37

 

Dad has slept this entire trip to Debra and Charles’s home. He’s been really lethargic ever since breakfast. He took his most important pills, and ate his oatmeal with banana, but he was more sluggish than usual as he opened his mouth for feeding.

A little later he opened one of his presents, which seemed to take forever, and seemed pleased with yet another sweater. In the short time it took for me to turn around and retrieve another gift from under the tree for him to open, he had closed his eyes and was unresponsive to my gentle prodding to wake up.

Since Marcy has the day off, it was up to David and me to get him ready for this trip, and it sure wasn’t easy. Despite his weight loss, which hasn’t been reversed, Dad still weighs about a hundred and sixty-five, and when he goes limp, he’s dead weight. Even with the two of us working together, it was a harder chore than usual. By the time we got him bathed and dressed, we were both short of breath. We left him lying fully clothed on his bed while we went upstairs to get ready ourselves.

It took all of our combined strength to hoist him from the bed into his wheelchair. Now I’m wondering why we didn’t call Debra and let her know the situation and just beg off. I keep thinking he’ll come around, but we’re halfway there, and that’s looking less likely by the mile.

I sure hope he’s not coming down with another UTI; but something is causing him to be this lackluster, and I need to get to the bottom of it.

This is such a bad week for any possible health problems because Dr. Baird’s office hours are shorter between Christmas and New Year.

David is driving, and I’m on the back-bench seat, where I’ve been observing Dad’s flopping head.

“David, please pull over somewhere. I want to put Dad’s neck pillow on him, or he’s going to have a sore neck.” I don’t know why I didn’t do this before we started out. Sometimes I let my worries drown out lucid thoughts. I need to step up my game.

Even though there’s a light covering of snow on the ground, the roads are clear and the tires are new, making it safe for David to pull over. With his help, I lift Dad’s head and position the pillow around his neck. Now, no matter which way his head tilts, his neck muscles will be supported.

“He sure is out of it today,” David comments as he pulls back onto the highway.

“Yes, and I’m getting worried about him. I just hope he wakes up and is able to enjoy himself.”

David chuckles. “He’ll be upset if he wakes up only in time for dessert and realizes he’s missed Debra’s honey baked ham and sweet potato casserole.”

I know David’s just having fun, but I’m too troubled about just how sluggish Dad is to appreciate it. Even if he wakes up, it’s going to be tough to get food and pills into him. I start to get a headache at the thought of what all of that can mean, and my back is hurting like crazy from the heavy lifting this morning. I tumble into a foul mood.

I try to keep the petulance out of my voice as I call Debra and ask her to put on a pot of coffee, explaining that the trip has put him to sleep, and I can’t keep him awake. What else am I going to say? That he went practically comatose this morning, but we decided to drag him across the mountains anyway?

Just as we’re turning into Debra’s driveway, Dad mumbles, “Where are we?” I’m excited to think he has come around, but by the time Debra, Charles, and their son Brad come out to greet us, Dad’s head is dipping in sleepy torpor again.

David rolls him down the van’s ramp onto their driveway. Debra, Charles and Brad hail Dad with hearty Merry Christmas greetings, accompanied by hugs, pats, and kisses—but he doesn’t move so much as an eyelash.

We all contemplate Dad for a moment, and a sense of dismay descends on our group until I say, “Let’s get him inside and get some coffee into him.” The hint of optimism in my voice must be motivational, because everyone starts moving.

Debra assures me in a confident voice that she has a fresh pot at the ready, and further assures me it will help. I love my cousin’s positivity. She sets off at a brisk pace to get inside the house, no doubt to ready a cup of coffee for the medicinal purposes we’ve assigned to it. As we all come to a rolling stop inside the foyer, Debra comes out of the kitchen with a plastic coffee mug with a sippy top. Smart.

Having done their duty to get Dad hauled up the outside steps and safely inside, the guys relax, shake hands and slap each other’s backs. They unanimously agree a glass of Scotch would hit the spot, and Brad catches David up on football scores as they round the corner, their voices fading away from us. They’re leaving the revival to Debra and me.

