GIF

Monika

Victor

Victor stands in the doorway of his assisted living suite and calls out to me as I come out of Dad’s room.  The day is bright and sunny on the lush grassy courtyard.  It is nearly noon and Dad will be up soon to join the other residents for lunch in the dining room.  Rather than wake him I sit on the wrought iron chair under the veranda at Dad’s doorway to enjoy what is surely the last of the mild early summer season.  Victor is wearing his usual blue shorts with suspenders over a white tee.  Varicose veins matching the blue of his shorts look like dripping blue paint down his legs.  He is one of the few of twelve residents who doesn't have profound dementia.  He lives in assisted care because he can afford it.  Victor had been in the Navy most of his working life.  He and his wife shared the spacious studio apartment until she died two years ago.  Victor is 82, normally not talkative.  He is Dad’s new tablemate since Dad’s previous tablemate died and Victor’s previous one was moved to nursing care after a fall.  Victor is telling me that “he’s doing better” as he points to Dad’s door.  I amble over to his doorway to pass a few minutes of chat and he quickly invites me in.  Inside is a neat and tidy suite with a queen size bed, a wall of white cabinets and two overstuffed recliners facing a television.  He points at the chair nearest the door.  “She died in that chair” he says.  I nod.  I tell him this is a lovely spacious room.  He says he doesn't need all this room but he doesn't want to move into a small one.  He says Dad “is getting better” and that he talks more now.  Victor gives me a chatty brief synopsis of his days in the navy.  The Aleutians.  The cold sea.  The outline of the Russian mainland.  It is 1944.  He was a “bad boy” and sent to the cold north.  It was sometimes minus 40 degrees.  There were many kinds of ships on the cold north pacific.  There were days he thought he’d catch his death of cold out there.  There were days he wouldn't trade for anything.  “I was in WWII, in Korea, in Viet Nam”. “He’s doing better” he says again.  “He talks more”.  Dad is deaf but he reads lips very well.  I think he’s been deaf longer than anyone knows but has always covered it, compensated, worked around it.  He looks for body signals.  He laughs when others laugh or when he can't come up with a usable remark.   I tell Victor this.  He says he knows Andrew is deaf.  It doesn't matter.  “I talk to him”.  “He talks to me more and more”.  I nod.  In my purse is a sheaf of papers, about twenty pages.  It is a translation into English of a memoir my father wrote in German, or was it Hungarian?  Reams of single spaced typewritten pages that he worked on all the years of my childhood are reduced to these 20 pages.  I brought them for Dad even though I know he can no longer make sense of writings.  I tell Victor that he might find this interesting.  “Five years out of the life of your tablemate”.  Five years of a man who was somewhere on the land called Russia that you saw from your cold ship” so many years ago.  He nods.  “I know Andrew had an interesting life, I wondered about it” he says.  I leave Victor to go to the dining room to chat with Maria the weekend cook while I wait for Dad to wake up.  She brings me ice tea.  I tell her what I have given Victor.  She smiles and winks.  “Good.  That’s good”.  

Dementia 101, in One Act

The Play

A daughter attempts to prepare her father for a visit to an assisted living facility.

The Characters

The Dad

The Daughter

The Scene

A sunny kitchen in the morning. The Daughter is standing at the sink at center stage. The Dad enters stage right and crosses to table. He hangs his cane on the back of a chair and looks around squinting.

(German accent)

Ver’s Minika... Manica... Monika?

Good Morning Dad.

Oh, der's Monika, ok. Ok. Ver’s my hat?

In the dryer.

(quizzical look) My Stick, ver's my stick?

(Daughter crosses to chair and pats the cane) Right here.

Oh.

Here’s your applesauce and spoon. (She places the objects she is holding on the table)

Ok. (he sits down at his place at the table)

Today is a special day!

Vat?

A special day today!

Vat?

(The Daughter adjusts his hearing aid)

Today is a special day! We are going on a trip!

No, no my knee…(He brings out his knee and rubs it with both hands)

You don’t have to worry about your knee where we're going.

No?

No.

Ver’s my hat?

It’s in the dryer. Today we are going to see your new apartment and meet the manager and have a nice lunch there!

(quizzical look)

Far?

No, it’s over the mountain, like our other house. Not far.

(He brings out his knee again and rubs it) You know dis is no goot…

You won’t have trouble walking at your new apartment. It’s very FLAT there. No steps.

Far?

No not very far. We are going to have lunch there today and meet the other people who live in the other apartments!

(quizzical look)

Ver’s my stick?

