Last evening the door opens and my father-in-law is standing in the kitchen, supported beneath the arms by his son. "Do we have a belt?" Jim asks me, "His pants are falling off." He holds him steady in the doorway as I bring a belt I’ve found and thread it through the loops in a circle all around him, lift the pants up to his waist and buckle it in place. "Grand entrance!" I shout–he doesn’t use his hearing aids any more. He laughs, forgetting the indignity for now.
"This is good," he says, eating well because he likes homecooked, especially beef, and this is hash with very few evil carbohydrate-laden potatoes, and there is yellow squash.
"Where’s the rest of the meat?" he asks. "What do you mean?" says Jim, and turns to me. I see the desperation in his eyes. "The meat–where’s the meat?" dad asks again. There is a bit of anger in his voice, but in his eyes I only see the fear. He knows and yet he doesn’t know what’s wrong, but something is.
"I used it all in the hash," I answer. He smiles at me and nods his head. My answer satisfies more than his spoken question. Jim pats my arm. I’ve had many years of experience with my Mother’s Alzheimers so it is easier for me to understand, even these more sudden changes brought about with medication and nursing home boredom. New levels of communication, of relationships are formed.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
This reminds me of a babysitting episode, many years ago, when I asked the resident three year old what was wrong with the (crying) baby. I figured she knew her better than I did.
Modes of communication can change so much between phases of life. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up. The more recently you’ve been there, or known someone who was, the easier they are to follow.