A few days since writing about dad. Not bad considering dad’s struggle with dementia. Life, for both of us, has been predictable. His life’s schedule pretty much the same: three squares a day, two daily activities, a nap here-and-there, etc … my hours filled with concession events, music obligations, planning and follow-ups.
This week has offered the two of us three opportunities to go to doctor’s appointments. Fortunately, these give a dad and son minutes to get caught up. Whether it be a PCP, dermatologist, or cardiologist, .. quality time is quality time.
“Quality” defined as simple conversation. It’s dad asking why we are at a particular place – seeing a certain person – for a specific reason … then forgetting why we’re there five minutes later. Additionally, he’s always concerned about my well-being. Am I doing well? Have I been busy? I’m happily conflicted wondering if he is connecting the dots in my life, or just asks because it’s in his fatherly DNA.
Such is the nature of dementia. As I’ve written before, none of us know what’s processing inside the mind of someone who lives with this disease.
I am merrily mindful, however, that he leaves voicemail messages when I can’t answer my phone.
I don’t have enough space to save all his voicemail messages, so keeping only the most recent one is my habit. Always having his “potential” last one will never leave my side. (I still have my mom’s last recorded message from over fourteen years ago). His available lexicon is still unique enough to vary the eleven seconds I hear nearly every day.
This morning was: “Hey, it’s Dad. Just seeing if there’s anything going on that concerns me. Guess we’ll go with that.” … and so began and ended the call.
With a little phone rustle on either end, this is standard. No extra fluff. To the point. I’ll gladly receive these calls every day … and, sometimes, two/three times in the span of twenty-four hours from this phone:
Always around eleven seconds. Always different words.
“That” means something on this specific phone call. Just what (?), I’m not sure. Could be the current waiting room situation we find ourselves in right now? This is the second of three this week with the last tomorrow morning. He’s had a situation needing addressed we’ve waited for an appointment. Finally, today, it is being followed-up on. Don’t believe he knew, or remembered, this morning when his message arrived during the early dew-laden hours.
At least I don’t believe so? Picking him up an hour ago, the usual smile with anticipation greeted me at his door. “Hey, what’s up?”, softly came across a warm, paternal portal. “You have another appointment, so how about we grab your favorite hat there and, probably, that warm jacket because it’s a fall day out”.
“Ok. Whatever you say”.
After missing the turn-off fifteen minutes later, we arrived here at his destination. “That” has been accomplished. ✔️ As far as I know, he’ll go with it so far.
… and continue to in the future because he trusts my judgement. My decisions with regard to his care are never questioned.
Trust is embedded in his “that”. He’ll, instinctively, go with it. Our relationship is built on trust. It’s a bridge built over (early on) tumultuous waters he and I were able to calm down together over the past decade.
This has been the small miracle embedded in his dementia diagnosis. The “gentile peace” both of us are experiencing continues to grow from the fertile demented ground. A trust blanket keeping our relationship warm month by month, year over year.
I trust – as long as he is able – a community room phone will continue to call out. He trusts enough to say the words, “We’ll go with… ” yes, ” … that”, to me regardless if it’s a scoop of his vanilla ice cream drizzled with hot fudge, or another medical appointment.
To him – at the end of his routine day – it’s quality time with me.
I’ll take “that” anytime, any day of the week.
