On the first Sunday of December, I sat with my dad-in-law, Pepaw, in the waiting room of the after-hours hospital clinic. He had worn his dentures too long, and that caused what looked like an infection on his upper gum. However, he didn't complain about pain until it had gotten bad that afternoon. Hence, the Sunday evening visit to the doctor. I couldn't bear to think of him enduring a night of pain.
That's what Alzheimer's does to you and your loved ones: pains or injuries that you can't see and suddenly your loved one doesn't know how to describe or acknowledge.
Have I mentioned before how much I hate Alzheimer's? How it's destroying Pepaw's brain and body? How many times I've cried this year? How many difficult discussions my husband and I have shared about his father? How I've mastered anger and calm simultaneously?
It simply sucks.
I consider myself blessed that I had written a book about coping with Alzheimer's before Pepaw was diagnosed with it this spring. I knew what to expect, the highs, the lows, etc. I guess that's why God pushed me through the door at the Central Illinois Chapter of the Alzheimer's Association in the fall of 2006 to write on a tragic topic about which I knew little, but about which much would be demanded of me in the future.
And now I have Pepaw.
I got up when the receptionist at the clinic signaled she had some more questions for me. I told Pepaw I'd be right back, that I'd only be walking across the room. I filled out more paperwork as his healthcare power of attorney. I turned and he was standing behind me, just inches away. Though he had startled me, he also made me smile. Beneath his baseball cap, his eyes were big as he asked, "Where's the doctor?"
I walked him back to the chairs and explained that the doctor had other patients ahead of us but that he knew we were there. We sat for about a minute.
"Where's the doctor?"
"Should only be a few more minutes."
Thankfully it was, as a nurse led us down the hallway and I quickly whispered that he had Alzheimer's and was hard of hearing. We helped him remove his new coat, which he needed up here in the cold north after living 18 years in Florida. The scale revealed that he wasn't gaining any weight even though he really needed to. How do we fatten up a scrawny little Pepaw, I wondered to myself again.
Inside the examination room, I answered the nurse's questions and then the wait began again.
"Where's the doctor?"
"He has a few more patients to see. They got here before we did."
"Oh."
The clock ticked …
"Shouldn't that doctor be here by now?"
"The nurse said it should only be a few more minutes."
"Oh."
I listened to the clock tick and the repeat of the above exchange at least 10 times.
The clock ticked again …
"Where is the doctor?"
I needed a more creative answer to keep myself entertained and from becoming testy. This one sounded good.
"Shh," I said. "I think they're right outside the door. I thought I heard footsteps. I think they're reading your chart on the door outside so they know how to help you."
The clock ticked …
"Where is the doctor?"
"I think I hear them coming." I patted his arm reassuringly.
His repetition had become more pronounced in recent months, though he didn't sound impatient. He had just forgotten that he had already inquired. It was up to me to change the subject.
"Hey, it's almost Christmas. After Thanksgiving, Christmas isn't far behind."
He seemed surprised to hear that Christmas was so near and simply nodded.
"Yes," I said, "it's December. What would you like for Christmas?"
He looked at me for a moment and said, "A little tree with lights. That's all. Don't need nothing else."
His simple answer pummeled my tear ducts. My eyes instantly filled, and my heart rattled with the echo of his decisive words. It saddened me so deeply and made me hate this damn disease even more. I put my hand on his and forced my wavering voice to respond.
"Well, I think we can make that possible …"
The female physician then entered. I reassured Pepaw that she was a doctor and would take good care of him. And she did …
As we left the clinic, I had to help him zip his coat, just like I did for my son when he was a little boy. It felt good to be needed as I told Pepaw to bundle up good because it was cold outside. He thanked me. I wanted nothing more than to take him home with me, to decorate and light up a little tree just for him, to see the bright colors reflect in his eyes, to see him smile and let him watch DVDs of his beloved "Walker, Texas Ranger" for as long as he wanted, forever, if I could …
When I stopped the car in the drive, he asked if we were "back home." Yep, I told him.
"Let's go inside where it's warm. It's almost time for bed."
This was Pepaw's home since late August, a secure Alzheimer's facility. It killed me to be more than hour from him, but it was for his own safety and for others that we made the difficult decision to place him in a special residence, which had an opening at the exact moment we needed it. Here he could not wander off … or set off the smoke alarm in his room by stealing matches and smoking … or threaten people with God's wrath and his mighty fist that he nearly threw at me a couple of times.
As I ushered him inside, we were greeted by one of the staff members who welcomed him with a smile and asked how he was doing. He said fine. I needed to run to the pharmacy and pick up his prescriptions. I told him I would be back and kissed his whiskered cheek.
"I love you," I said. He would likely be in bed by the time I returned. They would make sure he got his medicine.
"I love you."
On the drive home in the December darkness, I made my plans to make sure Pepaw got his Christmas wish …
To be continued.
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