Category Archives: Aging & dementia

Sunday…A Saturday visit

2 Replies

Aug 1I arrived yesterday afternoon to visit my dad a little after 4 p.m.

When the elevator door opened to the small 3rd floor lobby area, there he was, standing with his walker, and ready to step into the elevator. My sister, Bonnie, at his side.

He looked at me. Surprised, but then a lot of life is a daily surprise for him right now.

“Ian,” he exclaimed. “Good to see you.”

Pause. Processing.

“I’m here with my daughter,” he says correctly, glancing at Bonnie.

She smiles. “And you’re here with your son, too,” she adds, quietly trying to get him oriented, just in case.

He announces: “We’re going for a walk.”

He thinks.

“We don’t often get together like this.”

He’s right.

He’s two-thirds of the way through his 96th year, with a birthday that rolls around in early December.

The elevator doors closed again and down we went. Off at the first floor, out the back door at the end of the parking lot, very slowly, of course. He’s using the walker they advised us against. It has four wheels, brakes, a freeway flyer of walkers. On the down side, its four wheels mean that it could turn out to be an unstable or illusory source of support. But the plus side the wheels means he can power over uneven ground and cracks in the sidewalk, something he couldn’t do with one of those crippled contraptions with tennis balls stuck on the back legs. So we accept the risk and let him walk, when he can.

We didn’t go far. At the corner–not far at all, maybe 30 or 40 feet–Bonnie reminded him that once we stop, he’ll have to walk back as well. We turn the corner, keep going a little ways. Up to the next driveway. He stops. “Time to turn around.”

He’s relying on the walker, but he’s in control, keeping its wheels pointed at the path, legs moving at something between a stride and a shuffle. But who’s judging?

We recently asked my mother: “What’s the secret to living a long time?”

She responded with a direct answer. “Keep breathing.”

Similarly, keep moving. Another secret.

I say: “Do you enjoy getting out for a walk.”

He replies: “You do? You like a bit of fresh air?”

I’m surprised by the twist in perspective, but reply.

“Yes, I guess I do.”

We then sat for a few minutes at a picnic table downstairs. It takes some work. He has to get into position, backing towards the seat, walker in tow. Set the brakes. Leaning hard on the arms, he slowly falls into place on the bench. Bonnie and I relax.

Rubbing his legs with both hands, he looks up. “Use them or lose ’em,” he says. “I don’t walk enough.”

He admits getting tired on our short journey around the corner. I think of the day he lay upstairs in bed and told me he was thinking of walking down to San Diego. I winder if, in his mind, he may have already made that trip.

We agree. We should do this more often.

I grab my camera, raise it to my eye. He smiles. Image captured.

It’s a good day. He knows who I am.

Thursday…Falling down the memory hole

7 Replies

I made a quick trip over to visit my dad at lunch yesterday at the skilled nursing facility on Beretania Street where he’s been since the end of last year.

When I arrived, he was in bed asleep, but the cart bringing lunch was being wheeled down the hallway, so I woke him up.

He opened his eyes, confused, perhaps startled.

“What day?” he asked, hoarse, mouth dry. “What day?”

I told him. Wednesday.

“A week day.” Processing.

Yes.

He thought about it. “That’s why there’s a lot of activity around here?” Gesturing towards the door to the hall and the common room beyond where people tend to gather.

Yup. I suppose.

He looked around.

I slowly realized that he wasn’t sure who I was. Usually he will greet me by name, with a hearty welcome learned in his 60+ years as a salesman. “Hello, Ian, thanks for taking the time to stop by.” Use the name, be positive.

None of that yesterday. Long pauses. Silence. I think he was trying to connect my face with parts of his memory. It wasn’t clicking. At least not yesterday.

The food came. He exchanged pleasantries with the nursing assistant. Asked her how she had enjoyed her trip. So that meant he remembered that she had been gone. Good sign.

She took the cover off his plate. Unwrapped the fruit cup. Shook up the nutritional drink. Got out a straw and stuck it into the can. Moved the small glass of milk within easy reach. Set his fork and spoon alongside the plate. Went on her rounds.

