We borrowed Dahlia from my friend Wendi. She had been working with her for years, helping to care for her young daughters and home when she was away. We knew Dad needed a hand, but he would not admit that he did. We simply said she would help tidy and that she had some time now that Wendi’s girls were grown and flown.
I think Dad thought he was to entertain Dahlia. He was so charming and inviting. Asking if she wanted a drink. Playing his piano for her. We heard many times about his sweet serenades.
She helped us help him to remember.
We asked her to be sure he showered, to accompany him on a walk, help prepare a lunch and a meal to leave behind. They sometimes shopped together. She often sent us photos when they walked. He’d let her know his favorite homes—the best green lawns and lush plantings always added points. He did have a thing for a front porch and pillar too. What a sweet bond and friendship they fell into.
After a series of confounding memory tests (I would have failed them all for the record) we confirmed Dad had what they called MCI. Mild Cognitive Impairment. The meds he now needed daily included a patch. It was to be put on in a different spot each day. Not a memory loss cure, but something that professed to slow the process. We needed a little chart to be sure it was changed daily. Not sure how they never told us Dad would need a "helper" for this. In fact, we left the neurology appointment with a diagnosis and little else.
We had an idea that this was the beginning of something we would have to grapple with over time. But forever did not cross my mind. Never heard the words dementia or Alzheimer's that day. No best practices shared or "you might want to...." No websites or even a pamphlet.
Just weeks ago, I planted Dahlia in my garden. It's mostly simple mixed whites and greens. The Dahlia are as big as my widespread hand. And larger. A paper plate variety. It got me thinking about her. And Dad. He affectionately called her "the patcher". This, when he could not alway remember her name.
When she would come in, she'd say, "C'mon Neil let's do this," and he would follow her to the back of his tiny galley kitchen. She had the notecards to date. The cabinet with all his meds organized. He would lift the back of his shirt, ready for a new sticker here and the old one tossed there. He always said, "thank you". His deeply rooted Midwestern self remained and was there till the end.
I remembered Dahlia in the garden today. And as I sat down to light a candle and write this morning, I noticed the cut bloom sitting proudly in the vase. Beside the cone flower and Queen Anne's lace. Hydrangea too.
She sits so proudly.
I thought about how we grew a garden around Dad. Bobbing and weaving. Snipping and reshaping. Watering and feeding.
Growing toward the sun. With Dahlia.
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