16

 

The elevator is descending when I return from my walk with Nick, who heads straight to his water bowl.

When the door opens, Adam pushes Dad out and I reach in to grab his walker.

Nick is still lapping up water, and as Adam maneuvers Dad past Nick, with a three-foot clearance, Dad eyes Nick but doesn’t react.

Adam greets Nick again, but I give him a hand signal that tells him to stay. I don’t want to push things too far, too fast.

Dad’s apartment is nice and fresh from the thorough cleaning I gave it this morning while Carmen tended to him.

“This is a beautiful place you’ve got here, Joe.”

Dad’s eyes rove his apartment and settle on the view. He smiles. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Much better view than you had at Crestview. Bigger room, too.”

Dad looks a little confused and somewhat disconcerted. But why? Sometimes it’s hard to read his expression because the Parkinson’s mask—the loss of some control of the face and head muscles that creates a stare-like feature—is becoming more pronounced. I’ve been denying the change, but now in the late-afternoon light that illuminates Dad’s face, the reality is evident.

With every escalation of symptoms, my instinct is to find medicine or therapy to reverse the effects. But that’s a fruitless pursuit. Regardless of how much therapy Dad has or what medicines are used to fight his Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s, the battle will be lost, but maybe we can slow the onslaught. Adam’s therapy and mobility exercises give me hope that we’ll delay balance, muscle, and stiffness problems. Transferring Dad from a wheelchair to a bed or chair isn’t enough.

Dad says he needs to go to the bathroom, and Adam offers to help.

Adam pulls Dad into a standing position, and using his walker, Dad shuffles toward the bathroom with confidence. I realize Carmen, David and I should be ambulating Dad to the bathroom, instead of using his wheelchair. That would be good for all of us. Adam takes the opportunity to show me easier transfer and toileting methods using the handicap bar next to the toilet.

We walk Dad back to his bed, which he drops onto with a heavy sigh. “I’m tired.”

As I help him lie back, I tell him that’s understandable since he’s worked so hard today, and ask him if he’d like to have dinner in bed.

“I don’t like to eat alone.” He looks embarrassed to admit this.

“How about on the days you have therapy, I bring my dinner down here and eat with you? Then as you get stronger, you won’t be as tired after a session with Adam, and you can sit at the table with David and me.”

“That sounds good, Sugar.” He closes his eyes and is sound asleep within seconds.

Adam’s kind look tempts me to blurt out that I’m not equipped to handle everything that comes my way. I want to voice my fears and frustrations to this empathetic man who would understand. But I can’t show weakness or self-doubt in front of anyone, even Adam. If I crack, I may break.

With Dad resting, we agree to go upstairs to talk about plans for his therapy.

Nick is waiting for us, tail wagging, outside Dad’s door. I know he’s there for Adam more than me. Adam is a fresh source of love and attention, and Nick is going to take advantage of it while he can.

“Hey, Nick.” Adam reaches down to pet him.

“What’s the story with him and Joe? I thought they would be good buddies, but Joe pretty much ignores him.”

I tell him about Dad’s reaction to Nick the very first day, and how it’s likely due to his experiences with biting dogs when he was a mailman.

“He’ll get over it, and then he’ll realize how good a friend Nick can be to him.”

“You helped today, you know. Maybe bringing Nick into the room when you’re doing Dad’s therapy will move things along. What do you think? We just regret there isn’t enough time to give both of them the attention they need. I think their being together more often could help alleviate some of their loneliness.”

“I agree with you, Rachel, and I’ll do what I can to help when I’m here.” He glances around at Nick, who’s coming up the stairs behind us. “Nick has a hip problem?” I don’t question how a physical therapist as astute as Adam would know that.

“Yes, poor guy. I’ve taken him to the vet, and she suggested glucosamine chondroitin for now. She doesn’t want to put him on arthritis or anti-inflammatory medicine yet because it can be tough on his stomach and liver. But I think the effectiveness of the glucosamine is wearing off. He was better for a while, but he seems to be stiffening up again.”

Dad’s stiffening up. Nick’s stiffening up. The therapy can alleviate Dad’s stiffness to some degree. But Nick? I sigh, knowing we’re moving toward prescription drugs for him, and I worry about the side effects. Dr. Froman mentioned Rimadyl, an anti-inflammatory. I tell Adam about this, and also about an alternate treatment of Adequan that requires two intramuscular injections a week for four weeks, then one injection every two weeks for maintenance.

“I’d go with the injections,” Adam suggests. “The anti-inflammatories can be hard on a dog, even one as big and strong as Nick.”

We’re in the kitchen now. “Thanks for that advice, Adam. I better get him started on it sooner rather than later, I suppose.”

