Chapter Two
August 15th
I woke this morning with a troubled feeling that I had avoided a difficult decision last night. As I escaped my drowsiness I remembered the reason—today was my father’s birthday. I should spend today with dad, considering he was turning 76 and there might not be another birthday to celebrate. Yet the most distressing duty for me the past few years is visiting my father. His dementia worsens with every reunion. Lately, I have not understood what he says.
Dad stutters uncontrollably; sometimes sentences begin with a rapid staccato string of unintelligible syllables. I reply to his attempts at conversation by making up responses: a solemn and knowing “you’re right about that”, or a firm “I don’t think so dad”, or a shrug of the shoulders followed by “I don’t really know.” His tone of voice, and decades of experience, helps me guess at an answer. Dad appears satisfied with my charade.
Sometimes I soothe my troubled conscience by rationalizing if I did visit, shortly after I’m gone dad will be asleep and forget I’ve been there. Or I have my own life to live and he would want me to play golf instead. Or I should be with someone who can talk with me and instead give them the benefit of my valuable time.
The dependable excuses don’t work today. If I decide not to see dad, no one else will be there. I am his only child and mom is suffering from chronic, severe depression. There are no friends and no other family. He will spend the day wandering in the daze of dementia, dependent on a nurse to help him eat, walk, sleep, and relieve himself. Maybe no special treats, no cake and ice cream, and certainly no presents. I get myself out of bed and ready to go.
Driving from
It’s a beautiful day in
I’m ten minutes from the hospital when I reach the golf course on the right. The antique, masonry clubhouse has a white steeple and is one hundred fifty years old. Lining the links is a timeworn stone fence—I can imagine soldiers from the civil war crouched behind it waiting for the next charge of the enemy. I wonder if the golfers are appreciating the mental and physical health that allows them to play a round of golf with their friends.
Drawing near the hospital, the American flag appears,
waving over the
Lugging my two bags of Little Debbie cakes and
strawberry ice cream, I sign in and stick on an adhesive paper visitor
badge. The hospital is decorated with
contemporary furniture and kept meticulously clean, and there are many red,
white, and blue “God Bless
Sunday Afternoon
Around the corner from the recreation room I enter the elevator and go to the second floor. I use the time to steel myself for what I may find in the unit. Today I ask God to make me a blessing to my father, give me strength to deal with his condition, and permit dad to experience some joy on his 76th birthday.
It’s about
The room on the other side of the gate doubles as a dining room and recreation area. There are seven large, dark-grained wood tables. I count twenty guys in wheelchairs and recliners. One vet in a wheelchair has a pink and green afghan around his shoulder, and a matching bonnet on his bald head.
Some of the guys are slumped over sleeping, some are staring into space, and one is making a commotion. I suddenly hear, “No, No, No, NOOOO!” I spot a veteran, dressed in underwear, fighting against the soft restraints in his recliner. There are several nurses around him and they soon wheel him into the area where the nurses’ station, offices, restrooms, and personal resident rooms are located. I am relieved the situation is under control and I search for dad.
Melissa, a nurse on the unit, recognizes me and cheerfully says, “Your dad is looking very handsome today.” She has eased my anxiety, and I turn in the direction she is pointing. A short, stooped-over man with white hair is standing there, leaning on a chair for support. He wears dark green pants, a red and green checked short sleeved shirt, green and blue suspenders, and one grey sock and one blue sock. Then I shockingly realize it is my father. How can this be my dad?
My father was a solid rock of a man; he worked as a laborer all his life in front of a scorching hot industrial furnace. Now he is hunched over so much I have to nearly get on my hands and knees to gaze up at his face. “How are you doing today dad,” I tentatively ask. There is no expression, no evidence he knows who I am.
I reach for his hand and hold it in mine. There is a glimmer of life and he forms a simple, almost toothless grin. Dad has four teeth left, two yellow stained teeth on the top and two on the bottom, and each are located at the far corners of his mouth. Melissa volunteers to help us to a corner spot at the table next to the food cart. Dad takes short halting steps; I have one arm and Melissa the other. We carefully steer dad into a heavily padded chair.
