Hysterical emails and disturbing phone calls from my father’s wife alarmed me. “They’re watching him. The police are going to come and take him to the nuthouse!”
I called the manager of their retirement home and was informed that they were actually watching her. His wife was antagonizing him so severely that they needed to access the Adult Protection Act to keep him safe.
I knew I needed to see my father but fretted over when to go. Divine wisdom sent my sister and me to Newfoundland the same day Dad was sent to a long-term care facility.
I didn’t know what we were walking into – literally. Dementia. Geriatric psychiatric assessment. Long-term care. Locked Unit. Would he know us?
I tapped in the code and heard the lock let go. I pulled the heavy door open and found another keypad and another door. I entered the code again and the second door clicked. I yanked it open and slipped into another world. Grey captives shuffled by, babbling incoherently. Some stood still as we passed and stared with eyes that seemed to wonder what it was like to be alive. One followed us. Others slumped over in chairs. Infants in old men’s bodies. Where was my father?
Panic and dread roiled in my stomach. And then we saw him. And he saw us. He wasn’t expecting us, hadn’t seen us for a long time, and we were wearing the dreaded blue paper masks. His blue eyes crinkled and his smile made his soft, white beard bristle.
“What are you doing here?” he exclaimed as he embraced us. “These are my daughters,” he proudly told the staff.
We found a table and chairs and sat down together. He was cold but could not find his sweater. “All my stuff is gone,” he said. “I can’t find anything. Something is wrong.”
I went to the unit desk to see about getting my dad his sweater. The reality of my dad’s situation gripped my heart. I could barely speak to the nurse through the cry in my throat. I whimpered, “My dad needs a sweater.”
The nurse’s face wore care and pity. She took me to my dad’s room. A hospital bed. A chair and food tray. Nothing else but a locked cabinet containing a few pieces of cheap clothing that had been labelled with his name. This was all my dad had left. Where were the scenic Newfoundland paintings done by his beloved brother? Where was the wall clock in the shape of a Newfoundland dog given to him by his mother? Where were his books? Pictures of his kids? The nurse informed me that they can’t have anything. Other residents wander in and take stuff. It becomes dangerous. It felt like a prison for the criminally insane.
I stuffed down a sob and forced a smile as I brought Dad his sweater and helped him put it on. Another patient approached us and silently stared. “You can go now,” my dad said to him. “Go.” The man shuffled away. “Arsehole,” said Dad. “The people here. They aren’t right in the head. Their minds are gone. I can’t stay here.”
We did our best to distract Dad. Pictures and videos on our phones, ridiculous retellings of fairy tales, listening to Johnny Cash, looking out his window – he has a view of Signal Hill and that brings us some solace. An impromptu game of charades made from scrap paper in my purse. As I was acting out “Riding a Bike” my dad shook his head, looked around, and said, “People are going to say ‘look at the crazy people visiting John’.” He was actually worried about that. We made him take a turn. He picked up a piece of paper and without reading it pretended to wipe his ass with it. We all laughed. He still loved to make us laugh.
We made Dad laugh and smile every day. But every day he asked us to take him home, to get him out of there, to go back to the house. The last time, I could tell he was summoning the courage to ask me something – like a shy boy asking a girl for a date. “Can you guys take me with you?”
I had prepared myself for the worst. Maybe a violent, angry man who didn’t know who we were. But that wasn’t the worst. The worst was a vulnerable, loving man who recognized and reached for us like saviours. The worst was knowing that we couldn’t save him.
Once, I was a nervous child standing with my class at a Christmas concert. My eyes found my dad’s in the audience. I made a trout face by puckering my lips and bugging my eyes open. He made the same face back. From then on, it was our thing – a way to silently communicate our affection. As we sat quietly in his hospital room, he looked over and made the trout face.
My little girl heart, a heart that had been shrivelled and calloused was made new. Years of hurt, disappointment, and stubborn independence fell away. My new little girl heart is fresh, raw, and wants her daddy.
Dementia is a thieving, evil clown, but it gave me a gift. As we sat with our lost and vulnerable dad, I was able to love him, just love him. The mistakes and failures didn’t matter. I could feel his love and soul permeate me, become part of me. Dementia gave me love – beauty for ashes.
Commentaires