Changing the subject, I ask him if I can get him anything—water, juice, a glass of wine?

“Water would be good, thanks. But give me a few minutes with Nick first.”

Nick is licking his empty food bowl. Hope springs eternal that a morsel may magically appear or might have been left behind. Since he empties his bowl in about thirty seconds at each twice-daily feeding, it sits empty each day for twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes. Nevertheless, to our gluttonous Lab, it’s a worthy pursuit.

Adam has a natural affinity and empathy for all living things. He merely holds out his hand, and Nick is standing in front of him, anticipating and trusting.

As Adam leans over him and puts his sure hands on Nick’s hindquarters and speaks to him in a soothing voice as he moves his hands around Nick’s hips, getting a sense of the hurt. His touch is light, and Nick’s eyes close as relief takes hold. He’s taking in whatever energy Adam is giving, as dogs do. There’s no resistance, only gratification for the touch and its positive effect.

Adam sits on the floor behind Nick, massaging his hips. I watch his technique so that maybe I can help Nick in the same way. After a few minutes, Adam finishes and praises Nick. “You’re such a good boy, Nick, such a good boy.” Nick seems much more relaxed, and tears spring to my eyes in gratitude for this kindness shown to my dog. Nick’s demeanor reminds me of Dad’s when his pain pill begins to take effect. His face and features soften as the pain subsides. It occurs to me that Adam could help Nick more than any medicine, but that’s not a realistic consideration, for so many reasons—money being the main one. But I can massage Nick’s hips myself.

“Look at him. He looks so much better. I didn’t know how stressed by the pain he was until now. Thank you so much for doing that for him. Maybe next time you’re here, you can show me what you do.”

“You got it.” Adam smiles as I turn to open the refrigerator, remembering my offer of water. I take the opportunity to bring my emotions under control. Jeez, get a grip. You’ve been ready to burst into tears all day.

Nick is now on his bed in a far corner of the kitchen, his breathing soft and easy as he rests more comfortably than I’ve seen in a while.

I look at the clock. “Oh, Adam, you’ve been here almost two hours! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“No problem, but I better get going.”

“I wonder where David is. He was hoping to see you.” I’m prattling now, taking up even more of Adam’s valuable time.

“I’m sure I’ll see him soon.” Adam takes a swig from the water bottle as I reach for my purse on the kitchen island and pull out my checkbook.

“You don’t have to pay me, Rachel. I’m billing this to Medicare.”

“I know, but you only get to bill in units, and Medicare doesn’t cover your travel time. And it and certainly doesn’t cover doggie therapy.”

We both laugh, but Adam shakes his head and says, “Not necessary, Rachel. Really.”

My emotions get all liquid again, and it’s all I can do to hold back my tears. “I know it’s not necessary, Adam, but I’d feel much better if you’d let me pay you for an hour of your time, outside of what you can bill Medicare. Please let me do this. We can afford it.”

I’m so grateful to be able to say those words and know they’re true. I say a little prayer of thanks for Grandmother’s china.

“You know, Rachel, there was a time there when we were really up against it. It was winter, and we weren’t as established with the hospital and rehab centers as we are now. I used to bill you up to a thousand a month for Joe’s therapy, and you never blinked.”

“But you and Jennie did the work. You earned that money.”

“Yes, we did, but I can’t tell you how grateful we were to have it during that time. I’ll never forget seeing that ad you put in the paper, and saying to Jennie, ‘This could be an answer to our prayers.’ We were praying for something to come along. Then when I called you, and I learned what you wanted and how much you were willing to do for your dad, I knew our prayers had been answered.”

I remember so well the relief I felt at finding someone who could help Dad when he needed it most. He was still rehabbing from the broken hip when the benefits ran out, and I was desperate to keep him moving and progressing.

When I’d added massage therapy to his regimen, Adam provided a massage table to leave in Dad’s room. Two physical therapy sessions and what turned into two massage sessions per week, at sixty dollars a session, had added up. I felt I had gotten a bargain, but until this moment, I didn’t know how much that money meant to Adam and Jennie.

“You and Jennie have given Dad and me much more than I could ever pay you for. Dad wouldn’t be nearly as well as he is today without you. He’d be bedridden without that therapy. And I’ll never forget your kindness and help when he was in the hospital those two times.”

Adam nods. “We’ve said the same thing to each other about you. God led us to you and your dad. So we helped each other when we needed it.”

Before I can respond, I hear the garage door open. “David’s here.”

My tears begin to flow just as David comes through the door. At first he looks startled, then he takes in the scene, and smiles.

He walks over and offers Adam his hand. “Good to see you, Adam. Good to see you.”