Behind me is an elderly man with a blue plastic
helmet. Dangling on a cord around his
neck is a pair of reading glasses. This
veteran is contented, and his eyes are barely open. There is an aura of serenity and peace about
him. I question why he has a helmet and
reading spectacles. They are an odd
combination. About that time a middle
aged couple sits down next to him. They
engage Helmet and
Getting more comfortable with dad, I notice a strange noise. After a few seconds I recognize: “Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey.” Every “Hey” is truncated and evenly pitched. The fellow muttering the sounds is stationed at the table directly behind us. He is in his late sixties or early seventies and wearing a grey polo shirt. Hey-Hey has a flawless complexion and perfectly groomed short grey hair. He is staring at a pair of leather sandals in front of him on the table.
A young, petite brunette in a blue medical smock approaches us with dad’s lunch tray from the meal cart set up in the dining room. Most of the nursing aides are now engaged in setting up trays for the residents using food stored buffet style in a mobile serving unit. The brunette’s name is Sam, and she is a PA or Patient Assistant. Sam thinks she will be a full-fledged NASR soon—Nurse’s Aide State Register.
Thomson Hood takes a multidisciplinary approach to the care of veterans. The disciplines include: administration, nursing, dietary, activities, social services, physical therapy, housekeeping, laundry, maintenance, security and day care for employees’ children. There is a physician and nursing staff assigned to each hospital unit. The nursing staff includes a nurse manager who supervises nurses comprising the three daily shifts. Each shift has a Registered Nurse (RN) charge nurse, other RN staff nurses, Licensed Practical Nurses (LPN), and nursing aides (NASR).
Sam has brought dad a scrumptious Sunday lunch. The food at Thomson Hood is consistently excellent. Today’s fare includes roasted turkey, dressing, gravy, sweet potatoes, green beans, fried apples, bread with butter, fruit salad with marshmallows, chocolate cake and icing, pink fruit punch, orange fruit punch, apple juice, and milk. The turkey is lean and tender, and the dressing has a crusty brown top. The fried apples and sweet potatoes are juicy and fresh. The aroma from the plate reminds me of Thanksgivings in mom’s kitchen.
Dad has snuck off to sleep and is not interested in me or eating. I place one of the white, pink and blue bib-towels around his neck. These towels catch all the inevitable drippings from the resident’s meals. There are plenty of extra bib-towels for cleaning up faces and hands afterwards. I chop the food into bite sized pieces.
Melissa leads a short, frail gentleman out from the back area of the unit, beyond the nurses’ station. He has on a faded tee shirt and pair of shorts; he must have been roused from an afternoon nap. A lady walks through the open gate with a little girl, maybe seven or eight years old.
The veteran with Melissa exclaims merrily, “GOOBER, GOOBER!” Bending down, he and the girl joyfully embrace each other. He is laughing, the little girl is giggling, and the lady is smiling at both. After hugs and more cries of “GOOBER”, he turns his attention to the lady and gives her the same treatment. I have never heard a sound happier than the one coming from that veteran. One second he is a delicate old man, and the next he is laughing and hugging his precious girls. Later they march towards the resident rooms for a private lunchtime visit. Another fellow comes from the back and pitifully asks in a muffled voice, “Goober?” He must crave a similar experience, but his Goober is nowhere to be found.
A tall young lady with dark hair and a uniform drops by for a chat. Jennifer is a NASR and wants to wish dad a happy birthday. She tells me dad enjoyed a special birthday bath this morning in the roomy, wheelchair-capable bathing machine. Also an extra twenty minutes for a Jacuzzi style soaking. Dad is usually an evening bather, but he received an extra bath on this special day. Jennifer says dad breakfasted with a few jelly doughnuts. I know he savors doughnuts, especially the jelly kind. Jennifer smiles and winks at dad. Now awake, dad’s disposition brightens and he grins at the wink.
While holding dad’s hand, Jennifer says, “My grandmother had Alzheimer’s disease, and she passed away when I was fifteen years old. That’s one reason I became a geriatric nurse, and the other reason is my mother did the same thing for many years.”
I notice dad has grabbed the chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. He is stuffing it in with his fingers while his eyes are closed. It’s his birthday; he can have dessert before the entrée if he wants. Dad eats the cake then licks his fingers clean after using them to smear frosting off the dessert plate. I take the plate from his grasp and stare at his hands before I clean them with an extra bib-towel. They are scrubbed clean, and the fingernails are perfectly trimmed.