Then he ate. Slowly. First the fruit cup, one small piece at a time. Cantaloupe. What looked like Honeydew melon. A grape or two. Then the fork moved over to the rice, and what might have been creamed tuna or something of that variety. One bite at a time, each movement of hand to mouth a delicate balancing act. But he managed. Peas were harder. Several were lost on each repetition.

Trying to help with an outstanding issue, I asked if he could recall whether there was an insurance policy on his boat. Said that I knew it might be hard to remember. I could see him searching for a memory, any memory, failing.

Finally he spoke. “I don’t do the paperwork,” he said. “I wouldn’t know.”

For several decades, this boat was a huge part of his life. I’m sad that he’s barely able to remember. What to say?

Finally, with conversation stalled, I said I would have to get back to work.

He asked: “What do you do?”

I told him I was working at the City Council for a little while longer.

He thought about it. “Do you know Ian?”

Ah. It gets complicated. How do I answer? All the advice we’ve gotten is to go with the mental flow.

“Of course,” I replied. “I see him all the time.”

True, in a way.

He was looking straight ahead into some other part of the world. He went on.

Talking through that long stare into space. “I don’t think he did as much with his politics as he could have. But he felt differently.”

I felt his regret. Weighed it.

I think he would have liked to see me run for office, become a public official, wield power. But somehow I’ve never wanted to walk on that side of the road. He obviously didn’t understand my choice, but had never said anything to me directly. Is it too late to talk about it?

He shoveled his fork under a few of the remaining peas, got it balanced and level, then shakily got hand to connect with mouth. Chewed.

I thanked him for the visit. Said I would be in touch. He waved a quick goodbye.

And I took the elevator downstairs to catch the bus back downtown.

Wednesday…opening day at the Legislature, Capitol restoration, a visit with my dad

3 Replies

It’s the Legislature’s opening day at the State Capitol. Guests have been instructed to be seated by 9:30 a.m., and it takes off from there. By noon, halls will be crowded with visitors looking for lunch and a bit of glad-handing. I’ll be taking pictures of visitors to Rep. Berg’s office on the 3rd floor and taking advantage of the opportunity to meet & greet friends who wander past.

[text]No, that’s not a new homeless camp downstairs in the rotunda, nor is it the home of a restored Hawaiian kingdom. It’s a structure built to protect the central mosaic by Tadashi Sato while it undergoes a half-million dollar restoration. Custom Smalti Byzantine glass tiles have been manufactured by a company in Munich and shipped to Hawaii.

According to the request for exemption from normal bidding: “Two previous installations utilizing the Low Bid procurement system were below the easthetic expectations of the SFCA (State Foundation on Culture and the Arts) and have failed due to poor materials and workmanship.”

The $427,000 project was originally scheduled for completion by the end of 2008, a deadline that has obviously come and gone.

Here’s a link for the day–morphing through pictures of all the US presidents from Washington to Obama.

[text]I stopped by to visit my dad late yesterday afternoon. When I got there, he was dress and in a wheelchair near the elevator, and he was sure that he was supposed to be getting home.

He told me that he would be catching heck if he wasn’t home for dinner by 6 p.m., when my mother would always have dinner ready. I explained that he couldn’t go home, and he seemed surprised to learn that he had spent a couple of weeks in the hospital before landing in this nursing facility. He bemoaned the lack of a bank account, car, or even a bicycle.

He finally accepted that he wouldn’t be getting a ride with me back to the house in Kahala. “Tell Helen I’ll be sleeping in town tonight,” he said.

When I asked where he would be staying, he quickly said that he had several places available. He used to sleep on his boat now and then, for example. I followed up by asking where he had been sleeping recently. He looked at me as he thought about that question. And thought. And thought. Finally he had to admit that he came up blank.

When I finally turned his wheelchair around and headed back, he eventually recognized the hall and the room where, he said, “I’ve got a bunk.”

On Sunday night he had someone dial the phone and he called my mom. He told her that he was in Waikiki and needed me to give him a ride home. I hope he wasn’t waiting by the elevator for two days, although I suppose that in his mind that’s possible.

He’s getting better physically and also now recognizes that he’s not being allowed to leave this facility on his own. It makes the situation more difficult for all of us. One more step on the path of aging in America.