The Elder Statesman

Saturday we were at our grandson Jack's second birthday party held at the Frontiers of Flight Museum at Love Field, Dallas. Waiting for the toddlers to finish their running around and get down to the serious business of cupcakes and juice boxes, my husband, son-not-the-dad and his wife wandered into the main area of the museum to see what we could see.

We hadn't crossed the threshold until my daughter-in-law and I were in the gunsights of an elderly gentleman. He made a beeline for us. As women, he asked, wouldn't we like to hear a story about a little told part of aviation history? It would only take 10 or 15 minutes. Sure, I said, as I watched my husband and son scurry away (and lose out on a grand education as it turned out). My DIL trailed along with me.

We crossed the width of the museum (and it's not small) to his area of expertise. We did not cross quickly; I would estimate his age as late eighties or early nineties. However, given those parameters, I suppose it was practically running.

He settled us on benches surrounded by cases of WWII memorabilia. We learned a bit about bombers and flying solo, saw a photo of him in the cockpit of his plane. Handsome man. We then learned about the women who served so well as pilots, the WASPs and WAFPs.

He charmed us. He quoted poetry. He made me sad.

Because this is what my dad should be doing, being a docent in a flight museum, instead of sitting in a nursing facility because of his Alzheimer's. I didn't catch this gentleman's name, but I'm so glad he put us in his sights.

The Veteran's Wall at Walmart

On June 20 of this year was published in the North Texas e-News, an article I wrote about my Alzheimer's dad. It was called "Remembering the fathers who can no longer remember." I received many wonderful in-person comments about this. And I think Daddy and I've received another tribute, too.

Since that article appeared, people would say to me that they needed to get a photo of their veteran/active duty loved one out to Walmart. No sooner did the article run than Walmart started adding a row at the bottom of their 53 rows. This made Daddy's photo 7th from the bottom of row 52, not 6th. Then 53 rows became 54 and then 55 and then... Six weeks after that article ran there were over 120 more photos on that wall!

What a tribute to Daddy! We are remembering.

ETA: Visited with a friend who works at Walmart and found out that one woman brought in 78 (seventy-eight, that's right) photos of family members who had served--perhaps are serving--in the military. That's what swelled the ranks so rapidly, so to speak.

Father's Day

My dad has Alzheimer's and for the last 4 years has been in a facility devoted to the care of those so afflicted. It's an awful, insidious disease which robs both the victim and the family. This is not how I pictured Daddy's retirement years with me. We were going to garden and talk and walk. Needless to say, we do none of that.

In honor of Father's Day and Daddy, I wrote an article for our local internet newspaper. The editor made it the lead-off.

Read and meet my daddy.

The 70th reunion

My dad is from Pennsylvania, brought to Texas with the advent of his military service. My mother, Texas born and bred, was not about to move North, so they settled in her hometown. That did not stop the steady progression of our summer visits every 3-5 years back to his home.

I have sketchy memories of most of those visits. One set of cousins lived on a farm; I have no recollection whatsoever of visiting the other set who were still in PA. I know I was confused to see my grandmother's headstone with my grandfather's name ascribed beside it. Wasn't he still alive? The absence of dates must have escaped my elementary self. I remember meeting my father's mother's parents. They had an outhouse and my great-grandfather did not believe all that outer space and astronaut nonsense. They were merely filming it somewhere. My great-grandmother, blind and wheelchair-bound as she was a double amputee due to diabetes, told me the family genealogy. I scrawled it on a piece of lined notebook paper and later transferred it into a Bible.

But what I remember most was Daddy's five-year treks to his high school reunions. One in particular stands out, in a hotel dining room, and I have the idea that it was painted 50s green. There was an award for the grad who had traveled farthest--Daddy won--and the one with the most children. I don't remember the number, but her "award" was an apron which stated "I should have danced all night." I still find that clever.

