14

 

We’ve had a fine day since returning from the doctor’s office. Dad has been in a great mood since waking from his afternoon nap, and he was funny and engaged this evening at dinner.

I reached Adam earlier, and he was happy to hear from me. He said he had a cancellation at the spa tomorrow and would be here at five o’clock. I hadn’t expected him to come so soon, but I couldn’t be happier. Adam knows where we live because he’d been here many times to give David and me massages, back when things were rolling merrily along.

I could sure use a massage now. Not going to happen. Five o’clock tomorrow is a perfect time since it’s after Dad’s nap and before dinner. But Adam could have said midnight and I would have agreed.

As I drift off to sleep, I have peace of mind in knowing that Dad and I both have something to look forward to. I’ve just fallen asleep when the phone rings. Caller ID shows me it’s coming from Dad’s phone. I grab the phone and say, “Dad?”

He’s wailing Mother’s name. “Evelyn? Evelyn?”

“I’m coming!” I shout into the phone, then spring from bed and race downstairs.

My heart takes a hit when I see Dad on the floor with the phone in his hand, still calling for his late wife. “Evelyn? Evelyn?”

It’s impossible for Dad to get hurt even if he falls out of bed. One great thing about the Alzheimer’s bed is that it lowers to six inches from the floor. Every night I put a four-by-eight-foot, four-inch-thick pad beside it. Since one side of the bed is against the wall, the only way he can roll out is on the side where the pad lays, and it’s only a two-inch drop. The assisted living facility had done the same from the day he’d moved in, and there was never a worry about a broken bone or serious injury with this system in place. I had been told that sometimes they found him on the pad during the night, calling for “Evelyn,” but this is the first time it’s happened since he came to live with us.

Still, it alarms me to see him on the floor, pleading into the phone he has dragged down with him, and looking so lost, sad and scared. David comes up behind me, with Nick on his heels. I don’t think to tell Nick to stop as I rush toward Dad. But Nick does stop, and watches as David and I get on either side of Dad and lift him onto his bed while reassuring him that all is fine, that he’ll be fine.

Breathing hard from fear and exertion, I sit down beside him on the bed and take his hand. “Evelyn?” he asks again as he looks right into my face, and I know his mind is elsewhere, that he’s disoriented and can’t comprehend what’s happening—and that he’s confusing me with my mother.

This is a new and disturbing turn of events, and I wonder if he is moving further into Stage 6 Alzheimer’s.

He moans, then reaches out to gently touch my face with trembling fingers, while making an “oohing” sound, over and over. He is looking at me with lonesome longing, and it’s obvious he thinks I’m his wife.

I can’t help it. I slip to the mat on the floor, put my face in my hands, and start bawling. I have never cried in front of Dad since he moved in. Sure, I’ve shed my share of tears of frustration, but always in private. Now I cry for Dad’s loss and loneliness; I cry for all that has happened, and all that is coming. I cry because whatever I do, however much I try, the Alzheimer’s will steal him away from me.

Wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my pajamas, I look up at Dad. He’s back, and he looks alarmed, as does David. Dad says, “Don’t cry, honey. I love you.”

Whether he is talking to me or Mother, I can’t distinguish. But I pull myself up off the floor and sit on the bed next to him. I take his hand and put my heart into my reply, “I love you, too, Dad. So, so much.”

David and I work together to reassure Dad and get him settled again. Our feet sink into the pad, and we’re clumsy as we position him on his bed. I cover Dad and tuck his comforter around him.

I’m startled to see that Nick is standing next to me, on the pad, wanting to offer his own sweet brand of comfort to whoever needs it. But Dad doesn’t even notice Nick, though his eyes are wide open. I follow his upward gaze. The ceiling isn’t an impediment to what he’s seeing, because he’s seeing beyond this room. Now he looks serene, and I wonder if he’s imagining Mother.

David and I look at each other, acknowledging we’ve had the same thought. Dad closes his eyes and falls into a breathing pattern that tells us he’s gone back to sleep. We’re relieved but still shaken.

David takes my hand, makes a motion to Nick, and leads us both out the door.

He stops and puts his arms around me, and I am comforted by the outpouring of his emotions and love when he says, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Nick is leaning against my legs, and with one arm still wrapped around David, I reach down to rub Nick’s head. My family. My strength. My source of comfort. My heart. My David. My dog.

And yes, my dad.