Pepaw's Christmas wish - part 4 - conclusion

Continued from previous entry of Pepaw's Christmas wish - part 3 …

That little Christmas tree lit up Pepaw's room and my heart. This was THE moment I had been waiting and praying for the last three weeks. I was so pleased with myself that I had gotten Pepaw exactly what he wanted for Christmas. I waited for him to give me that special smile that would help erase some of the wounds that this damn Alzheimer's disease had inflicted upon all of us this year.

“Look,” Roger and I said almost together.

“Okay, you gonna get me out of here?”

There was no smile, no glimmering in his eyes, no recognition of this gift. He had only one focus, one mission: to leave, even though he had no specific destination.

Roger repeated the earlier part of the conversation, “I can’t today. I don’t have my car.”

“Get me out of here. I’ve had enough of this stuff.” He wasn't angry or shouting.

I had to try to redirect him again. I asked about dinner, and he said the meat was so stiff he couldn’t stick his fork into it. He demonstrated how he had to cut it with a knife. Then he crammed everything on his chair into the bag of his new gifts. He’s had those toiletries packed since the day we moved him in.

“All that stuff can go in there,” he said.

I gently touched his moving arm and said, “That’s for you.”

Uninterested, he pointed to another baseball cap. “This is not a Christmas gift here.”

I tried to direct his attention to the tree. I was unsuccessful.

“You think we can do that?” he asked. I knew he was back on the leaving track again.

“I can’t do that today,” Roger said again.

Pepaw suddenly recited the names of his four other children and the state where the three girls all resided. Roger acknowledged that.

Immediately, Pepaw said again, “You gonna get me out of here?”

I had to step in.

“Let’s go walking.” I gestured for Roger to lead him out of his room and into the hall. “You and Roger are going for a walk.” I reassured him that his packed toiletries would still be there and ready to go. I followed the father and son as they ventured out side-by-side.

“This is my son, Roger,” Pepaw told the first staff member they met in the hall. “He’s going to get me out of here.”

“He is? Okay. Did you share your candy with him?” she asked.

“Yeah, I shared the candy with him. You got anything to share with me?”

“Not right now, but I’ll get you some cookies later,” she said.

“I won’t be here. We’re leaving.”

“Well, I’ll save you some just in case.” She nodded and smiled.

“We’ll have to find out how to get out of here.” He told another staff member, “He’s my son. He’s going to get me out of here.”

Roger's frustration was obvious to me though he spoke very calmly. “Dad, I can’t do it right now. I’ve got to find my car.”

I knew this was not working. I had to step in again.

My husband stopped, and I gestured for him to back away. I knew we had to get Pepaw on a whole new track, and sadly, it wasn't going to happen while Roger was standing there. I whispered to the staff person that we had gotten the Gunsmoke DVDs, and she tried to entice Pepaw with that.

“I like Walker,” he said.

I reassured him, “We’re getting some more Walker for you.”

“I want to get out of here.”

I stepped next to him. “We’ll watch Walker until Roger finds the car.”

“My son’s gone to get his car.”

I told the staffer about his Christmas tree as we slowly redirected Pepaw to the TV room.

“Where’s his car parked at?” Pepaw asked again.

“I’m not sure," I said. "Show her your Christmas tree.”

The woman did the appropriate oohs and aahs when we entered his room. I showed her how to turn it off, and she told Pepaw, “I like that tree.”

“My son put that there.”

I pointed to the chair. “Do you want to show her your Christmas?”

“I ain’t worried about that.”

I had to encourage him to leave his stuff in his room until Roger found his car.

“I need to get out of here.”

We escorted him to the lounge where she put in the Gunsmoke DVD. I pulled up a chair so he had a front row seat. I urged him to stay and watch to make sure the DVD worked.

“Let’s get out of here.”

I kneeled next to him and kept my eyes focused on his. “Roger’s looking for the car. Let’s wait here until he’s ready. You wait here until I get back.”

“Tell him to come and get me.”

“I will.”

I fought the tears as I kissed his cheek. I knew we needed to leave him for his own good. He would be safe, comfortable and loved here.

“I'll see you in a little bit. I love you.”

Now he was fixated on John Wayne introducing the premiere episode of Gunsmoke. That was okay as I quietly walked away to find my husband waiting by the front desk. Checking back later, we were relieved to hear that Pepaw said Roger must have found his car and left, but would return the following day.

An intense sadness swept me, but I didn't want to explain it to Roger. I was too tired to cry. However, I didn't fully understand it myself until after I had finished stumbling through the holidays.

I had made the mistake of putting all my emotional energy into making Pepaw’s Christmas wish come true with that tree, even though I should have known he wouldn't remember our conversation or his request. I had made it MY job to remember it for him. I had made his wish MY own. How foolish I was to let Alzheimer's ruin it for ME. It was a reminder that we can only truly give without expectations of acceptance, even though that's a delicate emotion that makes us very human.

I learned that I was just as naïve as a child who is devastated when they don’t get THE only gift they really wanted for Christmas … It was a reminder that sometimes the most precious gifts don't come all wrapped up in pretty paper and bows or handy bags.

And I fully comprehend now that the only real gift I can wish for him is release from this horrific disease, from the pain of his endless captivity, from a world that makes no sense and frustrates him. Unfortunately, I can't give that to him, only God can. Until God is ready to give Pepaw his freedom, I must keep him physically comfortable and pain-free and be ready to redirect him and offer a new level of patience that truly challenges me.

And love, lots of love.

For now, Pepaw and I are so grateful for at least one thing: Walker, Texas Ranger. Hey man, you've saved us in more ways than you can ever imagine!