It’s Thanksgiving.

That means it has been a year–actually, a year and a several days–since my father fell at home, ended up in the hospital, was diagnosed with alzheimer’s and dementia, and finally transferred to a skilled nursing facility where he has spent most of the past year.

Thanksgiving will be difficult.

My sister, who has carried most of the burden of regular visits as well as laundry duty, decided she did not want to face Thanksgiving turkey at the nursing home. It’s depressing, to say the least.

So we’re splitting up the family’s Thanksgiving “celebration”. Meda and I will have lunch with my father at the nursing home, food pick-up between 10:45 and 11:45 a.m. We know parking will be difficult, although somehow the mundane task of finding a nearby parking space should help to dull the edge of emotion off of this turkey day.

Then we’ll cook a turkey and the trimmings on Sunday, when Bonnie and my mother will make the drive out to Kaaawa.

Last year at this time, we didn’t know if my dad would survive the week. He’s managed to get through a year, although with slowly diminishing capacities. He has much more difficulty walking now, which causes him to get up less, which causes more difficulty walking as he gets less and less exercise.

And I can’t help believing that the failure to get up and walk contributes to a type of sensory deprivation that worsens the confusion and memory loss caused by the Alzheimer’s and plain old garden variety dementia.

But it is what it is.

He has been sleeping a whole lot more than usual for the past month.

My sister named it first.

“He has been sleeping every time I have visited this week,” she emailed me a couple of weeks ago. “I have waited until late afternoon, hoping he would be awake. No such luck. He wakes up long enough to acknowledge I am there, then immediately falls back to sleep.”

I recognize what she’s describing. It has become the norm rather than the exception.

She also noticed another thing. Fewer pairs of shorts coming home in the dirty laundry. That translates into the realization that he is spending more days without getting out of bed, so he doesn’t have to get “dressed up”. The blue & white disposable adult diaper suffices on these days. It’s another worrying sign of deterioration.

But he was wide awake one afternoon last week when I arrived at his bedside, and he hit me with a question as soon as his eyes fluttered open and he saw me standing there.

“Where am I?”

His voice was clearer than it has been on other recent visits.

He looked around, the curtains on one side separating his space from the next bed, curtains on the other side blocking the hot afternoon sun that would otherwise be streaming in the window.

“Where am I? The bed looks familiar,” he said quizzically, “but what is this place?”

I told it was the same place he’s been staying for a while. It’s the place he seems to like the best, I add, remembering that he sometimes tells me that he’s got several different spots where he can bunk for the night. He has told me that a number of times after I’ve explained that I won’t be able to drive him back to the house in Kahala, with the lawns that he mowed until last year and the large mango trees in the back yard with the fallen leaves that require constant raking.

“They take good care of you here,” I added, hoping it would let him relax.

He seemed to think about it. I couldn’t tell if he was satisfied by that answer or if the thought just evaporated and he forgot what he had asked about.

Then he had another question.

“What about that other project I was working on? How’s it going?”

I try to work with whatever he’s got in his head, so I just ask a question.

“Which project were you thinking of? You’re always so busy.”

And in his mind, he is busy. Traveling, meeting people, accomplishing things or at least trying to, driving here and there.

He looks at me directly. I notice that he has gotten a shave but they haven’t clipped his nose hairs. Make a note.

He’s still thinking, it shows on his face, the stress of concentration. Then it passes. He relaxes, and with a shrug of sorts indicates he can’t some up with an answer, and perhaps that’s okay.

We just sit for a few minutes.

We were never very close, my father and I, at least not since I was very young. Ours was an arms-length relationship. I have learned that I know far less about his life or his family and their origins than my sister, just four years older than I am. Perhaps I never asked. Perhaps I didn’t listen. Or maybe the opportunities were never presented. The last year has been that opportunity to learn more. Perhaps that’s something to be thankful for, despite all the rest.