Day Two

Yesterday I visited my dad at the memory care unit.

When I arrived, my dad was in his room. I was not pleased. He needs to talk to people. At home, he was stuck with one person most of the time, and that person was worn out and avoided spending too much time with him. I want him to socialize. He thinks the other patients are not worth talking to, and in some cases, there is something to that, but there are also people there who are considerably sharper than he is.

I brought him ice cream sandwiches, a 12-pack of caffeine-free Coke, a laundry hamper, mechanical pencils for crossword puzzles, a book of puzzles, his bathrobe, and a can of disinfectant wipes (for me). The staff at an ALF will do a lot for a patient, but the family has to fill in a lot of gaps.

I showed up at dinner time, but he was not in the dining room. I encouraged him to go; people need to eat, and I wanted to try to have a conversation with him in a comfortable setting. We found a table, and he ordered some food.

The food is not good. I’m sure it gets the job done, but it’s not something I would want to eat. They gave him pizza, fries, and mixed vegetables, plus cherry pie. The pizza was bread with sauce, cheese, and toppings. The fries were frozen. The vegetables were canned. He seemed okay with it, though. I suppose they know their clientele. I suppose most of them can’t smell anything.

Because he showed up late, they were out of knives and forks, so they had to send to the main cafeteria for his flatware. While we waited, a little hand appeared by my right shoulder, holding a clean knife and fork. This is how I met Gloria.

Gloria is maybe five feet two inches tall, and I would guess she weighs a hundred pounds. I would put her age at 75. She seems physically sound by ALF standards. She can walk. She has Parkinson’s, and she says she’s in the last stage, but she doesn’t shake.

They moved Gloria from the main area to memory care because she has blackouts. She had a blackout and wandered off, and they found her across the street in a car. I know this because Gloria told me.

I’m no doctor, but it seems to me that Gloria has a very limited form of dementia. She can hold a conversation. She remembers things that happened days ago. On the other hand, she has blackouts, and she keeps forgetting the name of the lady who shows up to take care of her.

I was glad to meet her for three reasons. First, she gave me something to do while my dad ate. When food arrives, he tunes me out until he’s finished. Second, she was a source of information. Because she remembers things, she can answer questions about the ALF. Third, I thought she might get to know my dad a little.

She says she was diagnosed at age 59. Wow. She was trying to write, and the letters all slanted off to the side. Several doctors told her she was fine, but she finally found one who knew what was wrong.

She lived with her sister and brother-in-law, or maybe it was her brother and her sister-in-law, until they had to put her in assisted living.

Gloria does not resent her relatives at all. She said having a Parkinson’s patient in one’s house is “just too close.”

People love to tell me that every patient fights being moved to assisted living. It’s just not true. I’m sure people’s responses depend a great deal on their diseases, but they also depend on their preexisting personalities. I can tell you without asking a doctor that there are plenty of dementia patients out there who hold onto their consciences after they start to slip. I can also tell you that some dementia patients are selfish not because of their dementia but because they were selfish to begin with.

I’m sure there are considerate people who become inconsiderate after becoming demented. Dementia can cause huge personality changes. But not every selfish dementia patient can blame the disease.

Gloria said, “No one wants to go.” But she went, and she doesn’t blame anyone. People don’t want to do jury duty, but they go. Draftees have wanted to stay home instead of going to war, but they have gone. I don’t like cleaning bird cages, but I do it. Not wanting to go is not the same thing as refusing and choosing to make things hard on other people.

She told me some people in the unit are disagreeable. A new patient attacked her from behind and claimed Gloria was wearing her sweater. A man who lives in the unit told Gloria to shut up because he didn’t like listening to her. I hope my dad won’t have to deal with violent patients. If they just yell at him, however, he will give it back in spades.

I made a note to pray for Gloria later. I feel bad for her. She’s a prisoner. She is different from people who can barely think. She could be working or enjoying retirement but for her blackouts. I don’t know how long she has been in managed care. It has to be very hard for someone who still has so much of her mind.

I wish I could go through ALF’s and drain them by healing people. I don’t think all of them should be healed, though. Some people are just too rebellious to help, because every break they get will be used against God and other people.

I’ll say it again: hell isn’t full of sinners; it’s full of people who don’t listen. Sin isn’t what puts people in hell, although it’s a prerequisite. People are thrown into hell because they won’t repent and accept Jesus.

An ALF, like a prison or a death camp, is a foretaste of hell. There is no profit in healing and releasing people who haven’t gotten the point yet.

Hell wasn’t created just for punishment. It was also created to give God, his angels, and the saved relief from the presence of the persistently wicked. Some people belong there, even though it was not created for them, just as many people belong in prison.

While we were talking, the subject of my dad’s sisters came up. He asked questions, and I told him his older sister had died from vascular dementia and that his younger sister had Parkinson’s, which also causes dementia. He was startled. He was disturbed to realize that dementia had gotten all three siblings. He never accepts his mortality; he is convinced that if something is wrong with him, the right doctors can cure it. He can’t believe he and his sisters have to face the process of shutting down and dying.

He can’t believe dying is normal! It’s for other people.

It made me think of my own future. Thirty years ago, I could accomplish a lot by working out, dieting, and doing things to improve myself. It won’t be long before I start getting weaker and less capable every day, no matter what I do. I don’t want to end up in an ALF, any more than my dad did; I’m a bachelor, so there will be no one to look out for me. I hope God is kind enough to take me suddenly.

We went to my dad’s room, and he tried to tell me he should be at home. I was not willing to leave after only 45 minutes, so I had to engage in the conversation. I couldn’t get up and leave. I reminded him that I had no help, and that it was very difficult for me (I even got Gloria to tell him that in the dining room). I also told him I missed him, and that I was glad we were finally able to socialize like normal people.

I don’t lie to him. I do miss him, now that he’s not making me suffer all day.

He seems to be losing steam with regard to his efforts to get out. I hope that’s true, because unless I can find a better solution, he is going to be a permanent resident.

I don’t know if he’s as miserable as he says he is. He thinks he’s doing better with his walker. He seems to have realized he’s not supposed to look at the ground all the time. He left the room while I was sitting there, and he spent some time walking up and down the hall.

I want to take him out for trips, but I don’t know if I can do it. His hygiene problems make it very risky, and a lot of that risk would fall on other people, such as restaurant employees. I can bring him here, but then he may think he’s finally free, and it could be cruel.

I think I’ll go look at the fancier ALF down the road this week. Maybe I’m grasping at straws, however.

I had to back out of the room in order to leave. He kept coming up with things to ask me about. He wanted to know his room number so he could write it down. He had written his phone number down, but it was his number from Miami.

Man, I wish he had something other than dementia. From where I sit, cancer looks like a gift from God. I wish he could understand what’s happening, that he could cooperate, and that he could be cared for here.

I’ll be shooting over later to check on him. No idea what will happen.

I think people who have dementia should consider advance healthcare directives that require their caregivers to cut off life-extending medication when the dementia reaches a certain point. When the mind is gone, striving to keep the body breathing is counterproductive. That’s a generalization, and I wouldn’t try to stretch it too much. I wouldn’t tell the parents of a brain-damaged child to pull the plug instead of waiting and praying.

I want him to receive salvation. There is no other reason to try to keep him alive.

It’s nice to look forward to seeing my dad again. If there is one good thing I got from this, that’s it.