A few days ago I received a letter from one of Daddy's classmates informing me, in a legible 89-year-old scrawl, that their 70th high school reunion was coming up. Of the 92 grads, 35 were still alive at her last count and she wanted to know about Daddy. She even remembered my sister and me at that early reunion.

I've written her back, telling her that Daddy is here in body, if not mind.

But, think about it. Seventy years, the first ones of which would have embroiled the young men in a war, and one-third of the class is still alive? I wonder if I'll be writing legible notes for my 70th, or if I'll even see it. And if I do, will I know anyone?

Hello, I'm a flower

Daddy continues to amuse and amaze me, but this week I was visiting and I was not amused. They'd given him a cup of pudding for an afternoon snack and he was attempting to eat it by sucking on the end of the white plastic spoon. He had mistaken it for a straw. I wasn't upset with the staff for not catching this, and I checked later to find out that when he's given something to eat and he's just awakened from a nap, he'll do this, thinking it's the straw he drinks with at meals since they have real metal ware to eat with then.

I get him straightened out and he devours the pudding (he devours everything placed in front of him) and then I asked the question I always ask, "Daddy, do you know who I am?"

His blue eyes brighten and twinkle (yes, my dad's eyes twinkle), and he laughs at me and nods. I have to press the issue to get a verbal response. Obviously he knows me but that day, I was a flower.

Just one more step down the spiral ladder of his mental capacity, or so I thought. Coupled with the pudding incident, I wasn't amused.

But I should have been amazed. Recounting this incident to a man who knew my dad well, he brought up the obvious solution. "What were you wearing?"

A shirt with flowers on it. Black and white flowers and, as Daddy is color blind, of course, I was a flower.

Memory Monday: Birthday Week

August has always been special to me. It's my birthday month! My dad's birthday. My sister's. Along the way, I picked up an anniversary and a son's birthday. It's a crowded month. And I'm just Leo enough to want everyone to help me celebrate.

But the one thing that always made my day more special (there's that Leo thing again), is that I share the date with my Dad. I was his 29th birthday present, or so Mother always said. I imagine she had something else tucked aside just in case I missed my debut date. In fact, my parents, because they couldn't agree on a name for me should I be a girl, had a bet on my name. (The boy name had Jr. tucked onto the end of it.) If I were born on Daddy's birthday, he could name me. If not, Mother, weighing the odds carefully I'm sure, could have the honor. I popped up (out?) at 9:26 AM and Daddy made her stick to it. The summer she died, the thing I missed most was her phone call at 9:26 AM to wish me happy birthday.

But in the middle were lots of birthday cakes and I ran across this photo from the year I was three. Daddy had his own cake here, whereas he hadn't the year before, so I liked this one best. This year, he won't know it's his birthday, so I'll have to do the remembering for us both.

Memory Monday: Twenty pages of someone else's memories

When my mother died 12 years ago, my dad did not wish to live alone for the rest of his life. Within the year, he had courted, and persuaded to move from PA to TX, a woman he'd briefly known in high school. She was widowed and her son wished her well, but she only lived as my dad's second wife for 5 years before dying. At that point, Daddy's stress from caring for two ill wives caught up to him and the rest, as they say, is history. My sister and I decided the best place for Daddy was assisted living and that's where he started his too-short run toward Alzheimer's and where he is today.

However, in the interim Lil, wife two, gathered loads of Daddy's photos from boxes, loosely organized them, GLUED them into albums and wrote brief bylines on maybe 10% of them. So when I began my march through the old albums in order to archive, I found a page labeled: "Dick, friends and time in the service before he married."

There was Daddy in high school with friends, mostly girls. Then a few service photos. More girls, or by this time, young women. Service... women. Women. Women.

Twenty pages with 4-6 photos per page. None did I recognize. Then: "Dick, Velta, family and friends". Whew!

But... twenty pages of old girlfriends? Daddy--you rascal!

