Father's Day
Well, yesterday was Father's day, here in North America, at least.I went to the nursing home where my father is. I won't say where he lives, because I can not see it as anything other than simply existing. He has Alzheimer's. Years ago the diagnostic team told us that three or maybe four years after the diagnosis would be his life expectancy, but he is still here more than a decade later, dragging on and on through days of staring blankly ahead from his wheelchair.
I timed my visit to arrive there just before lunchtime. First I took my Dad downstairs to tour the bottom floor. It's a change in scenery. There are floor plants and big window-doors looking out to the patio and parking lot, all giving me the opportunity to point out lots of comings and goings, even though I don't know how much he can understand. My father is no longer able to articulate so we are unsure of what he does or does not comprehend.
Yesterday, we timed our little walk just right because we met Remy. Remy is a cat who will be coming on the weekends to visit the residents. He's a very social feline and accepted my father's hand landing rather heavily on his head without complaint.
After a little sojourn with the cat and his friendly owner, we headed back to the 4th floor and the dining room. I put an adult bib on my father and began to feed him the puree that all his food must be reduced to now. He is incapable of feeding himself and the bib is a necessity, although he dislikes it and spends most of a mealtime trying to get a good grasp on it and pull it away. I don't know if my father ever fed me as an infant, but the scene played out yesterday was a sad little one. I feel that way whenever I feed him. This disease steals absolutely all of a person's dignity.
After his meal was finished I took him out to sit in front of the window that overlooks the parking lot and street, on the assumption that he enjoys watching whatever he can see. He didn't look out though. Instead, he kept motioning toward me, reaching out toward me. It's always a guess as to what he might want, but I took one of his hands in mine, and it seemed to elicit a positive response. He continued gesturing with his free hand so I gave my other and he held tight to both my hands. Then he fixed me with an unwavering stare.
A couple of years ago, he had been calling me "Anne" when I visited. That was his mother's name. I have not seen many pictures of my paternal grandmother, but what I have seen does not seem to indicate I parallel her facially. Who can say what he sees though?
His mother raised him as a Presbyterian, and though he went on to an adult life where he espoused atheism, the old hymns he grew up with seem to reach part of him still. I don't know why I first got the idea, but I began to sing some of them to him, when he began to call "Anne" during my visits. They seem to calm him if he is agitated, and sometimes even draw a smile.
Yesterday, I started singing as he held my hands. I kept my voice soft and low because we were in the middle of the sitting area, and I usually sing to him only when we are in a corner by ourselves. Foregoing my usual reticence to lift my voice where others can hear, I began with "Shall We Gather", his mother's favourite. He pulled my hands to his chest and kept his eyes on me. I sang "Abide With Me" next and his eyes began to close. I sang "Nearer My God To Thee" and his eyes began to stay closed longer and longer between the times when he would open them wide to look at me again. I sang "Rock of Ages" and his eyes closed again. This time they stayed closed. I sang to the end and then disentangled my hands gently so as not to disturb him. A woman seated to my left, beside her wheelchair-bound husband turned to me then, with tears in her eyes and thanked me for my singing, saying she lad listened very quietly so as not to disturb the moment of peace that she felt. I walked away then, leaving my father sitting there, asleep in his wheelchair. I know he will have no memory of the incident, but I will, for a long time to come.
I timed my visit to arrive there just before lunchtime. First I took my Dad downstairs to tour the bottom floor. It's a change in scenery. There are floor plants and big window-doors looking out to the patio and parking lot, all giving me the opportunity to point out lots of comings and goings, even though I don't know how much he can understand. My father is no longer able to articulate so we are unsure of what he does or does not comprehend.
Yesterday, we timed our little walk just right because we met Remy. Remy is a cat who will be coming on the weekends to visit the residents. He's a very social feline and accepted my father's hand landing rather heavily on his head without complaint.
After a little sojourn with the cat and his friendly owner, we headed back to the 4th floor and the dining room. I put an adult bib on my father and began to feed him the puree that all his food must be reduced to now. He is incapable of feeding himself and the bib is a necessity, although he dislikes it and spends most of a mealtime trying to get a good grasp on it and pull it away. I don't know if my father ever fed me as an infant, but the scene played out yesterday was a sad little one. I feel that way whenever I feed him. This disease steals absolutely all of a person's dignity.
After his meal was finished I took him out to sit in front of the window that overlooks the parking lot and street, on the assumption that he enjoys watching whatever he can see. He didn't look out though. Instead, he kept motioning toward me, reaching out toward me. It's always a guess as to what he might want, but I took one of his hands in mine, and it seemed to elicit a positive response. He continued gesturing with his free hand so I gave my other and he held tight to both my hands. Then he fixed me with an unwavering stare.
A couple of years ago, he had been calling me "Anne" when I visited. That was his mother's name. I have not seen many pictures of my paternal grandmother, but what I have seen does not seem to indicate I parallel her facially. Who can say what he sees though?
His mother raised him as a Presbyterian, and though he went on to an adult life where he espoused atheism, the old hymns he grew up with seem to reach part of him still. I don't know why I first got the idea, but I began to sing some of them to him, when he began to call "Anne" during my visits. They seem to calm him if he is agitated, and sometimes even draw a smile.
Yesterday, I started singing as he held my hands. I kept my voice soft and low because we were in the middle of the sitting area, and I usually sing to him only when we are in a corner by ourselves. Foregoing my usual reticence to lift my voice where others can hear, I began with "Shall We Gather", his mother's favourite. He pulled my hands to his chest and kept his eyes on me. I sang "Abide With Me" next and his eyes began to close. I sang "Nearer My God To Thee" and his eyes began to stay closed longer and longer between the times when he would open them wide to look at me again. I sang "Rock of Ages" and his eyes closed again. This time they stayed closed. I sang to the end and then disentangled my hands gently so as not to disturb him. A woman seated to my left, beside her wheelchair-bound husband turned to me then, with tears in her eyes and thanked me for my singing, saying she lad listened very quietly so as not to disturb the moment of peace that she felt. I walked away then, leaving my father sitting there, asleep in his wheelchair. I know he will have no memory of the incident, but I will, for a long time to come.
4 Comments:
Touching story -- but I think you're way too kind and nice.
Hello-
I am so sorry you are going through this. My father died of Alzheimer's a few years ago. During the last few days, he still loved to listen to singing. We sang You Are My Sunshine and Found a Peanut, and all the old songs he taught me during long car trips to see my grandparents. One of the only few good memories from that time. I really think that even if the verbalization and obvious responses aren't there.. they do understand. Some where in there is your dad and he loves you and appreciates every moment he has with you.
We had a hospice working with us for the final weeks with my dad. One thing she told me was that no matter how much we do, how much we love, we will always have regrets. All those... I could have and should haves will come haunting us when we lose someone. Please don't let them. Your father wouldn't want you to remember him with guilt or sadness at what you should have or could have done, but with love and joy from what you did do, and the good times you shared.
I hope this isn't too much for a blog response :) May God bless you and keep you strong.
Beth
What a charming post, of all the Father's Day posts I've read, yours was far and above the best. You did indeed "Honor Your Father" that Sunday.
You rock! While my dad was dying, I sang him "The Old Rugged Cross," one of his favorite hymns. He gave no response , as he was so close to death, but he passed with a smile on his face as his 6 children prayed, held his hands, and my mother cradled his head. It was an experience I will cherish to my death.
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