I had another Daddy-Daughter Date Night tonight. Mom called
last night to see if I was free because her Pokino night got moved to a week
early. Dad can still stay by himself, and Mom can feed him before she goes, but
when he and I go out, it makes it easier on Mom, and it’s good for him to get
out of the house.
She doesn’t tell him way in advance (meaning not even as
early as lunch whatever day we go) that he and I are going out, but she does
tell him about a half hour before I come get him and has him change clothes
from his around-the-house T-shirt and older pants or jeans to something casual
but nicer. Occasionally she is still home when I come, but usually she’s
already left.
He’s getting worse, but for years his short-term memory has
varied. Sometimes he’s fine; now it’s becoming the norm to answer the same
question repeatedly in a matter of minutes, even when it’s something familiar
like getting ready for church on Sunday morning. Back when Meggie was in middle
school, around 2007/2008, we all went to the Downtown Stroll in Brenham—a parade
before Christmas. She was in the parade on her dance school’s float. I don’t
know how many times as we sat watching the parade Dad asked if she was going to
be with the cheerleaders from her school. Positive: he knew she was a
cheerleader. Negative: maintaining our cool while repeating, “No, she’s with
the dancers tonight” for the 37th time that evening. But when I moved in with
them for a few months before my divorce was final, he never once asked me why I
was there.
I never know which Dad I’m going to get when I see him.
For whatever reason, so far he has remembered our
dates, even when Mom leaves before we do. She told him I’d be there around
5:30, and by the time I had put my car in park in their driveway, he was
walking out to meet me. I suspect he was watching from one of the front
windows. He remembered his wallet (good, since it was his treat!) and his keys.
He knew we were headed for dinner not something else. We discussed where to go
just like I would with anyone else, and he asked, “Where did we go last time?”
I was glad he remembered we’d done this before. That gave me a sense of our old
normalcy.
We opted for Bush’s Fried Chicken again. I ordered his meal
as well as mine, which is still weird, even though I can do it as naturally as
I used to order Meggie’s when she was little. He asked me if the meal was on
him. “Yes. Mom put some money in your wallet.” He pulled out his wallet and in
typical Dad fashion made a comment about whether or not she had—not a case of his
forgetting, just being difficult. I told him, “She better have or you’re going
to be washing a lot of dishes tonight to pay for this,” and the cashier muffled
a giggle. As I looked at her, and Dad pulled the bill out of his wallet, she
said, “I’m not getting in the middle of this!” He understood and he laughed.
I had asked if the fries were fresh as I placed the order
since the last time we were there they were not, and they cooked not only a
batch of fries but also okra for us. We waited at the table without him asking
why we didn’t have our food yet, then watched the Little League game that was
on the TV, ate the meal and talked like we always have. He also picked up his
chicken and stripped it to the bone—no fork tonight!
He asked about Mom only once, as we got close to home and
passed a white Tahoe like theirs. He wondered if it was her, and I told him
that she was off having fun. “Without us?” When I pointed out she was with the
ladies, he agreed he was better off not there.
I do enjoy going out with him, but I know it’s always a roll
of the dice as to how the time will be. That’s always been true with his lack
of patience when something doesn’t go right, but the dementia exacerbates it.
He gets frustrated so much easier, at lesser difficulties, and has an even
harder time letting the problem go. I go, regardless, in part because he needs
to be out to stimulate other parts of his brain. That helps with the disease. Taking
him also helps Mom. She doesn’t have to be concerned what he might do when he’s
with me. I also go because, thankfully, we tend to do so well together and
because in a way, I’m … selfish, for lack of a better word as I write this. It’s
a gift to both of us for the moment we are in as we make the memory (not the general
present since there’s a chance right now he might not remember we went tonight).
Mostly the gift is for me, though, because too soon—even if it’s a decade away—we
will reach that point where I am a stranger to him in person, but not in these
memories, and I will smile at the cashier shaking her head at us as we were our
old selves.
