Razor Thin

One issue stuffed in a crisis envelope. This stressed, mental note has been finding its destination in my voicemail recently. More than three times these past two weeks, my dad has been calling about this one recurring problem.

I am happy to hear his voice. It doesn’t matter to me what the issues are. Most times, one particular problem occupies his mind – and we address it together when I can. This time, however, a challenge has him on edge more than normal.

And we haven’t solved it as of this post.

His electric razor has walked away. Gone the way of bladed glory, as it were. Apparently, it couldn’t be shaved from imminent banishment.

Multiple messages. I feel his pain when he calls. What’s he supposed to do? Limited capacity all-around is his world now. These little inconveniences to us are big deals to him. His life is, quite literally, razor thin. One small detail out of place – for a man who lived his life in control of everything and was extremely organized – is so alarming and frustrating.

I get it. This is why I do everything I can do to meet him where he is in his world. He says, “I can pay for a new razor”, I say, “Sounds good to me. We can go get one when I’m free. It will be soon, dad.”.. “I don’t know what happened to my razor. It’s missing..”. “I know, dad. Thanks for letting me know. We’ll solve this together.”

These are the few times I’ve been able to answer my phone. Most times: rinse and repeat – just without a response.

Did get an hour to go out for lunch yesterday with him. I could tell he was a bit emotionally nicked up due to a blade razor shave earlier in the day. Simply not his comfort zone. A triple-head, electric razor, clean shave has no equal for him. With few pleasantries left in his early morning routine, dad should have an enjoyable four-score+ facade trim. He deserves at least that.

We will, probably, never know to where the elusive Braun ran off. It’s conceivable there was a charger conspiracy in the facility. Probably they needed an outlet for their frustrations and took the razors hostage. We’ll await their demands.

In the meantime, Dad’s on edge, for sure. He and I will fix this. One mental note will be answered with a few kind words, some dad and son time at Best Buy with another lunch to follow, and a less-stressed father returning to a happier state of mind.

For now.

This is dementia. A world most of us don’t understand. If we are in the throws of it ourselves, we won’t understand it then, either. What a freakin’ mess.

It’s a mess I don’t mind cleaning up every time dad needs me. In person, or through a phone call, we mop up the problems one at a time … together.

If this is what what it takes to navigate his razor thin lines, I’ll help him. Every, Single, Triple-Headed crisis at a time.

Bob

The Dream restaurant in Hollidaysburg, Pa. will be the same going forward, but not really. Their turkey dinner, meatloaf, and lemon pepper chicken – along with all the other fine meals offered daily – will continue to fulfill everyone’s hungry expectations. Breakfast on Mondays with “my crew”, most certainly, can continue – albeit with just a little less sparkle for some time. The shine has gone away in the kitchen. At least for these few weeks of mourning, there’s less humor around the grill.

Bob isn’t there.

Early this past Monday, Bob left us. It was sudden and unexpected. He was a steady mainstay in the kitchen at The Dream. A “forty-two years” mainstay covering a very long culinary career beginning after high school.

In addition to his job there, he was well known – and liked – around our community. To those who knew him, a friendly smile always greeted them along with a humorous quip, or two.

I never knew Bob to be down, sad, or really upset about any particular situation he faced. We often found ourselves on the wrong side of an occasional lottery ticket and commented to each other, “Well, that’s that … again, huh?” … realizing the odds were always against us.

The news of his death came only hours after his shift began early this past Monday morning. Shocking, of course.

Very surprising, yet I could look back and be glad I knew him.

Most of us can memorialize the life of a family member, or friend, who isn’t with us anymore. I can, undoubtedly, be glad my life’s path crossed over Bob’s multiple times. I didn’t consider him a close friend, but someone with whom I never passed up an opportunity to have a pleasant conversation.

I’m glad to have known Bob. Just as I was, of course, certainly glad to have known and loved my mom who passed away years ago. As well, very happy to have known so many who have gone ahead of me. Very sure you’ve been here & there before? Loved ones and friends here … and now gone.

Death isn’t the end of these relationships. It’s not a religious thing – unless one wants it to be, I suppose. More like compartments of memories staying alive and thriving throughout our lives now. Those who have been here, who have made impressions and, possibly, big impressions in our lives can’t go really go away. They are here for us … and with us.

I often say the morning mom died was the best day of my life. She and I were close. Musically, and personally, we had the same interests and personalities. I relied on her to tell me everything was going to be OK, regardless of the situation. The morning I left her bedside when she passed – the realization that crutch, the assurance of “not” having to face a problem, was gone.