Memory Monday: Shaking loose the cobwebs

I had not meant for a week to pass between my Memory Mondays. Let me rephrase that: of course, a week would pass. Monday to Monday--one week. I meant I thought I would blog in the meantime, but my mac went in for its (I've never assigned gender--isn't that strange?) annual physical, we spent the weekend in the Big City doing anniversary things, the wifi at the hotel was confined to the lobby and the business center... and you get the idea.

Then when we return home last night, I find that Daddy has fallen in the previous hour and been taken to the emergency room of the local hospital. What followed extended the weekend by three hours with a steri-stripped head-skin tear, a CAT Scan and a fiasco of getting him from the hospital table to the wheelchair into the car into another wheelchair... You get the idea. Again. For the record, he is absolutely fine, like nothing ever happened today. I am not.

But, in his trauma-induced, do-you-know-where-you-are-Daddy? head bang, he remembered my name. First time in a couple of months. He still remembered it this morning. He even--and here's the cobwebs shaken loose part--knew my husband as my husband. He called him by a son's name, but they're similar, and by that time, who cared? He knew us! He also was insistent that we, especially me, go. Leave him. Like who will cover up your feet when you kick the covers, Daddy? Hmm? And since he couldn't tell me where I was to go, I shrugged and stayed. Much to his chagrin.

That, I bet, he doesn't remember!

His own private world

My dad has Alzheimer's. Next month he will be 87 and this insidious disease has robbed us both of enjoying his last years. For three years he's been in the locked-unit of a care facility. At first, when he still had an idea where he was, he'd ask me what he'd done to be so imprisoned. Then he'd swear never to do it again if he could just get out. There's no easy answer to that, or at least, not one he would have remembered even the next day. I thought this might be unique to him until another resident asked me the same question a couple months after that.

I must look like the answer-gal.

But now, Daddy just sits. He smiles when I come in. He hasn't been able to tell me who I am for several weeks. He hurt his hip about a month ago, was consigned to a wheelchair, refused to stay, and is walking again. He is still a strong physical presence.

I was feeling sorry for him (and truth be known, for myself as well), cheated of his last years as a viable member of society. The good thing is he hasn't a clue. He is, as a wise friend counseled, in his own private world. When he naps, he moves his hands and nods his head and his feet rock. He wakes up still in it. I can see that in his eyes if I'm sitting with him. He's not unhappy. Happy doesn't exist anymore.

Or does it in his own private world? Which is preferable--to have lost one's mental ability and not know it, or to lose one's body, be bedridden with a wonderful mind still active, but now tortured to exist in a cage of skin and bones?

Thank goodness, we don't get to choose, but Daddy does seem to have it best.

Coming full circle

When I saw Daddy yesterday, I was very pleased to note that he was no longer passive in his wheelchair. He was rolling it along and scooting with his feet. The nursing staff said he had taken a great interest in doing so, and since the words haven't been real positive that a) he'll walk again unassisted or b) he might not even be trusted in a walker, this was good news to me. It's only been 5 weeks since his broken hip and progress keeps a smile on my face.

But yesterday, he was heading out doors. I opened the door for him but wouldn't push him over the threshold. This he accomplished quite handily himself even if he did frown at me. He wanted to go to the end of the row of chairs which look out over the enclosed lawn and garden area. I thought we'd settle down together and coment on the trees, clouds, and weather, him in his wheelchair and me in the rocker.

But no. He wanted to make the sidewalk loop. And he wanted me to push him.

No way. I walked behind him, keeping him straight and encouraging him. I walked in front of him and urged him on. We did just fine until the slope became a bit uphill, no problem if you're walking, but pushing your 200+ pound self in a wheelchair was daunting. I gave in and pushed him over the hump until he could handle it again himself.

Then it struck me. I'd come full circle, from this man guiding me on my first set of bike training wheels and then giving me a shove to start my bicycling on my own. I was 5 or 6 and I was scared. Riding a bike has a big learning curve. He must have felt as I did yesterday, watching him struggle to push and wheel. I didn't want him to go off the sidewalk or tump over. He wouldn't have wanted me to fall and hurt myself, but he knew I'd have to learn. I knew he would.