“What’s wrong with him today?” She looks seriously worried, and rightfully so. She extends her arm and holds the sippy mug under his nose, hoping the stimulating aroma will bring him around.

There is still no response from Dad as I confess, “I don’t know, but he’s been like this since this morning after breakfast. It was tough to get him ready.”

“Do you think he has another UTI?” From taking care of her mother, she knows this kind of lethargy is one of the symptoms. Her mother was able to vocalize the discomfort, whereas Dad, like so many patients with dementia, is not.

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Debra sets the cup on a table in the foyer while I remove the neck pillow. We struggle with Dad’s stiffened limbs to get him out of his heavy jacket, and then I reposition the pillow. The bottom of his face has more or less disappeared into it and he seems to descend into an even deeper slumber.

Debra gently unfurls his fisted right hand and wraps each finger around the coffee cup. It has a serious tilt to it and looks precarious to me, but it’s plastic and has the spill-proof top, so it shouldn’t cause any damage if he drops it. I have to wonder why she’d put it into his hand when the bottom half of his face, including his mouth, is buried in the neck pillow. I see no coffee-drinking action forthcoming. But hey, it’s there if he wakes up and decides he wants a sip of revitalizing coffee.

We study him for an anxious moment, then Debra tries the old magic-kiss cure. She takes his face in both of her hands and raises his head. She plants a big kiss on the top of his head and says, “Merry Christmas, Uncle Joe!” She has used her best and most robust holiday-cheer voice. However, when a plausible amount of allowed time elapses without a response—not even a crack of the eyelids—she looks at me and says, “Oh, boy.”

Indeed.

 

 

Christmas dinner happens around Dad. He’s at the head of the table, with Debra and me on either side of him, trying to wake him and encourage him with enticing smells. We go so far as to hold forks and spoons laden with different foods under his nose, using food as an equivalent to smelling salts in hopes of reviving him. At one point he moans, but we don’t know if it’s with appreciation or in aggravation, so we abandon our efforts.

Charles suggests we sing Christmas carols, reminding us that Dad loves them and loves to sing along with them. We all hail the idea, so he changes out the classical renditions of Christmas carols currently playing and puts on a lively CD of various artists.

We all sing along with gusto. I’m particularly good at singing along with Brenda Lee when she’s belting out, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” No one can put more emphasis on the word “deck” than I can when Brenda gets to the line, Deck the halls with boughs of holly! I give it my best today, in a voice that’s been known to startle people to the point of dropping things or jumping a half-foot in place.

Too bad Christmas music only comes around once a year.

I direct my song at Dad with real intent. His eyes pop open, but they are bleary and disengaged until they land on Charles. Then they focus and widen, and we all watch with anticipation, thinking this is it, he’s coming around. But he only gives Charles an oddly accusatory look, then nods off again.

Mild-mannered Charles looks confused, and a little injured. “What did I do?” he asks us.

Brad’s girlfriend Paula, who arrived a few minutes after we did, shyly suggests, “Maybe the music is too loud?”

Charles looks like any wrongfully accused man at a holiday table would look, but he doesn’t reply.

Just then, in a startling moment that catches us off-guard, Dad emits a loud grunt and his eyes pop open again. With his head still resting to the side on his pillow, he takes a slow-roving inventory of his surroundings. He straightens his head and looks directly at Charles. We all watch as he raises his arm in slow motion. His gaze doesn’t falter as he points an unsteady finger at Charles, and says in a tone of accusatory mirth, “You’re an instigator, you know that?”

We all burst into laughter, and Dad smiles his devilish smile, then states he’s hungry. It’s like a switch has turned on, activating his mind and his body. He becomes animated and takes pleasure in each and every bite of food Debra and I offer.

As I watch him, I think about how, over the years, we’ve received invitations to parties with a little maxim which said: No gifts, please. Your presence is our present.

Until now, I always thought that was kind of hokey, even if it was well intentioned. But it’s perfectly applicable to this day of celebration.

Dad’s presence is the best Christmas present I’ll receive this year.