As a middle-aged man, this was a wake-up call. It was the best thing to happen to me. The best day of my life. The best gift mom ever could have given me. Yes, cancer sucks, but it didn’t win that early March morning. Mom finally got eternal relief and I received a life-long gift.

My relationship with her certainly hasn’t stopped. Every time I see a problem overcome, or a situation solved, I thank her.

When a small opportunity to laugh presents itself, a warm turkey dinner is set before me, or a (most likely) losing lottery ticket finds its way under a finger-clenched quarter, I’ll give a nod to Bob.

He won’t be forgotten. By me, other friends or family, his smile and laughter will continue. The Dream will continue forward.

He’d want it this way.

…We’ll Go With That

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.

Clearly, You See?

It was strange.

When one sees something not right – out of the ordinary, for example – it’s only right to ask, “Why?”. Whether this is silently questioned in an inquisitive mind, or asked out loud, it must be answered. Such was an encounter the other day when I casually walked into a room for a mid-day munchie. In context, a mid-morning breakroom where there happened to be a lamination machine being officially occupied by a co-worker. Just the two of us. One casually snacking on mini whoppers and another seemingly working on a whopper of a job by said machine.

“Seemingly”, may I add. Granted, knowing this person, anything is possible. Generally, one should have available something to laminate? I spied by my very eyes … nothing. Clearly, nothing. Time being of the essence, I did understand the hesitancy in her reply when I asked, “Why .. ? What are you doing? ..There’s nothing here?”.

This was question #1.

Seeing through my “possible” sarcastic nature (but, avoiding a natural, satirical response), she spoke an unadorned comeback, “Hey, I’m waiting for this machine to warm-up. Do you know what temperature it has to reach?”. I was impressed with this reply. Logical. To the point; however, it was very transparent .. she was avoiding my, “Why?”

Again. “I know the machine is warming up. What project are you laminating? I don’t see anything on the table? Why?”

This was question #2

Once the machine reached it’s desired goal five minutes later, I got my answer. Five minutes of nothing. No laminated bird pictures, artist summaries, color wheels, how-to’s of this-and that’s, forest critter drawings, or kiddo crayon doodles – nada.

A pail-full of pellucid pandering for a period of five minutes. Intriguing? Yes.

…And I lamented the lamination – which ended up being my answer. You, distinctly, read this right. Q: To repeat #2 “Why?”. A: “To Laminate a Lamination”.

Ah, but there was a follow-up. Yayoi Kusama.

If you are familiar with a bright red bob wig, then my good friend’s answer makes perfect sense. Yayoi Kusama died mid-August and she was known for her signature wig as well as a distinctive art style. Mainly, her immersion into a clear, reflective, and boundless art style. This is what I can gather from my minimal search. So, from an educational perspective, to give students clear laminate in which to explore Yayoi’s world clears things up for me.

I guess I can see-through the genius of Yayoi to walk on my good friend’s motivational (and educational) path. Looking back, if I wasn’t hungry for the whoppers, none of this would have happened.

Lesson learned. Still ALWAYS good to ask, “Why?”. Even if the first answer doesn’t make sense, remember, the second mouse always gets the cheese … and learns a lesson in the process.

As long as it doesn’t get too close to the lamination machine. That wouldn’t be good.

A Lot of Room with a View

Out past Tyrone, Pa., a few miles from Port Matilda is where I find myself. Beside rt. 55ON if headed toward State College is the Way Fruit Farm.

It’s an overcast, semi-humid car show, food truck, music festival kind-of day. A lot of room for folks to meander about, sample some excellent food (in their café as well) and enjoy a few nice days before fall invites itself in.

There’s kettle corn, craft cold tea, and BBQ within walking distance from beef dawgs/hot sausage/and angus burgers here at my cart. A wonderful jazz duo is creating musical memories for everyone while a few dozen antique cars are re-living their heydays a few yards down to my left.

At 4pm, my time ends, van and cart head out as I must be seated behind Zion’s organ at 6pm for the Saturday evening service. It’s a tight schedule with a nearly hour drive back plus unloading, clean-up, and change of clothes.

Every time I do an event up here, the field across rt. 550 – unbeknownst to it – provides me a respite. I glance across and realize how un-busy it is. Sits there, it does. An hour at southwest “hometown”, there’s not a lot I see, on the regular, providing me moments like this. I am sure one does exist. I am probably too busy to notice.