My father’s hands used to be coarse with calluses from years of grueling labor, both from his job and chores around the house. They might smell of grease or gasoline. He was most content working on a project; pouring concrete for a new sidewalk, changing the brake shoes in his old Chevy Nova, or rebuilding the engine of a 1950’s era Morris Oxford auto. After years of tinkering on that old Morris, he drove it only two or three hundred miles. But dad was proud the day the engine sputtered to life. Today his hands feel silky and smooth, and slightly cool. I hold his hands often now—I never held them until he came to the hospital.
Suddenly I hear a loud exclamation from across the room, “Hell no, I won’t go, HELL NO!” The last two words are shouted out in a voice loud enough to startle me. A veteran with short cropped black hair and bright, flashing eyes is flushed red with anger. He is in a wheelchair and looks younger than the average resident. There are several nurses standing around him and they look at each other helplessly as Hell-no continues to yell. They leave him alone and he eventually calms down.
The staff will let a rant go on for a minute or two. They agree with the subject of the rant and it usually subsides. The veteran forgets what he was angry about and becomes calm. If this doesn’t work, the staff will redirect the veteran—divert his attention elsewhere.
Hey-Hey can be heard now that Hell-no is quiet. There are two hand claps in the sequence interspersed with seventeen “Hey’s”. Sam brings Hey-Hey a lunch tray and he is momentarily distracted. Soon he starts again, squeezing a few “Hey’s” in around gulps of turkey and dressing. The clapping stops while he eats.
Melissa escorts a veteran with a muscular, linebacker type of build to the chair next to dad. He is younger than the other veterans in the unit, perhaps mid-fifties. Dad’s lunchtime neighbor has short cropped grey hair, not quite crew cut length, white shorts, white short-sleeved polo shirt and black suspenders. The shirt has a “2002 American Veterans Convention” patch on the chest. This hulk of a man could bench press three hundred pounds. Melissa is maybe five foot two, but resembles a teacher leading an overgrown kindergarten student to his seat. Linebacker sits ramrod straight and occasionally his hands tremble.
I return to dad and his shredded lunch. Abruptly, Linebacker unleashes a brief, loud whelp conveying confusion, frustration, and impatience. Afterwards he returns to silence and cycles of hand shaking. I talk to Brandi, a unit NASR, about Linebacker. She has been tackled by Linebacker when he rushed the entry gate. Brandi chuckles as she tells the story, but adds “He’s a good man, we love him.”
I heard this comment from the nurses about my father, and all the other men on the unit. When I brought dad to the unit, the admitting nurse said, “We love these guys the same way we love our own families.” At the time, I thought it was a considerate thing to say to a son committing his father permanently to a hospital. During the three years since, however, I have repeatedly witnessed evidence of the love the staff has for the veterans. I have seen it in a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a rub on the back, and in a multitude of other ways.
Mary, another NASR, asks Linebacker, “Hello baby. Just get up? Ready for some lunch darlin’?” It’s an admirable effort by Mary to get a reaction from Linebacker, but he continues the cycle of silent sitting and shaking. I ask Mary Linebacker’s name, and she replies, “Prentess.” The mammoth Prentess eats sparsely from the tray Mary placed in front of him. He resumes staring vacantly ahead. How does he maintain his weight eating so little and so slowly?
Finally, I am able to spoon most of lunch into dad’s mouth. He is drowsy and sleeps while he chews. When I touch the spoon to his lips, and he opens up, there is still food remaining from the last bite. Although I’m feeding him, he wants to grab a green bean and fragment of buttered bread with his fingers. I let him eat the way he wants to eat.
After the final tidbit of turkey, I retrieve the ice cream and tear off the plastic cover under the cardboard top. Dad sits up straighter. Does he recognize the ice cream container? The ice cream has been sitting out and is creamy. I give dad a glob and hear a faint “Uuumm.” Dad could eat an entire half gallon of ice cream in his prime; perhaps this is bringing back some delicious memories.
When I tarry getting another spoonful ready, I’m surprised by an understandable “Time for the next one!” from dad. His eyes are closed and he is holding his mouth open in the same way a baby bird does when momma bird brings a worm to the nest. His request for another bite contains the first words I’ve understood from him today.