(pointing) Right there.

My hat, ver’s my hat?

In the dryer. Eat your applesauce. Here’s your omelet. It’s VERY HOT!

(The Dad takes a big bite of omelet)

"HOT! VERY HOT"!

(The Daughter crosses to sink and comes back to table with a glass) Here’s your juice.

Ver’s my stick?

(pointing) There.

Do you understand that today we are going to see your new apartment?

(He brings out his knee again and rubs it)

You know dis von no goot. (He points at his other knee) Dis von goot.

There are no steps at the apartment. It is very FLAT. You will meet the manager. She is very nice! We will have lunch with her in the dining room today so you can meet the other people who live there!

Machine? Deh take me?

Yes, they have a car to take the people places.

(He brings out his knee again.)

You don’t have to worry. There are no steps. Eat your omelet. (The Daughter exits through a small door into another room and reappears carrying a tweed cap.) Here’s your hat.

(He puts on his cap) Varm. Nice.

(The Dad finishes his breakfast while the daughter sips coffee at the sink. He gets up, bends to rub his knee) You know dis von no goot! (then he bends his good knee) dis von goot! I vas in da military!

Yes, I know but that isn’t where you hurt your knee. Do you remember where you hurt your knee?

(quizzical look) (He picks up a flashlight by the door and flicks it on and off rapidly several times then reads the manufacture’s name

haltingly)  Gab..er..ly...Dis is mine!

You can have it.

It vas mine but now is here...I don’t know. (flicking the flashlight on and off) Who made dis?

(The Daughter hands The Dad his cane, he walks toward door stage left, opens the door.)

(The Dad with the flashlight, pauses, turns toward the table and points the flashlight back at it while flicking it on and off several times then, twirling his cane, continues through the door.)

lights dim then fade to black

The Man in the Mirror

In the hallway at Creek House is a floor to ceiling mirror that when one walks out of the Green Room, Dad’s room, one walks at themselves. Of course one would ignore such a reflection and hardly even register the mirror after a few passes, however, Dad sees not himself but another person walking towards him.

He is gregarious, so is the other man, he is playful, like the other man, he is prone to social chatter and so he stops…says hello, tips his cap, chats awhile, then gives a two-fingered salute and continues down the hall. This behavior would seem comical, even a source for family jokes but we have reached a point now, he has reached a point now, where it seems his mental state is even below that of the dogs, who pass this mirror and any others without so much as a glance at their reflections. Is it because dogs see with their noses first? That if they don’t smell another dog the dog must not be there even if they see it? Or has Dad lost that part of his brain that intuitively knows what a reflection is? Oddly, he doesn’t find his shaving mirror disorienting. He even ignores other mirrors that are attached to movable objects such as cabinet doors. But the full-length mirror appears to him as another human. And the thing that is so uncanny is that he doesn’t recognize his own stance, his own clothes, his own cap that he tips to the other man. Reason has left him or the ability to reason, the cognitive aspects of reason have left him when confronted with himself in certain mirrors. We hear him chatting and we learn that he is not happy with his existence and ready to "get the hell out of here". He wants to go into his past, back to familiar settings where he remembers the terrain. He wishes the man in the mirror "luck", "good luck".

Dad ate the Minwax

The two cans of furniture refinisher sat in the Home Depot bag next to me on the floor of the ER examination room while we waited for the results of a precautionary chest x-ray. An array of lights flashed Dad’s vital signs in neon colors. Dad was vital alright, he was doing pull-ups using the gurney rails and babbling happily to the doctor. Now and then Dad pointed out some medically interesting tidbit like his missing kneecap, his hearing aid and the corn on his little toe. He covered one eye at a time to demonstrate – unrequested – his ability to read the writing on both a child abuse prevention poster and the doctor’s name-tag. Each medical offering drew a smile and nod from the doctor towards Dad and his questioning look towards me. “Dementia”, I said. “Ah”, said the doctor. The triage nurse returned with the results of the call to Poison Control. The Minwax that Dad had scraped out of the can to eat with a spoon would not harm him after all. It would just induce a mild laxative effect. The dark walnut refinishing liquid was a little more toxic, however not much of that was missing from its can. The chest x-ray results came back negative except for a small “spot” in his lower lung lobe that could be unrelated early onset of pneumonia. The doctor wrote a prescription for ammoxicillian but suggested I fill it only if Dad developed a cough. I helped Dad back into his jacket, handed him his cane and thanked the staff. Dad waved happily to everyone as we shuffled our way out into the lobby and back to the car.