Do you ever feel a need to take time? Time to just take a moment? Or, does this come naturally? Tell ya what, not with me.

These five hours at the Way Fruit Farm, during breaks in sales, give me time to walk around the back of my van/cart. If only for a couple seconds, I am compelled to make room in my life for a few deep breaths.

Why not do this other times?… other places? Why here? Asked, answered earlier. It doesn’t come naturally. And, it’s not a learned habit.

Here, however, the field has a hypnotic effect. Simply looking across gives me a peace. Maybe because I have no control over it? I can’t work it … or change it. My marginal OCD or control issues cannot do a darn thing to alter it? I have to accept it as it is….

… and, not in any negative way, turn my back to all the busy-ness going on behind.

All this after dad called again this morning with his same issues and September life is as busy as it has ever been.

So, find your field if you don’t have one … as I make efforts to look for more in my life closer to home.

There should be more room in my life to take deep breaths. Being more open to find those opportunities – and a Way forward – will be fruitful in the long run.

For you as well, I hope.

The Hole Truth

There’s a well-worn joke I like to tell: “Why should you always have an extra pair of socks in your golf bag? In case you get a hole-in-one”.

Ok, so not bad. Not good. Just so-so?

Holes have been popping up lately in various, even homophonic, forms this week. I’ve heard, “You’re not going to eat the whole thing now, are you?”. “You know we have whole wheat wraps as well, right?”.

I actually had to physically dig a 2’x3’x3′ hole this past Wednesday followed up with a 20′ trench. The whole thing took hours of mindless spade time I could have used for a thousand other things. Digging through soil and clay isn’t on my list of pleasant pursuits. Had to be done.

What didn’t have to be done?

Two big toes of mine are sore from an owner irresponsibly smashing them on a small iron post located in a, err …, hole. Once in and once out of a door way – at our local church – this lazy, now, limper forgot that iron post marker was there to protect the location of a special hole. It’s special all right. I, simply, was in too much of a hurry “twice” 😫… to remember it was there while cutting the corner of the walkway.

Which gets me to why I need humor in my life. Or, attempted humor. Why? To offset the partially stupid things I do to upset my mental applecart at times.

“How many holes are in a straw?” This question was asked by an elementary friend recently. She posts interesting questions on a board to pique youthful interest as students arrive. There were two possible answers offered: 1 or 2.

As I usually enter early, time is on my side to ponder possible parenthetical, possible answers to any proposed problems posted. This extra time also allows for conversation with my friend who writes the questions. She and I, sometimes, have spirited discussions about most of the topics/questions/quizzes posted. The other day was a partial in-depth, ninety-second discussion concerning the dominant color on a zebra. See? Really important stuff!

So, anyway. 1 or 2 holes? …

With a few elementary kids around and, by my guess, younger teachers within ear shot, … my best response was:

“Depends on whether or not there was a turkey in it, or not?” … followed up by a little do-do- dododo-dododododododo … musical enforcement to drive the point home.

Nothing. Except one good friend who gave me the usual small head nod and little “I got that, but it was really bad” eye roll acceptance glance.

In my mind I had material and timing. Both necessary for complete success … Just not the audience. So, later at choir practice I tried it again. Material, timing, and an adult audience. Nada. Zero. Nothing.

A comedic black hole. It circled the event horizon twice and then spaghettified into the abyss where time stopped – never to be heard again.

Honestly, I thought it truly was a hole-in-one.

Oddly enough, “one”, scientifically is the correct answer to the question as confirmed by a high school student later in the day. Not only by him, but also by a donut-loving elementary student earlier.

Never mind I thought “two” – one on each end. Reason being: that hole I dug a few days ago is one hole – one entry point, not two. So, does a straw, by comparison, have only one as well. Eh?

… and with that, I will stick to what I believe to be the hole truth and nothing but the hole truth.

Perfectly OK

“Hey, it’s Dad. You should come in. There’s a guy playing the piano in about an hour. Thought you might enjoy it”

Hard for me to resist. As a pianist, this message from dad garnered my musical attention. I do get flyers from his facility noting special events and didn’t notice this, however, things change. In the midst of a stupidly busy schedule, finding time to meet dad’s needs and enjoy a pianist was hard to pass up.

