Sometimes It's All About Timing

Dad was supposed to have gone for “fasting” lab work yesterday. He made it to the kitchen and a bowl of cereal before I could stop him so we had to wait until this morning to go. As soon as I knew he was up, I ran to the kitchen. He had parked his walker outside the kitchen so I wouldn’t hear him. Already, he had bread in the toaster and cereal in the bowl. I explained that he couldn’t eat yet because we had to go to the hospital to get lab work done. He instantly turned around and announced he would go get ready.

You have to understand, when he has a doctor’s appointment, I have to start getting him ready about 3 hours ahead of time. We are almost always late because he isn’t ready on time. Going to the doctor is a chore. But going to the hospital is a joy. He has been going there regularly since the day they opened the doors. He knows people there. Doctors, nurses, technicians, security guards, volunteers, administrators, maintenance men, you name it, they all know him by name and stop to talk to him. He is appreciative and touched that they take a moment out of their hectic schedules to speak to him. Most of the time he can’t think of anyone’s name but the faces spark a memory and he recognizes them. On a really good day, with someone he has seen repeatedly over the years, he occasionally remembers something specific about them.

As we were driving to the hospital, Dad asked (for the 8th or 9th time) why we were going. So, for the 8th or 9th time I explained that his Cardiologist had ordered these labs back in Jan. That we have to do this every 3 months for this doctor, it’s a way of keeping tabs on his heart. He thanked me 8 or 9 times for bringing him to the hospital and for taking care of him.
On entering the hospital emergency room (it’s where you register), we were greeted by a security guard that knows us well. Dad just had to stop and speak to him for a bit. Meanwhile, Ms. Jeanetta, an old and dear friend of his and Mom’s from church, spies us and runs over to give me a hug. She is amazingly proficient at giving a hug and asking half a dozen questions about how everyone is doing all at the same time in a tone that keeps Dad from hearing her. Her genuine concern for Dad is one of the reasons I have always liked her so much. By then, Dad has left the security guard and joined us so we have to visit for several minutes until someone comes in needing assistance. The instant we start to move away, the woman working in the admissions dept calls out to us, “Mr. Felker come on in here and I’ll get everything set up.” She chitchats with us and we are done and in the waiting area in a matter of less than 5 minutes.

There is a baby in the waiting room. He was barely past the learning to walk stage and Dad kept himself busy watching him and trying to talk to him. He kept telling everyone how cute the “little guy” was. Everyone in the waiting room was watching them. After a fairly short wait, Dad was called to the back. He leaned over to pat the baby on the head, announcing loudly, “You sure are cute!”
A guy (who’d been in a car wreck and was battered, bruised & there for extensive x-rays) that had been watching them all this time piped up from across the room, “So are you, Sir!” As the door closed behind Dad, I looked over at the guy. Tears welled up in his eyes and his voice was choked, “The old guy kind of reminds me of my dad. I really miss him. He had Alzheimer’s, too.” And in that moment as our eyes met and held, as the tears welled up in my own eyes, I felt his pain and I felt my own. “That’s my Dad,” I said softly.
And for a brief instant of time, I was connected to another human being on a level that can’t be understood unless you’ve actually walked a mile in the shoes of someone who dearly loves someone with Alzheimer’s. And I have to admit it felt good. He nodded his head and slowly stood up. With a smile of naked recognition and understanding, he limped away and somehow my day got a bit brighter.