Last Monday I picked up my dad from the nursing home where he lives to treat him to a cookout for Memorial Day. I am always surprised at how emotionally trying it is to visit my dad. He’s a sweet old man now but the Alzheimer’s makes it an ordeal.
In the two years my dad has been in this home several other residents have passed on. It’s like it’s a waiting room for heaven. A place for old men & women with dementia to wait for the end.
As far as nursing homes go, it’s a pretty good one, but still . . . I can’t help but think of all the people there, what they’ve done in their lives, all the history they’ve lived, the people they’ve loved and now it’s over and they’re just waiting.
Over dinner I asked dad about his childhood and if he had any memories of Memorial Day back in the 1920s or 30s. He said they usually had a dinner with family and friends but he didn’t remember any parades or other celebrations in the small town of Abilene, Kansas where he grew up.
Dad talked about how his mom liked to cook chicken and how he didn’t like it. She asked, “Why don’t you like it?” I told her, “I just don’t like it. That’s all the reason I need.” He added, “We had chicken a lot less after that, maybe once a month.”
It is a brief glimpse into my dad’s childhood. A simple everyday sort of thing that makes me feel a little more connected to my father. I don’t know if it’s true or not, given that it was the depression and chicken was probably the cheapest meat around, but I’m sure there’s something to it. Dad never has liked chicken.
It was perhaps fitting that over the course of dinner on this Memorial Day that my father, a veteran of WWII, Korea and Viet Nam, talked at length about a conversation he had with my mom back in the 50s about his service. In between bites of his bratwurst and baked beans he just started talking, “I told her that I’m committed to the Army and they have assigned me to work on an intelligence project with Top Secret clearance. I absolutely can not and will not talk to you or anyone about what we’re doing.”
He went on to emphasize how it was for her protection too. “If I had told her, who knows if she wouldn’t accidently talk about it at a cocktail party or other get-together on base. If she did we’d all be in deep trouble.”
This of course prompted me to try and get him to reveal just what top secret project it was that he had worked on. “Dad, it’s been over 50 years since you worked on that. I think it’s okay for you to talk about it now, don’t you?”
Dad shook his head ‘No’ and said “Not even today, I was sworn to secrecy by my country and I can never talk about it.”
“Are you going to take it to the grave with you?” I asked. Dad just stared at me and said, “I can’t talk about it.”
No matter how much cajoling, pleading and reasoning would work. He took his duties seriously and would never change. My father has always been this way, never swaying from his duties, always loyal to those he made a commitment to.
My dad worked for years in Army intelligence. In the cold war of the late 60’s we lived in Germany where he was involved in collecting intelligence for western Europe. I still remember having to leave school one day and being driven out the back gate of the military base because of the thousands of anti war protestors at the front gate. For years I kept a small business card dad had brought home and given me. It had a Soviet license plate on it and a message to take note of any car you see with this tag. You were not to interfere with it but only note the make, model, color of the car, the number of occupants and where they were. Every afternoon during recess I’d see German Army officers walking by the playground fence. I thought they looked great in their gray uniforms with red stripes on the legs. I’d practice my Greman on them and they’d smile and say something back.
This was my introduction to the anti-war movement and the cold war. I was only 9. To a kid it seemed ‘cool’ but it also planted a seed of insecurity in to my psyche. We lived in a different country and things weren’t so safe as they were at home.
Dinner was topped off with a brownie. Dad has always loved his sweets. He kept talking about mom & his secret. Alzheimer’s is like a broken record; the mind’s needle hits a memory groove and plays it until it hits a scratch which bumps it back to the start. It replays it over and over with little variation.
Everytime it happens I notice an uncomfortable feeling welling up inside. The only thing I’ve found that works to keep the sadness at bay is to observe it like I was a disinterested third party. When I do this I can see the thoughts and feelings come and go. Sometimes just stepping back and watching this is enough to disarm this aspect of the black dog. It’s a simple thing that’s not always easy to do especially when you’re in the middle of a conversation, but it helps me a lot. There’s nothing wrong with emotions but when you feel too much for too long, it can overwhelm you. This exercise in mindfulness helped me honor my dad & celebrate Memorial Day with him.
After I took dad back home I noticed the back of his pants looked wet. I told an aid about it and got dad comfortable sitting at a table with several other residents where he patted the hands of the women sitting on either side of him & said, “These are my girls right here!” and then pointing to another woman at the far end of the table he added, “and you are too!” She responded with a deadpan face, “Is that all you can do?”
Dad responded, “Oh no, that’s just the start of what I can do!”
I smiled at that but found myself choked up as I got back in my truck. So many conflicting emotions. I sat back and thought through it, looked at my emotions & how they made me feel. Before long I realized they never stayed the same. They always came & went and had different amounts of intensity. With that they seemed to vanish and I drove home with a little clearer, calmer mind, glad to have spent the afternoon with an old soldier who’s slowly fading away.