During my last visit, I listened to over an hour’s worth of talk from dad and did not understand one word. When I got up to retrieve my backpack and leave, I clearly heard behind me, “Where are you going? Dewayne, you’re not leaving yet are you?” Dad then went to sleep and I glided off the unit.
After dad finishes, I lean back and survey the room. Nurses and NASR’s are patiently leading men to the lunch tables. Each is holding a hand and talking to the veteran in a friendly and reassuring manner
Hey-hey finishes lunch and says, “It’s an easy place. Gotta look for half of the other stuff” and calls out a name I don’t understand. He turns to a phantom and advises, “That’s what you have to use it for! Right down that-a-way and waves at the other side of the room. I ask Brandi for his name. She replies, “K.K. Crown.” That’s what the staff calls him, but Brandi says it’s not his real name.
Hearing his nickname, K.K points his finger at my nose and says, “K.K. Crown—meanest man in town!” This is followed by a grin and mischievous laugh. I bet K.K. was a popular cut-up before dementia
A grizzled old veteran at the end of our table catches my attention. He is scratching his eyebrows with gusto, and proceeds to lick the spoon after the scratching. Next he digs into his nose for a few seconds with the spoon, followed by a thorough licking. Back to the eyebrows—lick—nose—lick—eyebrows—lick, and so on for several minutes. Finally, he lays the spoon down on the table and stares intently at the empty tray. Spoon-scratcher reconsiders the spoon and takes it up again for the eyebrow and nose scratching circuit. I learn Spoon-scratcher is simply “Jack” and he’s sitting next to his buddy “Jack Man”. Jack Man is one of the last guys to get his meal and is diving in with both hands.
Plastic helmet and glasses stands behind us with the assistance of the lady and her husband. I rise and introduce dad and myself. I ask the lady who the gentleman is and she says, “This is my father, Jim.” They collect Jim and walk towards the residential section of the unit.
A veteran with a severe hump at the top of his back, and
wearing wire framed glasses, strides purposefully into the lunch room. He is nattily dressed and reminds me of a
college professor out of an old
From the middle of the dining area comes a request for a newspaper. A nurse asks what section and I can’t understand the response. She addresses a veteran in a red sweater, glasses, and neatly parted hair reading a newspaper. I saw this resident pushing a wheelchair when I came in. Since he had no obvious dementia symptoms, I thought he was a visitor.
Lunch is drawing to a close, and the petite thirty-ish African-American lady who brought the food in the hefty meal cart is taking a break. Her nametag says “Kim” and “Food Services”. I call to her, “Kim that was a great meal. My father’s birthday is today, and you served him several of his favorites, especially the fried apples.”
“We take a lot of pride in preparing and serving the food. We love the veterans and want to give them the best we can offer,” she answers while cleaning the cart. Kim smiles at dad.
The resident across from me says, “Well, it’s a big mistake is all I can tell you.” I ask if he is talking about the food. He disgustedly nods his head. There is not a crumb left on his lunch plates.
“Not too bad. You cleaned all your plates.”
“Yes.”
“Were you in the army?”
“Yep.”
“Bet is was better than army food”
“You are right about that” he responds at the end of our conversation. A nurse nearby tells me his name is Charlie. Army Charlie is capable of having a conversation that includes humor. Was he really in the Army?
An announcement is made over the unit public address
system stating the hospital church service will start at
Melissa helps me place dad in a wheelchair and as we near the white wooden gate, a nurse reporting for the next shift clicks the right numbers on the combination lock and opens the gate. I’m having second thoughts about going to the service. Dad may disrupt the sermon. I’ve spent an hour here already; fed him turkey and ice cream. Still, I’m curious about the details of a Sunday afternoon hospital church service. Standing in the elevator going from the second floor to the first floor, I decide to attend the service with dad. This seemingly unimportant decision will change the way I think about dad, all the other veterans, and myself.
August 15th was an enlightening day for me so far, and the best lesson is ahead. I will return to the unit for only a brief time today; long enough to bring dad back to the people who adopted him into their family. Dad was blessed on his birthday. Jennifer, Mary, Sam, Melissa, and Brandi made sure of that before I arrived today. The jelly doughnuts, a luxurious morning soak, and loving tender care are dad’s gifts. My own gift will soon arrive in the form of a profound sermon from Chaplain Gabe.