TheBanyanTree: Father's Day

[Pat M]

Father’s Day



It’s Sunday, June 19th, 2011 - Father’s Day and I key in the security code
to enter the Extended Care Unit of the hospital. After Thanksgiving dinner,
some eight months ago, Dad had a major stroke. He survived, but we lost Dad
that day just the same.



I hardly knew my father and he certainly didn’t know me although we lived in
the same house. Remote and uninterested, he hardly spoke to me throughout my
entire childhood. Fatherhood to him meant putting a roof over my head and
supplying food and clothing – the necessities and he did a good job of that.
I needed more; I needed to know he loved me and I needed him to protect me
from Mom’s violent rages. On those counts he failed. Only in the year before
the stroke when I was in my mid-fifties had we begun building our fragile
relationship into something stronger. And sometime in those months,
forgiveness had come without me knowing it: forgiveness that not only had he
been absent for me but he had failed my only child, Michelle too.  Although
we lived in the same small town for the first ten years of my daughter’s
life, not once had he and my step-mom invited her to their home or showed
any interest in getting to know her.


The common room I enter is large and bright with circular tables throughout.
It is lunchtime and almost all of the seventy-five residents are seated in
wheelchairs around their tables. It’s like looking at a portrait of old-age,
a collage of disabled bodies, slack mouths and skewed minds, and an
unpleasant reminder of how we may end up if we live long enough.


Dad’s left side was paralyzed by the stroke and he suffered major brain
damage resulting in memory loss, delusions and confusion. In the beginning
there was hope. I learned something about my soft-spoken father: he has a
strong will. He was motivated to do the exercises I helped him with in the
hope his wife would take him home.


Eventually he was able to move his wheelchair with his one good arm and his
mind improved too. The delusions were diminishing and he was lucid most of
the time.  He was doing so well that I started taking him to private
physiotherapy to speed up his recovery. I had high hopes, hopes that were
dashed when he took a sudden turn for the worse.


We suspect Dad had a mini-stroke or a series of them as his vision suddenly
deteriorated and his dementia began to rapidly worsen. For the past couple
of months he has been in a steady decline. I’ve had to give up hope he will
ever leave this institution and I am buckling under this heavy weight.


I make my way toward Dad trying to gauge his condition. I never know what to
expect. He slumps in a low-slung wheelchair next to Table 3, a shell of the
man he was. With forced good cheer, I put a smile in my voice.


“Hi Dad! It’s Pat.”


I note his wrinkled brow. Something is worrying him. He looks around slowly,
unable to track the direction of my voice. Some days he is completely blind;
other days he has limited vision. Today it isn’t apparent whether he can see
me or not.


“Hello,” he says.


“How are you?” I ask.


“Not good,” he says. “I had to pee myself.”


“I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t like it any better than you do, but that’s
the way they do things in here.”


Dad frets because the nurses won’t put him on the commode and he is forced
to go to the toilet in a diaper. Nearly every time I visit, he brings it up.



“I haven’t …. myself in eighty years and I’m not going to start now,” he
often says, but unfortunately he has no choice. It’s easier and quicker for
staff to change a soiled diaper than to put an invalid on a bedpan. It
angers me that the elderly are forced to lose their dignity in this way.  Those
who seldom visit the ECU think it is a good place and have praise for the
staff. Those, like myself, who are there often are disillusioned.


Recently my sister visited Dad around 3 pm and at that time told staff he
needed to be changed. They advised they would do so. When I arrived at
dinnertime, Dad was covered in his own waste after trying to remove his
soiled diaper himself. The caring staff had left him in his own mess for
hours. Without a second thought, I’d cast the soiled blankets on the floor,
changed his nightgown and disinfected his hands. Where there is love, one
can do anything.


Dad’s biggest worry though is his failing memory. He spends hours trying to
remember people’s names and is just cognizant enough to know he is losing
his mind. He tries to hang onto his sanity and suffers his failure.


“Do you know who I am?”


“Tommy Bird,” he says.


Tommy Bird was a boy who lived a few doors over from the home I grew up in
so many decades ago.


“No Dad. It’s Pat.”


He should know me by the sound of my voice I reason, but there is nothing
reasonable about dementia.


The lunch trolley has arrived.


“Are you hungry? I’m going to get your lunch. I’ll be back in a minute,” I
chirp, trying to remain positive.


Dad’s lunch is served on a pink tray which signals he is a ‘feed’.  A few
months ago he was able to eat on his own but now with his impaired vision
and declining strength, he is helpless.


I return with his tray. He is like a sparrow. I spoon food into his open
mouth. He stares at me and I stare back. I am reminded of when I breast-fed
Michelle. The eye contact is the same. I am his mother; he is my child. I am
overwhelmed with love. And then he is gone.


“I want to speak to Pat. She was here a few minutes ago,” he says.


My insides twist.


“I’m here Dad. It’s me.”


“Pat!” he shouts.


“It’s me, Dad,” I say again.


“I know it’s you but I want to speak to Pat!  Pat!” he bellows again.


I gently cup Dad’ face in my hands and turn him toward me.



“Look Dad. It’s me. Pat. What do you want to talk about?’


“I need to talk to Pat. She’s over there.” He nods to indicate where he
thinks he sees me.


I get up, walk away and return, playing along.


“Hi Dad,” I say.


He doesn’t buy it.


“I need to talk to Pat!”


Over and over he calls me. I am at a loss. Others are watching. I’m upset
and embarrassed. Dad is showing everyone what I want to deny: he is slipping
away and no amount of love can hold him back.


“Let’s finish your lunch,” I say and spoon some food into his mouth. I am
rattled but it will do no good to walk away. Love holds me there; love will
give me strength to get through this. Love is the way.


xxxx