DinnerTime

The tall male nurse bounces into the room buoyant and upbeat, tying bibs around the patients necks. Another aide tosses a carton of milk into the air and catches it athletically setting it on the table in front of the patient. It is dinner time.

Joleen, who appears to have severe cerebral palsy spasms as she drinks from her sippy-cups. One for milk, and another for her strawberry milk shake. George across the horse shoe shaped table has oxygen tubes in his nose and develops a serious coughing attack while trying to swallow his pizza. Melba sits with her eyes closed and looks as though she is blind, waiting quietly, patiently for the aid to feed her while the super that is sitting in front of her is getting cold. This is meal time at the convalescent hospital. My dad appears to be the most cognitive one there.

I look at each of these people wondering what sorts of lives they once lived. I would guess that Joleen has had cerebral palsy all or most of her life and is used to institutional living. She wears a constant smile and tries to communicate. I can't understand her.

George, big and burly, has large hands like someone who was used to manual labor. Perhaps he held down a variety of blue collar jobs, a one time mechanic who chatted freely with his customers, barking at those who irritated him. Or perhaps a truck driver maneuvering large 18 wheelers over treacherous highways and mountain roads.

Melba could have been any ones mother. I wonder how many children she has? Or had she been a nurse tending the needs of others, now on the receiving end?

My husband leans over to me and says, "Did you hear what that old guy across the room just said?" No I didn't so my husband reiterated to me, "I'm going to stand up and poop in my pants and I'm not going to clean it up," were the exact words. We cringe but can't help but laugh!

Pop turns to me several times throughout his meal and cheerfully asks me the same question, "Are you going to eat, too?" Looking at his portion I think to myself how glad I am that I am not. Always the first to finish his meal he puts down his cloth napkin and indicates that he is ready to leave his left overs behind. He's not even interested in taking the tea with him. I unlock the breaks on his wheel chair and attempt to maneuver him around the rest of the diners also in their rolling chairs.

My husband and I comment on how stuffy it is. My dad comments on how cold he is. I retrieve his signature cardigan and help him pull it on over his boney, protruding shoulders. "I'm tired," he says. We roll him back to his room. Help him into bed. Tell him good night and that we'll be back tomorrow.

My husband and I find the experience shocking. My dad doesn't seem to notice.

Where Will Pop Spend Christmas?

It was about 5:00 a.m. when my husband awakened me and said, "Your dad is sick, Jude. You'd better get up." I learned that Pop had been vomiting since about 4:00 a.m. We visited him in his bedroom over the hours watching him weaken. Through the day he continued to appear to have some sort of virus. But by evening we began to question our theory of "viral." Very much against his will (he was sure he was just fine) we carefully loaded him into the car and drove to the emergency room. That night he was admitted and the next day was in surgery to repair an intestinal blockage.

The following week, during my daily visits, I watched his strength drain from his body until he looked like a Holocaust victim. The lack of solid food had taken its toll. In those hours I was reminded again the truth behind the old adage "ignorance can be bliss." As the hours rolled into days his continuous, repetitive questions reminded me that he had no recollection as to how much misery he had endured, how close to death he had been, and how uncertain his future was. As we approach the Christmas holiday season he is resting and recuperating in a convalescent hospital. I can't help but wonder, where will Pop spend Christmas?

I know that his memory challenges have trapped him in a chronic state of oblivion sort of like being locked in a room with one way mirrors; we are able to see in but he is unable to see out. Oblivious to the seasons, the celebrations, the life which swirls on around him he continues to live but not really live. Thanks giving was a blur, a non happening. I assume Christmas will be the same. While I bustle around preparing for this blessed holiday season I fit in time to see him daily but he has no idea how many hours have transpired between our visits.

Unless you've been through something like this you might not understand the following statement and think that it sounds cruel, but I often wish Pop could just spend Christmas in heaven.