"All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost."

Sunday, January 31, 2010

TABLE FOR FIVE

My dad lives in room 514 at Bickford Memory Care, which is right across the street from the middle school where I teach. I visit him every afternoon around 3:30 and stay through dinner. It's brutal. Ten residents hobble and wobble down to the dining room at suppertime to repeat the same conversation from the previous meal and eat food too slippery to get from spoon to mouth. Even my father, the most far gone of the bunch, shakes his head and gives me a look that no doubt shouts HOW THE HELL DID I WIND UP HERE? I ponder the absurdity of the situation myself. My beautiful, genius father, a war hero - the guy with the PhD and three masters degrees - who once was my world, my hero really, sitting silently with virtual strangers, folding and refolding his napkin, waiting to be fed. The vital element of a family dinner is missing, and we all ache for it, though no one says a word. Everyone knows, at some level, that they are not home and this is not their table. My mind whirls back to the house on Harleigh Drive, the cabin in Lake Tahoe, Grama's house on Sundays where dinnertime often lasted two hours. We held hands as grace was said before the meal, our plates were stacked at my father's place, and we each took turns asking for a small portion of disgusting mushrooms and, yes please, gravy on the mashed potatoes. Wine flowed, milk spilt, salt and pepper passed. Conversations were learning experiences, and my brothers and I grew to be relentless, highly-skilled debaters, as well as obnoxiously opinionated adults later in life. It was glorious. I will myself not to cry as I bolster my father up in his chair and cover him with napkins. I've considered buying him a bib, but I just can't face it. I love him so much and hope, like mother bird to chick, I can deposit food into his open mouth. It would mean so much to me if we could talk, maybe debate Obama's health care proposal, but those days are gone and my father no longer remembers that he is a raging Republican who nourished a liberal Independent over a bread basket during spaghetti dinners at Grama's. At last, the first course arrives. It's vegetable soup with disgusting mushrooms that will soon dribble down my father's mouth and land on the neck of his shirt. Luckily, there are two ladies with enviable language skills who share our table for five and, while we begin the meal, the conversation inevitably goes like this: MARIE: I'm leaving tomorrow. IRENE: Oh, that's nice. MARIE: I don't know how to go. IRENE: Where ya goin'? MARIE: Texas. IRENE: Oh say, that's far. MARIE: I can't drive ya know. IRENE: Oh dear, at least it's not snowing. MARIE: I'll have to walk. IRENE: Oh my, that's a long walk. And, occasionally, at the end of the meal, the two exchange phone numbers, scribbled on small pieces of paper, which they tuck away in the pockets of their sweaters for safe keeping. I wheel my father back to his room, brush his teeth, settle him in the recliner and cover him with a blanket. I turn on the history channel, kiss him goodnight, and button on my coat. I'm hungry and looking forward to the dinner I'll share with my husband when I get home. I know I'll be back at Bickford tomorrow, and I'll sit at that table. I'm sad and I'm sorry. This is hard, and I don't know how to go. I must stay with him on this journey. I have to go the distance, and, oh my, that's a long walk.

3 comments:

  1. You are beautiful and a wonderful writer!

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  2. you are so beautiful. i am incredibly thankful that 50 percent of me is from you.

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  3. wow, im so glad you started this blog. this is casey van de merkt from a long time ago..i was friends with ali in grade school.

    my husband's grandmother moved in with his parents, and we lived with them for a short time so we experienced Dorothy living with AD for quite sometime. it went from jokes about standing outside, or pushing people in the refrigerator, to violent upsets about someone having hid her scarf or wanting to go home. from there it progressed to constantly crying about her mother...and the last stages when the 2 year old neighbor thought gramma dorothy would probably enjoy her babydoll more than she would...and dorothy never put it down. dealing with AD is overwhelming and sad...you wonder if there are an lucid moments where things make sense...or when a question is finally answered with full understanding of what was being asked. i can't wait to keep reading. youre a powerful writer.

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