In the two years my dad has been in this home several other residents have passed on. It’s like it’s a waiting room for heaven. A place for old men & women with dementia to wait for the end.
As far as nursing homes go, it’s a pretty good one, but still . . . I can’t help but think of all the people there, what they’ve done in their lives, all the history they’ve lived, the people they’ve loved and now it’s over and they’re just waiting.
Over dinner I asked dad about his childhood and if he had any memories of Memorial Day back in the 1920s or 30s. He said they usually had a dinner with family and friends but he didn’t remember any parades or other celebrations in the small town of Abilene, Kansas where he grew up.
Dad talked about how his mom liked to cook chicken and how he didn’t like it. She asked, “Why don’t you like it?” I told her, “I just don’t like it. That’s all the reason I need.” He added, “We had chicken a lot less after that, maybe once a month.”
It is a brief glimpse into my dad’s childhood. A simple everyday sort of thing that makes me feel a little more connected to my father. I don’t know if it’s true or not, given that it was the depression and chicken was probably the cheapest meat around, but I’m sure there’s something to it. Dad never has liked chicken.
It was perhaps fitting that over the course of dinner on this Memorial Day that my father, a veteran of WWII, Korea and Viet Nam, talked at length about a conversation he had with my mom back in the 50s about his service. In between bites of his bratwurst and baked beans he just started talking, “I told her that I’m committed to the Army and they have assigned me to work on an intelligence project with Top Secret clearance. I absolutely can not and will not talk to you or anyone about what we’re doing.”
He went on to emphasize how it was for her protection too. “If I had told her, who knows if she wouldn’t accidently talk about it at a cocktail party or other get-together on base. If she did we’d all be in deep trouble.”
This of course prompted me to try and get him to reveal just what top secret project it was that he had worked on. “Dad, it’s been over 50 years since you worked on that. I think it’s okay for you to talk about it now, don’t you?”
Dad shook his head ‘No’ and said “Not even today, I was sworn to secrecy by my country and I can never talk about it.”
“Are you going to take it to the grave with you?” I asked. Dad just stared at me and said, “I can’t talk about it.”
No matter how much cajoling, pleading and reasoning would work. He took his duties seriously and would never change. My father has always been this way, never swaying from his duties, always loyal to those he made a commitment to.
My dad worked for years in Army intelligence. In the cold war of the late 60’s we lived in Germany where he was involved in collecting intelligence for western Europe. I still remember having to leave school one day and being driven out the back gate of the military base because of the thousands of anti war protestors at the front gate. For years I kept a small business card dad had brought home and given me. It had a Soviet license plate on it and a message to take note of any car you see with this tag. You were not to interfere with it but only note the make, model, color of the car, the number of occupants and where they were. Every afternoon during recess I’d see German Army officers walking by the playground fence. I thought they looked great in their gray uniforms with red stripes on the legs. I’d practice my Greman on them and they’d smile and say something back.
This was my introduction to the anti-war movement and the cold war. I was only 9. To a kid it seemed ‘cool’ but it also planted a seed of insecurity in to my psyche. We lived in a different country and things weren’t so safe as they were at home.
Dinner was topped off with a brownie. Dad has always loved his sweets. He kept talking about mom & his secret. Alzheimer’s is like a broken record; the mind’s needle hits a memory groove and plays it until it hits a scratch which bumps it back to the start. It replays it over and over with little variation.
Everytime it happens I notice an uncomfortable feeling welling up inside. The only thing I’ve found that works to keep the sadness at bay is to observe it like I was a disinterested third party. When I do this I can see the thoughts and feelings come and go. Sometimes just stepping back and watching this is enough to disarm this aspect of the black dog. It’s a simple thing that’s not always easy to do especially when you’re in the middle of a conversation, but it helps me a lot. There’s nothing wrong with emotions but when you feel too much for too long, it can overwhelm you. This exercise in mindfulness helped me honor my dad & celebrate Memorial Day with him.
After I took dad back home I noticed the back of his pants looked wet. I told an aid about it and got dad comfortable sitting at a table with several other residents where he patted the hands of the women sitting on either side of him & said, “These are my girls right here!” and then pointing to another woman at the far end of the table he added, “and you are too!” She responded with a deadpan face, “Is that all you can do?”
Dad responded, “Oh no, that’s just the start of what I can do!”
I smiled at that but found myself choked up as I got back in my truck. So many conflicting emotions. I sat back and thought through it, looked at my emotions & how they made me feel. Before long I realized they never stayed the same. They always came & went and had different amounts of intensity. With that they seemed to vanish and I drove home with a little clearer, calmer mind, glad to have spent the afternoon with an old soldier who’s slowly fading away.