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We followed her down the hall and popped our heads into a couple of empty rooms. Some had more than one patient. “The families and insurance have to approve a single or double room. Kate's insurance would allow her to have her own. The application of interest you filled out at the hospital was forwarded to us. It’s standard practice to reach out to the carrier for verification beforehand,” Carla told us. I wondered how she knew that already.
“Can we put up pictures and personal items to help make it feel more like home for her?” Mitchell asked.
“Not only can you do it, but we encourage it. We find that it's helpful for the patients to see these photos and not just stare at blank walls all day. For some it does help trigger memories when they’re having a good day. Then when you’re not here they still feel like the family is here with them. For others it's just looking at a picture of strangers but it's still something to look at, if that makes any sense to you,” Carla said.
“It does. It's just hard is all,” Mitchell admitted.
“I don't want to get too personal or offend you, but we do offer counseling sessions for loved ones trying to take all this in and constructively deal with it. You would be more than welcome to attend one session, ten sessions, or none at all. It’s completely up to you. They're ongoing and they're free,” Carla said.
“Thank you,” Mitchell quietly replied.
We said our goodbyes and I decided to stop for lunch so we could discuss Kate’s options and chose a quiet sandwich shop. “Table for two, please,” I said to the hostess.
“Right this way.”
We were seated in a back booth for which I was thankful. That would allow us the privacy the pending discussion warranted. After we ordered our drinks, I opened the dialogue. “What did you think?”
Mitchell tossed the straw wrapper he’d mercilessly twisted aside. “What do I think? I think this whole fucking thing sucks.”
“That’s a moot point. There’s no positive twist to this, I’m sorry to say. Is there any one facility you want to rule out?” I asked, moving things along. Better to decide than dwell on the negative. This situation wasn’t going to get any better no matter how we looked at it.
“Honestly, the only one I’m considering is the last one. Not only did I appreciate Carla’s openness and honesty, but she assured me if it wasn’t the right fit, she’d help us find where Mom belonged,” Mitchell said.
“Agreed. What’s the next step?” I knew what it was, Carla went over it with us and handed Mitchell a rather large packet of paperwork to fill out, but he needed to say the words aloud.
“I guess I spend the night filling out paperwork.”
“So, your decision is made?” I asked.
“Yes. Let’s go back to the hospital after we eat so we can check on Mom and notify them. Then they can start the ball rolling on their end. And, Jensen?” Mitchell said.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. You’re a true friend. There’s no way I’d make it through this without you.”
Chapter 7
“Good morning, Dad,” I said to him as I entered his room. I knocked first, of course, to at least alert him somebody was there. That act he remembered. Too bad I wasn't one of those things. Not that he remembered me before the Alzheimer’s diagnosis so I can’t attribute it to that. “How are you feeling today?”
He grumbled, “Which nurse are you? Here to poke and prod me like everybody else and take my blood? You can't hold me captive, that's illegal!” he angrily spat.
Days like this were becoming all too familiar. Angry, nasty remarks were made. I tuned them out as best I could and continued around picking up whatever got knocked over. My parents were never physically or verbally abusive, so that behavior was one I had to be taught how to contend with. I’m thankful the therapist on staff, Melanie Ramos, helped me with that amongst other things.
“No one’s holding you here, Dad. This is your home,” I politely pointed out. “Would you like a snack?” He muttered a few choice words under his breath and tried to get up from the easy chair. “Hold up, Dad. Let me help you.”
I helped steady him and as soon as he was upright, he yanked his arm away. “I can do it myself.”
Gods, give me the strength to get through this.
Through therapy I’d gained a tremendous amount of insight into both Alzheimer’s and dementia. While I knew it must’ve been horrific for my father, Melanie was quick to point out during many of our sessions that my feelings should not be discounted either. For those of us watching our loved ones wither away and our existence forgotten, it took its toll on you. It's a lot no matter the setting, no matter how you were raised, no matter what happened in the past. Honestly, that’s all irrelevant in the end. For me, I considered visiting my father to be my last chance to see him as I knew the end was near. And at least I could look at myself in the mirror during my daily affirmations and say I tried, that I was there when he needed me, and I did the best I could do.
I had placed the few family photos we had throughout his room and even brought in a quilt my grandmother had made that always sat at the foot of my parents’ bed. Neither of my parents collected much of anything outside of books, both being avid readers. I brought in a couple of books each week, took last week's home, and rotated the process every weekend. I usually brought three or four from the shelves at the house. In the beginning, he enjoyed it, though as of late he wasn't reading as much as he once was. Things were changing, unfortunately not for the best, but all we could do was take it one day at a time.
“Looks like you're getting a new neighbor, Dad,” I said. I poked my head into the hallway when I heard the noise next door. He stared blankly at the TV and said nothing. I sat down beside him and turned it on, flipping through the channels to find a program I thought he might enjoy. All too soon, he nodded off which signaled it was time for me to go. “Goodnight, Dad, I'll see you in a couple of days,” I muttered as I made my way out of the room. As soon as the door closed, I leaned against the hall wall to collect myself. Some days were harder than others, such as today. When I witnessed firsthand the mood swings coming as quickly as they were, I knew the ugly disease was progressing at a rapid pace.
“Henry?” an unfamiliar voice said. I figured it was a new intern I hadn’t met yet. I wiped my eyes and turned to face them using my bookshop Henry façade.
“Mitchell?” His name came to me quicker than my own. “What are you doing here?”
