Age Related Dementia

In November of 2009,  my mom passed away while my one year old daughter was in the hospital with a serious infection.  I vividly remember sitting on a hard hospital chair, holding a hospital phone, hearing my husband tell me that he had some bad news.  Minutes after he told me that my mom had had a stroke and passed away before she even got to the hospital, the nurse came in to take my daughter's vitals.  She said, "Is everything all right, honey?"  

I said, "No.  Not really.  Everything is not all right.  I just found out that my mom has passed away."

As my heart was breaking down, I tried to recall the last time we'd spoken by phone.  The last time I'd touched her face.  Had I known it would be the last time, I would have done it so differently.  

And this has stayed with me for nine years.

April 16, 2018

I said, "Do you know me?"

He said (definitively), "No.  I don't."

I read his face to see if he was teasing.  He was not.  There was no glimmer of recognition just behind his eyelids.  The corners of his mouth were not upturned ready to grin showing he'd fooled me.

So, I simply said my name.

Alarmingly, his expression became more confused.  He said, "No.  You couldn't be.  She's much younger."  

In another place and time hearing dad say this would have been funny to me.  But, I didn't laugh.  I have aged considerably.  And I knew this wasn't what dad meant, anyway.  I figured, in his mind, he was somewhere in 2010.

"Remember me?  I'm your daughter.  Your youngest daughter?"

I looked for any signs of memory on his face while trying to fight the lump that was welling up in my throat.

"I remember that I am always happy to see you," he said, taking care to enunciate remember.

We sat in silence for a little longer.  Suddenly a vision of dad riding his bike to work in the 80's came to me.  I think it must have been the sunshine and gentle breeze.  I'm not sure.

I said, "It's a great day for riding a bike."

He said, "Yes.  I suppose it is."

I said, "You used to ride your bike a lot."

"I did?"

I briefly wondered how he could forget that and then quickly regretted having brought it up.  "Yes, you did.  To work and back everyday.  A long time ago."

"Well," he said, "Your body changes and then you can't do the things you used to do.  My time is coming.  I'm going to die soon."

Sometimes the conversation with dad, halted and confused as it is, goes from topic to topic to death.

"Are you scared?

Emphatically, he said, "Nah.  Why would I be scared?  I'm going to see a lot of people that I've lost.  Your mom, and grandma and grandpa."

I couldn't talk for a few seconds.  Then I managed to say weakly, and not without my voice breaking, "Well...I'm going to miss you."

He said, "No.  You're not going to miss me.  You're going to be glad that I'm in a better place with people I've missed."

I seriously doubted this in my mind, but I tried to think of other things to keep from crying.

We stayed outside on the patio of The Memory Care Facility for about 20 more minutes.  I tried to soak in every second.  I held his hand tightly and tried to imprint his words, his face, his breath on my heart so that when he is gone I will have those memories to hold me steady.

Like every visit, I answered the same questions multiple times.  Where are we?  Who lives here?  Do I live here?  Will I be alone when you have to leave?  Where do you live?

Finally he said, "I'm ready to go inside now.  Can you wheel me inside?"

He rolled back inside with me pushing him just in time to start a game of bingo.

"Jesse!  You're just in time to play bingo!"  The staff quickly came over to wheel him up to the table.

He said, "No.  I don't want to play bingo."

"But, Jesse!  You love bingo!"  They said.

"I do?" he questioned.

With that I kissed him and held his face and told him that I had to leave, but that I would see him next time.  He said he loved me and thanked me for coming.

Walking out the doors I steeled myself.  If this is the last time, I am ready.  I will have the memory I need.  I will hold on to it until I can't remember it anymore.