I quickly loaded frozen foods into my commercial freezer, stacked rolls and buns neatly on trays in my van, organized paperwork in half-time, and waited in line at the local bank … all in enough time to arrive five minutes early. Dad was seated in his usual comfortable chair against the same wall to the right side of a wonderful grand piano. Luck would have an empty chair to his right. A casual son-hug and welcoming smile greeted the 2 pm concert.

… and so did a nice lady who walked into the ornate room with song sheets in hand.

To my unexpected surprise, this was an afternoon sing-along. Not classical Chopin or beautiful Bach, but nonetheless a shifting of my mental gears toward “You Are My Sunshine” and “She’ll Be Coming Around The Mountain”…

And you know what? Perfectly ok!

Listening to delightful Debussy or magnificent Mozart is centering. I love piano music of all eras. Playing baroque through modern piano literature has invited joy into my life for decades. Listening to concerti, sonatas, suites, symphonies, operas, Broadway shows, and beyond has immeasurably changed my life.

Yes, music is extremely important. (The arts, in general, are.) No more than fifteen years ago, dad was active in my barbershop harmony chorus. As I directed, he dutifully sang in the lead section. This day he hadn’t lost his wonderful voice through song, although, following the lyrics was a struggle.

We sang together. Melody and harmony. Thirty minutes of a son interweaving notes around a dad’s melodic existence as only he knows. Some correctly sung, some not. And, that was certainly OK. Perfectly fine.

“What a cool musical metaphor painted on the canvas dad and I have!” This crossed my mind as we sat together winding our way through “Grandfather’s Clock”.

So many times over the years dad has maintained a path – dementia led – that isn’t really solid melodically, and I’ve had to find a way to harmonize with it. Have it make some sense, in a way – try to improvise a solution that’s pleasing, kind, and sympathetic. All the while, keep the intent of his melody intact.

After the sing-along, we had to part ways quickly as my schedule became my boss once again. Too many events and not enough days to … well, work. Dad was very happy an effort was made to come in and see “the guy” play piano. With a hug and a smile, about forty-minutes ended.

During his week-ending days, he most likely forgot that “concert”. Routine took over. I am sure meals, daily care, and other activities began to occupy brain space otherwise used for “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” memories. Again, certainly OK. Perfectly fine.

I’ll take all this as a win – both for dad and me. Sure, it wasn’t capricious Copland or happy Haydn who occupied our time; however, it was classic dad for a half-hour as only he can be … as he is.

Next time there’s a concert invite in my message inbox, I’ll still go regardless of the “performer”, of course. Never know what surprise awaits that will engage my interest.

Warning though. If it’s anything related to dancing, there will be no video or blog post. That’s an art form – albeit very important – you won’t see me do. Not pretty.

… And not even close to being perfectly OK.

My Friend at the Tower

(Before reading the following, there’s an update. Ron DiFrancesco is now my friend. He is the last known survivor of the south tower. I didn’t Google. Strangely enough, no more than two hours after posting this blog, a video appeared on my Meta feed. Unsearched. Unasked. And now, unmasked in my world. I have no answers, still, as to why so many perished on that awful day. As to the possibility of my “illogical” question? Asked. Answered.)…

… with that in mind, I wrote:

I do remember September 11th 2001.

This short entry won’t be a recollection about what I was doing on that beautiful Tuesday morning. Instead, it is what always crosses my mind every year on this day. Every. Year.

Not saying this is a unique thought at all. It’s different, however. Many others may have the same. What an awful day it was, so the odds are pretty good.

My mind goes to whomever that very last person was who got out of the first tower before it fell. Who was it? Did this person actually survive the immediate aftermath of all the debris enveloping that entire area? Most likely there was some idea a second plane hit the other tower … maybe?

…and then I assume whomever it was, they didn’t survive unless he/she had enough time to run far enough away.

Curiosity keeps me interested enough to, oddly, not google for an answer as to “who?” this may be … even on the remote chance someone exists who fits the query.

… and I’m not even sure it’s logical?

All I do know is heroes went in and didn’t come out. Jumpers weren’t suicidal. They were our fellow Americans who needed to escape the fiery furnace for one last breath of freedom – whether voluntary, or not. People died that day in planes and buildings, who expected to return home – which is, sadly, the only thing logically that connects from that Tuesday.

I think this is why I don’t really want an answer to my, possibly, illogical question. That day didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Like you, I’ve listened to so many tributes and read a copious amount of September 11th recollections and remembrances. Also, many analytical articles have passed through my hands.

With all that, those mid-morning moments still make no sense. What a waste of good, human souls who had so much to contribute these past twenty-five years.

