When I was six years old my Dad and I jumped into the car for a trip to somewhere in town. As a kid I was hardly aware of our destination and didn’t really care. Having Dad to myself was all the adventure I needed. My memory of the car ride that particular day doesn’t exist. I also do not recall our conversations as he drove the 1978 Dodge Dart through the streets of Lexington. What is vividly seared in my memory was the moment I found myself inside a daycare facility where Dad had kneeled down to talk with me eye to eye. Man to man.
“This is going to be a really great place for you,” assured Dad. “You are going to meet a lot of new friends here.”
The panic began welling up inside of me. Even at six years old, I could sense some sort of conflict stirring in Dad. His face was unsure, wavering between comforting me and the resolve to complete his mission. I had a sense that I was about to be left here – without him.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’m going to get a little work done but I’ll be back before you know it,” he assured.
“But I don’t want to be here,” I replied as my voice began to crack. Tears began welling in my eyes.
Dad looked down as he took a deep breath. Searching for the words.
His gaze returned to me and he said nothing.
“Can we go home now?” I asked.
I don’t recall in my memory much after that question, or how much we went back and forth. Did his resolve crumble slowly or all at once? I’m not sure. What I recall was moments later; we were in the parking lot, walking back towards the car. To this day I don’t know what fallout may have occurred back at home for Dad. Did he fail to execute an agreed upon plan? Clearly he and Mom and decided that daycare was the best option at that time, but there he was – returning home with his baby boy in tow. I didn’t see this, but I imagine a glance between my parents where my Dad says with his body language, “I just couldn’t.”
A few days ago my brother and I were taking Dad for the weekly trip to the nursing home where my Mom resides. We visit Mom for a while every week before excusing ourselves from the room so Mom and Dad can have some time to themselves. On this particular Saturday morning though, we have a detour planned – to visit an assisted living facility and explore placement for Dad. He doesn’t know about it until he is settled into the car seat and ready for the trip. Because of his memory issues, it would have done no good to explain our decision before this moment. Unnecessary stress. Unnecessary conflict.
“We are going to stop at place this morning called Magnolia Springs,” Larry begins, “and see if it might be a place better suited for you.”
Dad looks over at Larry.
“Better suited…how?”
“Well,” Larry continues in a steady voice, “you’ve had a few falls this year and the stairs at home are becoming a much bigger issue.”
Silence.
Dad fumbles through his journal that he carries everywhere he goes. This log is how he attempts to combat the loss of short-term memory. He’s looking for any notes indicating this unexpected detour. But nothing is there.
“I think I’m perfectly fine right where I’m at,” Dad says with resolve.
“Well, let’s explore the place and see,” Larry counters, “and besides, it’s on the way and won’t take but a minute.”
Silence again.
Inside the assisted living complex we are greeted with a warm smile and an enthusiastic tour guide. The amenities and level of care and cleanliness of the place is impressive. Without discussing it, I can tell my brother and I are thinking the same thing: a change like this is exactly what Dad needs. In fact, it’s probably a little overdue. I have no doubt that this move is going to increase his quality of life.
Dad remained rather stoic as the director explained the on-site food service, on-site barber, on-site health spa and brought us to the impressive movie theater.
“Mr. Joe,” the director said with a cheerful voice, “you could have your boys over to watch the U.K. games. Are you a big fan?”
Dad smiled just enough to oblige her, but not enough to elicit a further conversation about the Wildcats.
As the director and my brother walked and talked details of this life transition, Dad looked intently at me, a little disoriented and bewildered. His face asked the question clearly enough:
“Can we go home now?”
I squeezed his hand to the question he didn’t have to ask out loud and said, “We’re on our way out of here. Just another minute now.”
On our way back to the car in the parking lot I squeezed Dad’s arm tight, keeping him steady. The daycare memory hit me right in the gut. I knew that this time, there just wasn’t a way around the pain of life’s punches. I couldn’t see a way to cheat the system. The goodbye to our family home was here. What would remain of that place – a bastion of security for all of us – would become the stuff of nostalgia.
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Phew. Beautifully written by a loving son. You are all blessed by the family around you. God bless you all as you walk this path together. Love to all.
There comes a time in our life when we need strong and loving people who are there to help us. I see that in you and your brother. Praying for all of you in this very difficult time.