From daughter to parent. Daddy and I are still in training wheels.

Tying up the loose ends

1. My Timex watch, aka my dad, has graduated to a wheelchair and is anxiously trying to get out of it. Guess he'll be walking again soon, which is a very good thing. His mechanic's mind kicked in and he wanted me to get him a pipe, 1/2 inch interior diameter, 18 inches long, so he could extend the brake lever and thereby unlock himself and take off. Go figure, he doesn't know Mother is dead but he's scheming to make a better machine.

2. Duchess the mama cat was trapped on the first night's try. She is awaiting her turn to be spayed. Whew! It took a bit more effort to capture four wiggly and very scared kittens, but they are safely tucked in and awaiting time at the vet also.

3. I put on my 'big girl knickers', screwed my courage to the sticking spot, and decided to activate my iPhone myself. It took about 20 minutes and there were no problems. So far, I'm in the honeymoon phase of it, ever amazed at the hand-held computer that will make phone calls. Now I just have to figure out how to use it.

Added Wednesday, Sept. 12:

4. We tried another Bertolli Skillet Meal--Shrimp, Asparagus and Penne. Lovely sauce, but there was so little asparagus they should have left out that ingredient. We won't be buying it again.

5. Bathroom survey: I've been going the same old places. Finally tried a new one: Blue Goose Mexican Cantina, Plano: 105 because they had a baby-changing area in the handicapped stall.

The Silverback

It came to my attention yesterday that while Daddy was not receiving physical therapy since the therapist was on vacation, he wasn't going to receive it unless I made an issue of it. I'm usually more content to ride in the boat rather than rock it, but it was rock it time.

I rocked, brought the issue to the attention of people who could get something done about it, and he was in PT today.

So while I really like my allusion of Daddy as a Timex, it may not be the most appropriate. Yesterday I was in Mother Bear mode. Someone was messing with my cub, who can neither speak up for himself nor understand why he should.

And then I thought, Mother Bear isn't right. It's more accurate to think of Daddy as an old Silverback gorilla. Surely you've watched enough nature shows to know this comparison. Maybe the younger ones are knocking on the door of his leadership. Maybe his own protecting years are over. But he's still there.

Yes, Daddy as Silverback.

Re-winding the Timex

It's Monday, almost a week since Daddy fell. He was discharged from the hospital on Friday evening and returned to the nursing home. Once more back in familiar surroundings with people who know him, we were hoping for a speedier recovery.

Hmmm. Saturday wasn't so hot as he slept most of the time. Yesterday he was more alert and sitting in his recliner, although he couldn't get in to and out of it on his own. And he knew me again. I was no longer Uncle Bruce, my mother or his brother, all deceased. I was no longer on the opposite side of the room from where I was standing. Definite improvement for his mental state.

His physical will be evaluated today and hopefully we can get him further on the road to recovery. He still doesn't know what happened and why he can't get out of wherever he is. It doesn't matter how many times we tell him either. It just doesn't register.

So my "Timex watch" is ticking a little slower now, but it's still wound.

My Timex watch

Just when things are sailing along smoothly, something comes along to tump you in the water.

Daddy fell Tuesday, the day after his 85th birthday, and fractured the neck of his right femur, ie, he broke his hip. A stint in the local ER, a ride in an ambulance to the hospital where the orthopedist works, surgery delayed until yesterday evening, and he is finally fixed again.

The procedure consisted of replacing the ball of the femur. Think Chuppa pop here: the stick was hammered into his bone and glued. The surgeon said Daddy's musculature was remarkable for a man his age. I was impressed with that in particular, given that he was been basically inactive (bed to table to bed) for a year. Sheesh! He must have been something a year ago.

So now we do rehab and therapy and get him going again. I've thought of him as the Eveready Bunny, "going and going", but now I think the better comparison is to a Timex watch. Remember that slogan? "Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin.'"

Yessir, that's Daddy.