I don’t know who the person is I think about? Maybe he/she doesn’t exist in the scenario that may not have even happened.

All I know is what did happen on September 11th is still real in my brain. A time in my life as unique to me as to you. All of us alive at that time can’t forget how awful it was.

… and I am very satisfied just letting this go at that.

No real answers.

Twenty-one, Or So

“I have plenty of stuff here that can be used. Whenever you have time to look at it. No big rush”.

Another message. Another twenty-one, or so, words gratefully left on my voicemail Friday. I don’t interpret these words to mean anything other than dad reaching out for verbal companionship – for a connection. Words, themselves, don’t really matter.

(As aside here, I didn’t really listen to him – or anyone – as a teenager, anyway, …. but let’s not let that get in the way here. 😃)

These words don’t matter. His intention does. His need for a momentary connection to his son – even if it was in a thirty-second voicemail – counts a lot in his life. And mine. I want him to hear my voice … in person, or recorded. He needs this.

As I’ve written before, it’s difficult for me to answer most times. Life is, well, busy. None of us who are on the forefront of caregiving can set aside our schedules. We want to, but can’t. Even if I had all the time and money available at my over-extended fingertips, it wouldn’t be healthy to commit 100%, anyway. The emotional balancing act in which we engage is challenging. Rewarding, yes. Tiring, yes.

Following each call – answered or voicemail – I do try to see him within the next twelve hours +/-. Not always possible, of course. A good percentage of time my schedule allows it – which leaves a small “bad” percentage.

Thus, that message Friday, sadly. It’s Sunday morning and I felt the “no big rush” empty hours creep into my life last night. Before Saturday’s church service, an unsettled hush occupied my mind. An urgency to see dad without the time to follow-up took the place of prelude preparation and sanctuary service. Granted, this was over an hour before because I arrive early to help open the church. Yet, this didn’t lessen the malaise I felt…

… Initially. I write, “Initially”, because within five minutes of entering through our side doors, my ears caught a very familiar voice coming from our fellowship hall. An elderly, tenor male voice echoing around our large gathering hall was easily recognized as one of Zion’s recently retired clergy. Sitting as a dedicated grandfather … dutifully watching over playful grandchildren was his job at that moment. Neither of us realized another task was at hand.

A casual, “Hello, usually nobody is here …”, turned into much needed twenty-one, or so, minutes gratefully exchanged between old friends as I was the organist/pianist during his long and rewarding tenure at Zion.

“It was nice to see your dad last weekend in church”, began this wonderful conversation between friends. An observation warranted because Pastor Scott attends regularly with his family.

“Yeah. I felt it was a good idea to bring him to late service … and then see if he had enough energy to go to our church picnic afterwards.”

A larger door opened at that point. Not one to the church. One to my conversational soul. One that isn’t opened very often, surprisingly. (Although, I do talk to others on occasion including the current pastor, secretary, and a few good friends).

So many ask about dad – how he’s doing. The, “what’s going on with him?” umbrella-in-passing kinda query. I don’t mind, but a quick, “he’s fine” seems to satisfy questioners as they move on with their lives. I get it. I don’t hold anything against anyone. Lives move and gears grind in the engines of every one’s schedules, families, and jobs.

There was something different with Pastor Scott’s words. Granted, he’s a pastor. With that comes a certain expectation of compassion. This wasn’t it. It was just a normal guy – a good friend sincerely asking about my dad.

… so we talked and laughed. Life as it is in this net of dad’s dementia. No advice given. “It must be difficult for your dad to manage what’s going on inside his brain”. “I think it is?”, was my hesitant reply as I am not sure what path ideas take inside a person’s brain who has dementia. As someone who knows dad, he continued, “I guess he feels comfortable in his own way and is, at least, trying to manage”.

“Yes, he is”, I candidly replied.

This comforting dialog continued for another twenty minutes. Life between a dad and son through the consoling and sympathetic casually dressed clerical collar of a retired pastor. Benevolent brotherhood at it’s best. I could only image dad sitting off in the near distance nodding in agreement as friendly phrases graced my ears. Almost like dad was saying, “It’s ok. No big rush. Believe me. No big rush”, through the words Pastor Scott was speaking.

I didn’t expect to be playing my prelude last night with light-heartedness when arriving over an hour prior. That time with Pastor Scott provided an unexpected education. This journey with dad isn’t about one-way messages on an answering machine. It’s not even only two-way conversations when I am actually able to answer the phone, or take dad somewhere for a treat.

