This is getting to be a routine for me, a Saturday visit to see my dad, arriving at the Oahu Care Facility late in the morning, probably just after 11 a.m.

Meda dropped me off and drove down to check out the Goodwill thrift store, just a few blocks farther along Beretania. I waiting for the elevator, rode up to the third floor, signed in at the nurses’ station, and went to find him.

He was seated alone at the table normally occupied at mealtimes by the small group of men who live on the floor. When you reach anything near his age, women outnumber men by a large margin, it seems. He was dressed in a yellow t-shirt, with pocket (he insists on a pocket), and fleece pants, probably from Costco, and his old and now comfortable New Balance walking shoes.

He looked at me with surprise, and we began with what has now become the normal routine.

He asks: “How did you find me?”

It really is a mystery to him. But today he adds another layer. “How did you get past the security?”

“I’m a reporter,” I tell him. “We have our ways.”

He seems satisfied.

Then he points across the room.

“I’m looking at those two big ice machines over there,” he tells me, gazing into the distance. “But you’ve got to know the code,” he says, as he says four or five numbers, something sounding like a bank security code. Hence, I surmise, the question about security, although I have no idea what ice machines and security have to do with each other. Perhaps his mind is back on one of the kitchen projects he did for the military, some of which were in secure and little known locations on the island.

But I don’t see ice machines. Instead, across on the other side of the large room, perhaps two dozen women are sitting around several long tables while a male nursing assistant in his green outfit dances, microphone in hand, singing lackadaisically and more than slightly off-key while accompanied by a bland karaoke tune. Some are watching, others are off in their own parade. A television is on in the front of the room. Perhaps it’s showing lyrics, but somehow I think it’s also off on its own independent trajectory.

From where we’re sitting, it’s just loud and chaotic, music and unconnected images flying at us. Somehow my dad is is able to ignore the ruckus.

I expected him to ask about my absence, since I haven’t been here since we took off for a week in Portland, but it doesn’t come up. I don’t know that he processes time any more.

I ask how he’s feeling, and he complains about being tired. It fits with my sister’s report that he has slept through several of her recent visits.

Today I’ve brought along my iPad after figuring out how to load it up with several of the short videos I’ve made of our cats and the neighborhood dogs in Kaaawa. I also happen to have some pictures from our trip to Portland last week.

I play an older video of our cats going a little nuts over some fish that I’ve cooked. He looks at the screen. Not much reaction. I follow that with another video, this time of several large dogs, and I’m not sure if he’s connecting with it at all.

I stand up and walk back to the end of the room where his walker is standing against the wall. There’s a green fanny pack hanging on it. Luckily, when I unzip the main pocket, his glasses are there. I bring them back, set them carefully on his nose, tuck the frames over his ears. He takes over, one hand shakily adjusting their position.

Then I return to the iPad, switching to some of the Portland photos. There are several from a walking tour we went on, so the photos show our small group standing on street corners listening to our guide tell a story.

My dad reaches out, touches the iPad, and of course the photo responds. His finger touches the screen, and the photo moves, or gets bigger, or disappears. I try to keep up, keeping the flow of pictures going.

Then he stops, looks over at me, then at the current picture. He’s lost.

“Am I looking at fish?”

Now he’s got me flustered. How do you respond to a question like that?

“No, not fish. The fish was back in the movie with our cats. This is a group of us standing across the street from the main Portland library.”

Now I understand. His vision is about gone. He’s got cataracts growing in both eyes. Fish, people, cats, ice machines, piano, we all look pretty much the same when broken down into light and dark, shapes and motion. Memory going fast. Vision following. I can imagine this adds a lot to his normal state of confusion.

But then I discovered a batch of his old black and white photos that I forgot had been transferred to the iPad.

I chose this one at random.

He peered at the iPad, and I assumed he wouldn’t be able to make out anything. I was wrong.

After a pause of just a second or two, he said it had been taken at a meeting of the Geneva Club, a group of food service professionals. He pointed to himself, then identified each of the other men in turn. At least as far as this photo, he was not confused in the least.

Then lunch interrupted. A nursing assistant delivered his tray, then came around the table, opened up the paper bib, and stuck the two small adhesive spots to his shirt. Lunch was pretty basic. A glass of milk, a small can of high protein drink, a cup of pudding, and a bowl of what looked like a thick meat and rice soup.

My dad methodically removed each item from the tray, set them on the table in front of him, and then announced that he didn’t want any of it.

“I don’t usually eat anything at lunch,” he said, looking stubborn.

“You eat it,” he said, waving his hand at the table.

I’ve got a defense against the “you eat it” offer, and I throw it out quickly.

“If I eat it and wreck my appetite, Meda’s going to be upset.”

He nods. “You’re right,” he says. Nothing more needs to be said.

I had a small camera, so proceeded to take several photos, holding the camera at arms length and squeezing off pictures, one click at a time. Then I show several to him.

We both managed to get into the picture. He’s the one with the short, dark hair. I’m the one with the longer, graying hair and beard.

I ask him: “Who is that old guy with you in the picture?” He peers, but doesn’t get the joke.

Over the next 10 minutes or so, he didn’t even pick at the food. Finally, he took a sip of the protein drink. That was good. Usually once he breaks, he discovers that he is in fact hungry. But I don’t know if that happened on this day. I didn’t wait to find out.

I told him I was leaving. He nodded.

Then he looked out across the room.

“Have you noticed how many people are in wheelchairs these days?”

It’s clear that he doesn’t understand where he is and why he sees so many wheelchairs. That’s probably a good thing. Understanding the whole picture of where he is and why he’s there would be pretty depressing.

I put my hand on his shoulder and tell him that I’m taking off. He offers a goodbye, then turns back, probably to enjoy the view of those ice machines.