Wayward thoughts on Buddy and the Divine
Sep. 27th, 2012 10:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stgulikToday was a day off of work but not a day off of working. In the afternoon I took my 88 year-old father-in-law, Buddy, to the VA clinic for one of many inconsequential little exams that will one day, if we're diligent, add up to authorization to have some low-priority surgery done.
For a guy with senior dementia, Buddy is still a hoot. When I went to pick him up at the nursing home, he was sitting in his wheel chair, dressed to travel, a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle in his lap, staring off at nothing. The first thing he said when he caught sight of me was, "Are you going to get me out of here?" I was enormously pleased to be able to say yes. I handed him his baseball hat and wheeled him to my car. We snickered like two cartoon dogs, and I was tempted to blow off his doctor's appointment and just do something fun with him.
"If I had any money, I'd take you out for ice cream," I remarked as I helped him into the passenger seat.
"I don't have any money, either," he said in a commiserating tone. "I don't even have a wallet."
"Oh, I have your wallet, Buddy," I assured him.
"You do?" he replied. "Well, what's in it?"
"Nothing."
"We're a coupla sad sacks," he remarked happily.
On the drive to the clinic, however, his mind turned in a completely different direction.
"Can I ask ... wh-where's Jennie?" Jennie was his wife, my mother-in-law.
"Oh, honey," I replied, trying to keep my eyes on the road, "I hate to tell you, but ... she passed away."
"She did? She passed away?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
"Oh. Well, how long ago was it?"
"Um, about eight years ago now."
"Oh. I don't remember." His voice sounded so wistful. I'd like to think there was a note in that voice that said he remembered something, anything about his wife's long battle with cancer - even the fact that we've had this exact same conversation many times before. But I could be wrong.
And I wouldn't even consider lying to him, not about something as important as this, the whereabouts of his wife of 45 years. How would he feel if I told him she was on a trip, or waiting for him in a taxi? No; he may be demented, but my Buddy is in there somewhere, and he can handle the truth.
"I know you don't remember, but you were there for her," I told him gently. "You went to visit her in hospice every day. Sometimes you were there all day long. You knew the names of the whole staff." I stole a look at him, staring out the window as we crossed the bridge. He likes to catch sight of the American River. "You used to sing songs with Jennie. You would bring her things. Sometimes you would hold her hand for hours."
"I did?"
"Yes, you did."
And then we stopped beside a moving van, and he changed the subject by carefully reading aloud every single word written on the side.
And on the way back after the appointment, when we were both overheated and short-tempered, he tested the patience of us both by insisting every thirty seconds that we must be on our way to the airport to pick up his missing suitcase. And so it goes. If there is a God, the nicest thing I can say about Him is, he sure does like a wide variety in his human beings.
Don't get me started on the meaner things I could say about Him.
For a guy with senior dementia, Buddy is still a hoot. When I went to pick him up at the nursing home, he was sitting in his wheel chair, dressed to travel, a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle in his lap, staring off at nothing. The first thing he said when he caught sight of me was, "Are you going to get me out of here?" I was enormously pleased to be able to say yes. I handed him his baseball hat and wheeled him to my car. We snickered like two cartoon dogs, and I was tempted to blow off his doctor's appointment and just do something fun with him.
"If I had any money, I'd take you out for ice cream," I remarked as I helped him into the passenger seat.
"I don't have any money, either," he said in a commiserating tone. "I don't even have a wallet."
"Oh, I have your wallet, Buddy," I assured him.
"You do?" he replied. "Well, what's in it?"
"Nothing."
"We're a coupla sad sacks," he remarked happily.
On the drive to the clinic, however, his mind turned in a completely different direction.
"Can I ask ... wh-where's Jennie?" Jennie was his wife, my mother-in-law.
"Oh, honey," I replied, trying to keep my eyes on the road, "I hate to tell you, but ... she passed away."
"She did? She passed away?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
"Oh. Well, how long ago was it?"
"Um, about eight years ago now."
"Oh. I don't remember." His voice sounded so wistful. I'd like to think there was a note in that voice that said he remembered something, anything about his wife's long battle with cancer - even the fact that we've had this exact same conversation many times before. But I could be wrong.
And I wouldn't even consider lying to him, not about something as important as this, the whereabouts of his wife of 45 years. How would he feel if I told him she was on a trip, or waiting for him in a taxi? No; he may be demented, but my Buddy is in there somewhere, and he can handle the truth.
"I know you don't remember, but you were there for her," I told him gently. "You went to visit her in hospice every day. Sometimes you were there all day long. You knew the names of the whole staff." I stole a look at him, staring out the window as we crossed the bridge. He likes to catch sight of the American River. "You used to sing songs with Jennie. You would bring her things. Sometimes you would hold her hand for hours."
"I did?"
"Yes, you did."
And then we stopped beside a moving van, and he changed the subject by carefully reading aloud every single word written on the side.
And on the way back after the appointment, when we were both overheated and short-tempered, he tested the patience of us both by insisting every thirty seconds that we must be on our way to the airport to pick up his missing suitcase. And so it goes. If there is a God, the nicest thing I can say about Him is, he sure does like a wide variety in his human beings.
Don't get me started on the meaner things I could say about Him.
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