I awoke at 7:30 a. m. to the disturbing rattle of a rat, trying to free himself from a trap in the attic. His struggle explained my nightmare.
I had been dreaming of my parents’ house. In my dream, I was changing my father’s diaper. I approached the chute where I’d drop the dirty diaper when three boards in the floor beneath me opened and a man emerged. He was an intruder. I ran screaming from the room.
Wide awake now, I realized the rat’s struggles were symbolic of my own struggle to accept my father’s present condition: speechless, nearly motionless, tucked into a hospital bed, his cheeks sunken, mouth opened in a perpetual “0.”
While my husband got out of bed to attend to the rat, I dressed to leave for a visit to my parents’ house. My father’s 90th birthday, was the occasion. My mother, loyal, loving to her husband of 66 years was the real reason for my visit. Every morning she stood by my dad’s bedside reading the LA Times news articles.
Diagnosed with advanced dementia, I doubted my father knew it was his birthday or whether I was there. I did not want the day to pass without celebration but I did not want to go.
Bidding good bye to my husband as he carried the rat to the garbage, I got in the car and drove down Pacific Coast Highway in the rain. A cell phone call brought the raspy voice of my son who caught a cold in the middle of his grad school finals.
“Stay home,” I told him, “see grandpa after finals.”
Arriving at my parents’ home at 10:00, I found my mother still curled up in bed. I told the caregiver not to allow my mother to sleep all morning. “She needs to be up and about or she’ll waste away,” I explained rather testily.
Bending to hug my mother, I said with forced gaiety “It’s dad’s birthday, Ma, get up.” My mother opened an eye. “It’s cold,” she said. I picked out a warm outfit for her to wear and crossed the hall to the bedroom with the hospital bed and my dad, shrunken from 6 months of inactivity.
“I love you daddy,” I said to the inert form under the blankets. “I made you strawberry shortcake for your birthday.” I kissed him, searching for a lifted eyebrow, flutter of an eyelid, but…nothing. The general gloom of the day exaggerated the darkness of the two back bedrooms and extended the feeling of dread I’d awakened with.
I left my father to call my daughter, Rachel who lives near my parents.”
Grandma and I are driving over. I’ve brought you a trellis and blackberry plant for your front yard.”
My daughter who’d been out of work for the last week, replied that SHE was sick and did not feel like company.
“We’re coming,” I said. “It’s an outing for Grandma and furthermore, I‘m not returning home with this trellis.”
By then my mother appeared, dressed and ready to eat, so I served the chicken stew the caregiver had on the stove. After my mother had eaten and had her tea and cookie, I suggested we get in the car to go to Rachel’s.
“I’m nauseated,” she said. I don’t feel like going anywhere.”
My mom, normally a positive person, lives with deep conflict. She longs to get out of her house for an adventure yet fears leaving my dad.
“I’ll wait until your food settles.” I told her.
Once in the car, my mother’s happiness at getting out trumped any prior complaints. Marveling at the drive we’d taken so many times, she said, “Everything looks different though I’ve been on this street many times.” I think my mom’s minor dementia tinges familiar scenes with the unexpected. ” I know this street, but it’s changed,” she continued to remark.
Greeting us, my daughter’s mood recovered as suddenly as my mother’s. We hugged her, petted her Rhodesian ridgeback, admired the stunning ocean view from her apartment and devoured warm chocolate chip cookies she baked to go with hot tea.
By the time we started back home to Torrance, the rain stopped. In a sunny mood, we drove though Redondo Beach looking for Ernest Avenue where my family owned our first house, a tiny a one bedroom bungalow on a large lot. I began to remind my ma of neighbors we had 55 years ago.
“Ma remember Joy and Herby Wangenheim whose parents went to square dancing every week?
“Remember Sharon Wilson? I got mad at her and bit her on the back. Her dad, Clayton came to scold me and I rode around on dad’s shoulders, feeling safe from Clayton’s wrath.
“If this sounds like a one sided conversation, it was. My mother nodded in recognition of names, but she couldn’t conjure up any memories on her own.
By the time we pulled into my parents’ driveway, we were in full of memories which we carried to my father’s bedside. My mother on one side of the bed, I stood on the other stroking my dad’s head, recounting the our recollections of the car and adding a few.
“Remember the Villanuevas,” dad?’ I asked. “You and ma bought a whole kitchen full of Flavorseal pots and pans to help Mr. V. with his sales business. Except for the handles, they still look pretty good.”
“Daddy do your remember the Pitts who lived across the street? They had chickens running around under their California pepper trees.”
“Remember, Jimmy Harbuck? I was about nine and he was one of my first boyfriends. He came to visit me and had the sense to compliment you on your lawnmower? You would’ve let me marry him right then based on his brilliance.
“My dad’s eyes opened.
“I love you.” he said, three clear words, spoken at a moment where they fit.
“I love you, too, pappy,” I answered.
Here, close to my mother and father on my dad’s birthday, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
“Dad gave US a birthday present,” I told my mother, delivering a loud kiss to her cheek, and then I went to the kitchen for the strawberry shortcake.
Karen L. Twichell, Author/Speaker
By Kathy Laurenhue
Shannon Ingram