“How did you find me?”

My dad was in bed, his mid-day meal arrayed on a small rolling table that extended out over the bed in front of him.

He seemed genuinely impressed that I somehow tracked him down. He’s not sure where he is, so how do I always seem to know? I think it bothers him.

He hadn’t touched his food. A tuna sandwich on soft whole wheat bread, cut in half. A small plastic cup of what looked like chicken noodle soup. A cup of orange slices. A small glass of milk, and another small glass of Ensure protein drink.

“It’s a good thing you’re here,” he said, looking over as I sat down on the seat that folds down on his snazzy four-wheel walker.

“I think it’s just about the last time I’ll be here. I’m going to be visiting Southern California.”

My dad grew up in Long Beach, California, and visited his family there regularly over the years.

“But I don’t know exactly where I’ll be staying.”

The lunch sat untouched in front of him, while his attention was on a new flat screen television that the man in the next bed was watching, apparently a gift from his family.

It was a tense tennis match between two pretty and evenly matched women players. He took a long look at the women.

He looked back over at me.

Then he turned inward. He was thinking about Long Beach.

“I don’t have any close communications with anyone there anymore,” he said.

I tried to be rational, ticking off relatives who would be glad to see him.

He nodded. Paused.

“Where would you go on the mainland?”

I wasn’t sure where this exchange was heading.

“I don’t know,” I replied, playing for time. “But I think I would avoid winter.”

He nodded.

More silence. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He reached out and stuck a spoon into the soup, then drew it out to examine the contents. Slowly, he took a bite. Another. Then the soup was finished, and he turned to the fruit. By now he was on auto pilot, slowly eating his way through the waiting lunch.

Finally, with his mind somewhere between his lunch and thoughts of travel between Hawaii and California, I decided to cut the visit short.

“Well,” I said, “don’t take off for Southern California before I get back to visit you again.”

He looked up, apparently a little surprised.

“Oh, I’m going back to Honolulu. The weather’s pretty nice over there.”

The trans-Pacific mind-travel had my head spinning.
He seemed unfazed.

I quickly chanted the dementia “rules” to myself. Don’t argue. Don’t correct. Be supportive. Go with the flow.

“Good choice,” I reply. “You’ll like it over there in Honolulu. You always did.”

I turn to leave. He says goodbye. On the screen, groans and cheers from the crowd accompany a double fault. The players somewhat stoically take up their positions for what looks like the final game. He’s got the first half of the tuna sandwich in hand, the tuna mixture staring to spill down his hand as he moved it towards his mouth. I give a last wave and head out into the hallway.