He didn't recognize me last night when I arrived.
My dad has been in a nursing facility for nearly three years, since he had his first series of strokes a few years after my mother died. I get out here
in the Thick a few times a year in order to visit him. In addition to his illness he also has a mass growing on his brain, which may or may not be cancerous. It's not in his best interest, at his advanced age and physical frailty, to have it surgically looked at or removed, so his dementia, which is advancing and may or may not be connected to the mass, takes from him small bits of memory and control daily.
I last visited him early last summer, before my detached retina limited my ability to travel, and planned to visit again in late November for two weeks. However, I've been covering two regions since September when another chaplain left, and so there was no one to cover my vacation. So I have waited until January to come here. I'm here for two weeks and may take note of each day or I may not. Like so much of life after a loved one is diagnosed with a terminal illness, I will take it all a day, even an hour, at a time.
To be fair, he had been asleep when I arrived, although per his aides, he had been talking with them about my visit all day. But he looked at me like he might look at any stranger who showed up in his room and it took at least fifteen minutes and several hints before he said my name himself. Even then, he seemed unable to accept or understand that I was there. But he let me help him back into bed and kiss him and tell him good night, and he said he loved me too.
I left a note beside his bed telling him when I would return today, a practice I learned helps lessen his anxiety and confusion as to whether I had been there or he was dreaming, whether I was returning, or if I had gone home yet. I went back there at one this afternoon. He was asleep again--as he's aged he spends a lot of time sleeping--and woke immediately when I touched his arm and said his name. This time he not only knew me, said my name at once, and struggled to sit up. I helped him sit up and then to make it into his wheelchair.
I asked if he wanted to go to the hallway to look out the window and talk, but he shook his head and said, Stay here. So for the next couple hours we sat in his room together, sometimes talking, more often just sitting quietly. Occasionally we both fell asleep for a bit, after which when he woke he asked me to help him into bed again. He lay there, falling asleep a few more times while I sat in the chair next to his bed reading.
Finally, we had the period I'd hoped for. He woke, looked at me, grinned like he used to, and hit my arm on that side, saying, You! Then he talked about growing older and getting sicker and how difficult it was. I'm tired, he said. I'm tired. I knew he meant more than just at the moment. It's the same "I'm tired" I've heard from dozens of hospice patients. "I'm tired of suffering indignities, I'm tired of pissing and shitting in my pants, I'm tired of living life a few waking hours at a time." I told him I figure I'll say the same when I'm his age and he grinned again, like he used to, and said, Yes, you will.
It was a good conversation for the little while it lasted, maybe ten minutes, and then he drifted off again. But before he did I told him I'd come back in the morning and spend time with him again.
