He has not left his memory care home since January, except to visit with us on the outdoor patio. We discussed that it may happen when we took him home for Thanksgiving. We pack a change of clothes.
My husband says if it does happens, he does not think he can help.
I understand.
The day was clear. Perfect. Crisp. Dad moved his walker confidently to the car. In on his own. He reaches for the overhead handle. One leg, then the next. One of the nurses has dressed him in a red LL Bean long-sleeved polo embroidered Grampsy, in navy. His favorite of gifts. She has layered it over a red Ohio state t-shirt, roomy joggers and New Balance sneaks. He has worn New Balance for as long as I can remember. “N” for Neil, I say. I fold the walker and pop it in the trunk.
I don’t know what you call that handle, but he has always held on here in the car for as long as I can recall. I remember him driving to the city with one hand on the wheel and one up high. Today he is a passenger, my husband driving us home to share the holiday. I photograph his hand there from the back seat. Aged spots speckle his 84-year-old skin. His nails need cutting again.
We stop for drinks at the Starbucks. We order Dad a kids hot cocoa. It is prepared at an easy to drink temperature. “Mmmmm,” he shares with each sip.
I call out the familiar roads to him. “Bedford Road”, Dad. “You lived on Bedford Road”. “See the horses?” This is Sunnyside Farm. It is now for sale at a cool sixty five million. "Beautiful" he says. Brown, black and amber breeds play camouflage with the turning leaves.
Winding around Westchester back roads, we make way to our new home. He says some of the names aloud.
Westchester. County. Hospital.
We slow to our block. “Lake Avenue”, he announces.
"This is it Dad".
We pull to the curb so there is room to walk the narrow drive. I take the walker and hand him the rail. I have my hand wrapped under his arm.
“One. Two. Three.” I count out loud. Helping him up the first set of steps.
“Good Dad”.
We walk a bit. Another three. And he is in.
I prep the grey flannel armchair near the fireplace with a towel, in case of an accident. He has a hernia that cannot be operated on due to dementia. Anesthesia can cause further damage, we learn along the way. The enormous sack bears down on his adult diaper and makes it hard to keep him dry or to keep his pants up. We have named it “Mike” and try to avoid featuring its largess in photos. We name it also to find humor amidst the ever-changing dilemmas and complications of his care.
We ask him several times to let us know if he needs the bathroom. We share that the house has a bathroom. Two. We each take a turn reminding him throughout the day.
“No, thanks I'm fine.” We are never sure if he will remember he has to go. This is part of the forgetting too.
I make him cheese and crackers from the platter. A menu at his memory care home, is offered for dignity, but his meals are served on one plate in carefully planned servings.
He enjoys choosing his own today.
I plate turkey, gravy, a canned cranberry slice, roasted sweet potatoes and a string bean casserole with frizzled onions. He eats each in sections. When the plate is clean he reaches for the knife. He slices a piece of the cranberry. He eats it with the edge of his fork. He takes another. And another.
I suspect the sugary gel must seem a treat on a low glycemic diet.
I ask my daughter to quietly to remove it from the table.
She clears and I help Dad back to his chair. I ask if he needs the bathroom.
It is apparent we have missed the window.
Matter or factly I check, opening the waistband of his pants. We hobble to the bathroom. He is still denying he needs to go. He sits on the toilet seat with help. I remove his sneakers and pants. I am now covered in it. I remain cheerful. A tone used with my girls when toddlers.
I have him stand and hold the sink.
He holds tight to the pants and I fight to lower them. I remove the paper diaper.
I am wiping my Dad. Washing him. Changing him into the “just in case” outfit I brought. I place his belongings in the laundry. Wipes and towels a trash bag.
I catch my sing song tone. I am caring for my 84 year old demented Dad, on Thanksgiving in my new home.
We return to the living room. He is agile but careful. He sits again. Unfazed. I hope he forgets. He admires the teak coffee table. He says the house is beautiful. I am taking video for posterity. I know I will be looking back on this.
“It is a new old house,” he says into the room. He is right. A 1950 split level ranch with our makeover in progress. I am never certain how the brain works on any given day. So many of his comments seem sharp. Sense of humor in tact.
I care for him now. As he cared for me.
I spoke to a friend last night at a book event. She whispers, “she is going in her pants now”, when I check in on her Mom’s recently diagnosed memory loss. It reminded me of this piece I shared in a memoir writing class, when I was trying to make sense of it all. Like grief, we don’t often have safe places and spaces to share the unthinkable. I was glad that she did. She knows I know. I hope that we can open up these hard conversations and topics in a caretakers support group via zoom. Please send me a message if you are interested as we grow the waitlist.
Permission for these conversations is essential for our survival as we care for our elders. Exchanging best practices, resources and support in community is my hope and desire.
Let’s make the hard parts easier.
I write here to help support the community of independent writers. I hope you find commune with those who are grieving, caretaking and a few of my words.
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