. As you may know from previous posts, this condition is his reality.
What’s important to him are multiple calls, every day, to me from the activity room phone. “Just me. Calling to see if anything is going on today. Ok.”, he says then hangs up. Usually this is the message on voicemail. I can’t pick up a majority of the time due to my schedule. Thankfully, this message comes in on the other end of a redial button. I have my doubts dad would have recall to pull out a ten-digit cell number from his shrinking brain.
I am grateful for these messages. So thankful. Even though they overload my queue, when deleting messages, I always keep his last message. Always. One never knows what dozen, or so, words will be his last.
Returning a call is difficult. The facility number rings not only to that hand-held, but also to other phones as well. Besides, even if I call back immediately, his mind would have him take a u-turn back towards the dining hall, or back a hallway within seconds from hanging up. No matter, it’s good.
Always good to hear his voice. Only a matter of a day or so before I get in to see him. My minutes and hours are noticeable and very regulated by a tight schedule – one shared within a few seconds after dad sees me enter his room.
“OH, hey! Nice to see you…”, as his eyes light up , posture straightens, and arms immediately move toward lacing a worn pair of sneakers. “You want to go somewhere? What have you been up to?”
“Hey, dad”, .. as I scan the room for anything out of place … any irregularities from a man who is very, very meticulous about his pens, hats, chapstick, clothes, belt clip, and toiletries. “I’ve been getting your messages. Sorry I haven’t been available to answer.”
“I’m sure I’ve called you. Just don’t know how many times. Was it today at all? Where are we going?”,
By this time, those worn sneakers on his feet need a destination. So, a walk from his room down a long, ornate hallway begins as does a wonderful conversation between a father and son. Details about my work. The experiences in my daily wheres and whens have to be passed to him. He enjoys hearing of my successes and failures. My ups and downs. I know these don’t process in a normal way, however, he connects to me. To my experience, my life, as he needs to during the three minutes we walk in that hallway.
Finally ending in an entrance/exit, we depart. Final destination: somewhere. Could be a dollar store, hobby shop of my choosing, quick lunch, or simple walk through a grocery store for ginger ale and cookies. Wherever we go, my goal is his experience. His glance at new faces, new places. Fresh air and sunshine. Minutes, possibly an hour, or two, away from his norm to shake off a few old days and put new ideas into a brain stressed with anxiety, stress, and confusion.
“Stop sign sentences”, as I like to call them, are so enjoyable. Every jaunt around town, the same one is repeated each time. Meaning, when one is started as we leave his facility, it is often repeated at most of the stop signs. Usually in the form of a question answered once – yet asked again, … and again .. and again, I find myself challenged to answer differently. It’s a puzzle to be solved for me. For dad, just another intersection in his brain where logic and memory take a left turn.
These short trips always come to an end. Confusion usually follows our return, unfortunately. Life, for dad, is simple yet complicated. No responsibility. Everything is looked after.
Complicated in the worst way possible because nothing makes sense … and he kinda knows it still.
The phone messages are so nice for me to hear, yet I know he is struggling with what to say. He is trying to stay connected. I love this. Like before, I always want this and don’t want it to stop.
“It’s just me.” will be silent some day, however. This is the nature of dementia.
It’s my nature to keep up with what he needs as best I can. In as much as he needs connected to me, I need this from him. As to me … “Just me”?… I need him to add value to my life – to still be interested in what I am doing even if it’s only for a few fleeting seconds. That connection is so important.
… and I’m perfectly fine with both of us staying in touch with each other the best way we know how.
He can push redial as many times as he wants. Yes, it will go to voicemail most likely. At least it’ll be a few more seconds I can save in the archives for a later time…
… when the phone stops ringing and a very important voice in my life is silenced by a disease nobody should ever have to endure.
DougHugs 