On the drive home I began questioning my actions. Should I have called the Poison Control number rather than rush Dad to the ER? Perhaps. Had I reacted like a mother with an injured two-year-old? Yes. But Dad ate Minwax for crying out loud! He drank furniture refinisher after prying off a childproof cap and forcing a tight red safety plug out of the can! The stuff had awful fumes that made me light headed but he drank it! I mentally retraced the event. The cans had been sitting on the kitchen island where I had dropped them while I answered a phone call. I didn’t notice the bag was missing. It wasn’t until I was taking Dad his tuna casserole that the Minwax fumes in his room sent me into a panic. He was putting the lid back on the can saying “I don’t think I can eat any more of that”. I searched frantically for the can of refinisher liquid and discovered it out on the back porch. I read the accidental ingestion warning on each can. “Call the doctor immediately” and Contact Poison Control at once”. Yikes! I knew what Dad’s doctor would say if I ever even got past the receptionist: “take him to the ER!” Calling the 800 number for Poison Control and being put on hold? No. Ok, so I wouldn’t have done anything differently. But next time (next time?) I’ll think it through and act with more forethought, rationally. I felt better. I relaxed, absolved.

Later, at home, I searched for the missing childproof cap and red safety plug. Gone. Maybe he swallowed them? Oh well, they’re probably not toxic and the laxative effect of the Minwax…well… he should pass them.

Home Office Chronicals 8

The Shaving Mug

Dad wanders into the kitchen as I pour coffee into my favorite mug. He holds out his mug so I naturally begin to pour when he shrieks and withdraws it. “Dat beem ney caffee!” he steps back aghast and stares down into his shaving mug. It's empty, I hadn’t gotten a drop into it. He sits down at the kitchen table and holds a hand to his chest shaking his head. I should have recognized his shaving mug, don’t know why I hadn’t, too early I guess. I stand at the kitchen island drinking coffee and leafing through last week’s newspaper. “Zop, I vant new zop, you go ven?” he holds up his mug twirling one finger into it to signify his shaving brush. Great, now I’ve got to try and find shaving soap again, a thing stores just don’t stock much anymore. Where did I get the last batch? I think it was the pharmacy where I pick up Dad’s meds. Wonder if they would sell it to me through the drive thru window? How long would it take me to explain what kind of soap to the young woman at the window? No, I’d have to go into the store and hunt it down. “Vat und you go now ven you go?” Dad asked. Funny, no matter how battered his speech becomes I always understand what he's saying the way young mothers always understand their two-year-olds. Dad’s dementia is just an inconvenience like running out of shaving soap. “I go valk da dogs, you get zop ok?” “Ok, Dad, later today”, I say. He picks up his mug and puts it down next to the coffeepot then thinks better of it and takes it with him. I watch him descend the porch steps and wander out to the south beyond the pine trees with the dogs tagging along. He picks up his five iron where he had left it and pulls bright yellow golf balls out of a pocket placing them in a row on the sand. Dad’s back swing is followed carefully by five sets of dog eyes. They each had experienced that back swing up close and personally. Crack, thunk! A ball hits the tool shed a hundred feet away. Crack! Another whistles through the pine trees and out of sight. I take my coffee back to my office and wonder if I’ll find the time to drive into town today.

Home Office Chronicals 7

 Be forewarned: This is a "Dog Story"

Two Green Grapes

Pogo, our big Dalmatian, has been walking around the front steps for some time now with 2 green grapes between his front teeth. He's holding them sticking out just as far as he can without dropping them for the sole purpose of tormenting Sugar, our Samoyed Husky. Pogo knows that green grapes stolen from the garden are Sugar’s favorite snack and Sugar, being the very intelligent animal that she is, knows that these two grapes in Pogo’s lips are the very best two green grapes from the entire garden and so there is just no reason to go get her own two green grapes --she must have those two green grapes. Pogo is making sure the two green grapes are always in Sugar’s sight. He stays right in front of her. She turns away; he circles in front of her. She lies down; he drops his head so she can still see the grapes without lifting hers. She wanders over to the pond to get a drink; he dips his head down next to her without getting his grapes wet. This goes on for some time until finally Pogo spots a cottontail, drops the now forgotten grapes and runs after it. Sugar saunters over and picks up the two green grapes but doesn’t eat them. She holds them between her front paws waiting for Pogo to return…

(...actually, grapes are very bad for dogs so we keep the dogs out of the fenced garden. Pogo managed to pick these through the fence. He doesn't like grapes but he knows Sugar does)