Voices of the Damned

"...tormented souls I see around me wherever I move,

and howsoever I turn, and wherever I gaze."
~Dante, "Inferno"

A nursing home is never a happy place. At best, it is sad and vaguely lonely; at worst it is hideously depressing.

My father's nursing home is a "good" one --it is clean and bright, bustling with activity, and the staff is loving and attentive to the residents. It is as fine an example of this type of facility that you are likely to find anywhere, and I am happy that Daddy is receiving exceptional care.

That being said, a locked Alzheimer's ward can be horrendously heart-wrenching. Alzheimer's patients frequently wander, so the door is locked and has key-pad entrance and exit, a task too difficult for the patients to master. It keeps them safe, and that is a good thing. Many of the residents are end-stage, and thus are lost, lying in fetal positions, and apparently unaware of the world around them.

For me, the worst are those who are lost, yet still capable of some type of vocalization. There is Gertie, who giggle disconcertingly in a high-pitched squeal. Then there is Margaret, who moans and cries out "helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme" Most unnerving is Sheila, who shrieks like a banshee, seemingly without the need to breathe. There is no comforting these poor women when they are in this type of crisis, although the staff tries valiantly.

Are they merely acting spontaneously, without any causation, or are they reacting to remote memories? Worse yet, are they railing against the injustice of their disease? Do they somehow see how damned they are, from now until their ultimate death?

Whatever the cause, it all shatters me to hear and be unable to ease their misery. Like a coward, I cut short my visit and run home to sanity.

Fuck the Bird

Some hae meat and canna eat, -
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

~Robert Burns

Why should I thank God, Robbie Burns? For fucking what--each holiday being worse and more stressful than the one before? What a great damn benevolent God ye hae' laddie.

I hate holidays. I've hated them since Daddy got sick. This bloody Thanksgiving makes me need to scream and rage. Daddy isn't here: why celebrate? He's dying slowly: why celebrate? He's spending his Thanksgiving--and every other holiday--in a nursing home: why celebrate?

I can't bear the thought of Thanksgiving without him here with us. If he were dead it would be different; this is a torturous limbo. I can't picture the table without him at the head. I can't picture him eating ground-up turkey in the group dining hall of a locked-down nursing home wing.

I hate this shit. And I can't "pray to a God that I don't believe in" to give me faith and love and joy. Fuck that noise. I'm just angry and depressed and not coping at all.

I have to stop. I"m crying to hard to see and shaking too much to type.

Damnable Metaphor

You can't pay enough money to cure that feeling
of being broken and confused.
~Winona Rider

Daddy has moved to his new nursing home, closer to home. He is even more discombobulated than ever, since he is in new surroundings. He doesn't have a sense of belonging to this place yet. That will come; of course it will just take some time for him to become acclimated.

He wanders around in his wheelchair. In his old placement he was safely comfortable, and knew everyone. "Rambling Man could have been written for him. He wanders here, as well. Here, though, he doesn't know how to get back to his room. He doesn't even know that his room is HIS.

In an effort to keep him from getting lost, I took a picture I had made and wrote his name and room number on the bottom. I posted it on the wall, at wheelchair-eye-level, so he can find his way back to his place. The picture I added to this post is the one I used for Daddy's sign.

Now if only I could find a way to post a sign that would direct his brain back to good health. Instead, I feel, once again, like I'm putting a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound. My Daddy's brain is lost; nothing I or anyone else can do will bring it back.

I cried all day today. Again.

The Nature of Reality

Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight,
Red is gray and yellow white,
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion?
~The Moody Blues

I have been thinking more and more about the word "reality" these days, so I dusted off my Webster's and looked to see what they had to say. Webster's defines reality thus: "the quality or state of being real". I found it to be an intriguingly philosophical definition.

For most of us, reality is multi-layered; the tangible bits of our busy days, the anticipations and expectations of tomorrow, and the regrets and joys of yesterday. That is reality, no?

Maybe not. Maybe Daddy is the one with the firmest grasp of what reality truly is. He has no sense of the past or the future, he has only the "here-and-now". As a result, his reality is very tangible: how he feels at any given moment, what he sees, hears, thinks is all he is aware of.

Whose reality is real--his or ours? I have no idea at all.

The Green Dress

No sensible decision can be made without taking into account
not only the world as it is, but the world as it will be.
~Isaac Asimov

When one helps a toddler get dressed, a wise person asks, "do you want to wear your red shirt or your blue shirt today?" The child then has the independence to make a choice, thus affirming his developing decision-making skills. The child also can't decide she wants to wear her fancy green Christmas dress to pre-school, since it wasn't one of the options given.

Point? Only this. The red shirt is keeping Daddy in a nursing home, the blue shirt is bringing him home with 24/7 care. The entire family knows, intellectually, that the red shirt is the best option. Sadly, though,we all want the green dress--for Daddy not to be sick, for him to remain the vital, active, vibrant nucleus of our family. And that is never going to happen.

Today I am crying and screaming to wear the green dress.

Where Do You Put The Pain?

They who go

Feel not the pain of parting; it is they

Who stay behind that suffer.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Daddy has ended up in a nursing home after all. He had fallen again and was hospitalized for four days, then sent to a local nursing home for rehabilitation. He has been there for two months now, and will soon become a permanent resident there.

Sigh.

This is where he belongs. He is getting very good care. He is kept clean and no one yells at him when he forgets things. He gets tons of stimulation all day long, from physical and occupational therapy to watching the business of this small world buzz around him. He interacts with people all day long, be they other patients or the wonderful people who work there. He is popular; he has friends; everyone loves him.

So why do we cry? We cry for the Daddy we have lost. The man who was the little league coach. The man who taught us to drive. The man who took us on vacations and bought us boats. The man who disciplined us without ever raising his voice (much less his hand) to us. The man who spent countless hours amusing children by telling silly jokes, performing magic tricks, impersonating TV characters, and making funny faces. The man who taught us, by his example, what kind of people to be.

My brother and I cried together last weekend. We cried a river of tears, and it wasn't nearly enough to release the pain inside us. Our father has always been the glue that held us together. He has always been strong in a quiet, gentle sort of way.

Now it feels as if we are standing on the shore, watching Daddy sail off all alone, drifting further and further away from us every day. So maybe now all we can do is stand together on the shore, holding hands, and giving each other the strength and love we need to get by...the strength and love we learned from Daddy.

I love you, Daddy. And I love you, too, Brother.

Angels Among Us

Sit down, shut up and listen. * First things first *
Easy does it * One day at a time * Just for today * Hang In There
* Let go and let God
~Alcoholics Anonymous

I chose those quotes specifically because sometimes my intellectual arrogance gets in my way. In other words, I can be a big, fat, know-it-all. I have found that when it comes to Daddy's disease, I know next to nothing.

I spend a lot of time at the nursing home. I was resistant to him going at first, but now I see that there is no other viable option. I watch things closely, having a naturally suspicious mind. I not only watch how my father is being treated, I watch to see how all the residents are cared for.

I now shut up and listen, take it easy, and try to get through one day at a time. I can do this because of the wonderful people who work at the nursing home. They are, without fail, kind and gentle souls who honestly love their patients. The are tender and kind with the patients, friendly and helpful with the families.

I could not do what they do. I can hardly bear to see what they deal with some days. But I swear, if I had to pick the people to watch over my poor, sick old father, it would be the men and women at the nursing home. They are, without exception, angels on earth.