We can bring others into the conversation to help more often. To untangle the net. To help straighten out the bent thoughts and crooked, confusing conversations between a caregiver and “patient”…

It IS an opportunity to allow myself, and others going through this, to be brave enough to ask for specific help – to open up for conversation. Allow follow-ups when the, “What’s going on with your dad?”, questions appear unexpectedly. “Do you have a minute to talk?… I have a few concerns.”, wouldn’t be a bad thing once in a while if the timing is appropriate.

Who knows? Laughter and meaningful dialog may happen?

After nearly three times twenty-one, or so years of my life, it’s still hard not to do everything myself. If this journey with dad is teaching me one thing, stopping to learn, laugh, and listen to another person is a good thing.

Dad would be happy to know I am learning this lesson, finally.

Buckets and Pails

“With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone.” — [Oscar Wilde]

I hope this never comes to pass with dad. Meaning, he should never, ever, feel left alone – abandoned by his family. Notably, this son.

Dementia has a pail-full of confusing problems. I don’t have a ladle big enough to scoop out enough ounces to have it all make sense to me – let alone empty the humongous bucket dad must carry around 24/7. This is what occupies my time – my thoughts – a few minutes every once in a while. He and I are at an emotional well together.

He can be sitting with me holding a spoonful of dripping hot fudge over a serving of vanilla ice cream, or miles away tucked into a routine at his facility. Regardless, dementia is constantly filling up pails and buckets with confusing signals, information, and “whys”.

His pail ripples with same-old-same-old to him. What goes in is, possibly, new information, yet old to me and the very kind assistants who are patient with him. What hat should I wear? (That is the same every day if we go somewhere) Is my razor charging / where is it? (Same every day) … Will I be back for my meal? These question, I hope, are not stressful, but I know dad. I know he worries. These are his ripples.

My bucket is a bit different. I don’t worry about him. Not about the care he’s receiving. The guidelines I use are health and safety. Are they being met? Yes, absolutely! Where he is couldn’t be better.

My emotional ripples are bigger than that. Like I mentioned, I need a bigger ladle.

It had been a few days since I was able to get in. Yesterday, finally, in the midst of a few ridiculous rainstorms and high humidity, a nice walk down toward his room was a welcome relief. Usually a knock, or two, is all that’s needed to get a nice welcome smile to greet me. Not this time. Another attempt. Nope. Third time. Silence.

Off to the activity room to check on a possible group event. Maybe he was otherwise engaged? Nope.

I knew not to fear the worst. Dad is in pretty good health, so any idea of an emergency wasn’t warranted. Fortunately, a nice aide was able to help with a spare key.

As I figured, dad was sleeping as soundly as I’ve ever known him to be. This was an odd time for him to rest. No illness or other reason for this came immediately to my mind. We rustled him up, slightly, and I said my usual, “Hey, Dad..”, to see if he wanted to get out a little bit.

“…how about just going back to sleep and I’ll see you later?”, noticing his very different demeanor.

“Huh? … hmmph, ok”. And with that, a creased pillow found his head, once again, nestled into a very warm, comfy spot. I carefully refolded a blanket over his shoulder, said a soft “goodbye”, and gently closed the door behind me less than a minute later.

Walking back down that hallway felt different. Dad was alone, but not really. We were at that stupid well. My bucket was, again, filling up with confusing information. Is his age catching up to him? Is this advancing dementia? Was he simply bored on this particular day? Did he not recognize me, thus, not want to go? Am I looking too much into this?

Was this selfish of me to want his company, yet be unfulfilled? What’s the answer here?

I just don’t think there is one. And this is the problem with dementia. So much information, yet each case / each diagnosis is so different. Not only this, each connection with individual family members is unique. Everyone brings flawed buckets and pails if they care to have real, meaningful, beautiful bonds with a dementia striken loved one.

No matter the age-related situation, no elderly person EVER should be alone. They are the lifeblood of wisdom, unique energy, laughter, generational compassion, and historical preservation.

My dad has his set of problems now. Yesterday, I felt he was alone for just a minute or so. That’s on me. That’s my moment at the well. It’s my bucket to bear. Unfortunately, his pail is dementia – whatever it has to be one any given day, any presented moment.

Like I always say, “The other side of reality is getting a great guy little by little, so for now, I’ll take whatever dementia let’s me have on this side at the moment.”+

This way, he’s never alone. Nor will he ever be.