As the Watch Hands Turn: The Saga of Buying a New Watch

We were not having fun, so time didn’t fly. I’m not sure time stood still, but 30 minutes considering nearly every man’s watch at Target felt like an eternity. 

Dad is one of those “if you’re not early you’re late” people, which has been compounded by his years sailing when everything is scheduled and gets logged … even departure and arrival times on family vacations. He did time-ticks at least once a week with the Greenwich Mean Time provided on the radio to be sure his watch was accurate to the second.  Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip. At the tone, the time will be X. Bip. Bip. Bip. Beeeeeeeeep. Bip. Bip. Bip. Of course, all the clocks in the house need to be synced. 

Dad’s needed a new watch for more than a month now. I hear about it nearly every time I see him. “I don’t have a watch anymore.” He points helplessly and sadly to the inside of his wrist where it should be. I keep offering to tattoo one there so it will be accurate twice a day, but he keeps refusing. Mom has been looking all over the three cities near us (maybe four—she doesn’t go to the fourth much, but she might have for this). Finding one shouldn’t be that hard in 2015 and in a major metropolis surrounded by smaller metropolises. Guess again. 

He wants a metal band. Not a stretchy one but one that has the flip catch. Although he doesn’t remember doing so, he says he cannot read the analog clock in the kitchen, so he needs a digital one. It needs to have the day and date on it because he doesn’t remember those and will ask Mom all day long about it. It should not have other details on the face because that’s too much to read through.

After looking for a few weeks, Mom was going to try again for his birthday at the beginning of November. His brothers Don and Paul graciously agreed to go with them to help. They came back with a digital watch with readable display and metal band with a flip catch. Someone at Walmart adjusted the band for him. Don worked quite a while figuring out how to set it and operate it (as well as find the English directions). He explained how the solar battery would work: expose it to light a certain amount of time each day, and then when it had been out of the light, the display would go dark; put it in the light, and it would wake up again. Problem. Every time it goes dark, Dad will say, “My watch isn’t working.” That became a moot point when his watch band broke that day. Twice. Once might have been OK. The little pins just weren’t quite right but could be corrected. Twice, no way. Back to Walmart it went.

The quest was on again.

Daughter/granddaughter Meghan got involved this week when she was visiting. We both searched online for one we could get in-store because someone would need to size it. We found possibilities at several stores, including ones Mom had already checked unsuccessfully. We hoped they might have more at other locations and because of the sales weekend. Meghan and I went a few places where the crowds weren’t that bad. Zero that we saw online or still fit the bill.

I stopped at Target today and found one that had all the characteristics he wanted and wasn’t expensive. We went back after lunch. The watch was still there. Mom liked it. Dad liked it. Whew. “Can you read it?” Mom asked? Dad looked at it. “It’s really small.” Nuts. That’s from not being able to get his glasses right. Ever. Another adventure to tell another day.

We started going through the watches. Despite his requirements, he kept asking, “What about this one?” Mom would tell him why it wouldn’t work. Buckle band. Velcro band. Analog. Analog with buckle band. Too small display. Analog with extra gizmos on the face. Solar battery. “Why can’t I have one of these?” It was like shopping with a little kid. Mom tried to explain reading the clocks and the different bands. I tried. “Don’t they make this kind anymore?” We said, “Apparently not, or not many.” Mom told him how the three of us had been looking for weeks. I told him gently if he wanted digital he would probably need either a buckle or Velcro band, which could be good because you can change the size any time you need to. Mom negged the buckle one because “he likes to take his watch off fast sometimes, and the buckle is too slow.” I refrained from smacking her. We had to stay united.

He started again with why couldn’t he have an analog one.  How do you explain—explain again—to a 72-year-old man he can’t read it? We finally started looking at those. Which is worse multiple times a day: "I don't have a watch anymore" or "I can't read this watch"? It's a no win. I picked up one with a large face and metal band. “It doesn’t have a date.” Perhaps it likes being single? (Sorry—it’s been a long journey.) Large face, metal band, date. “It doesn’t have the day of the week. He needs the day of the week.” Deep breath. Large face, metal band, date, day.  

They look at it. Mom asks him, “What time does it say?” He looks for a moment, and I think he counted down from 12—I couldn’t see what he did—but he got 4:30. She said that was fine if he wanted to do that each time. Then she asked if he could read the date. Must. Keep. Calm. He could. Breathe again.

We’re making progress! Now we just need someone to adjust the band.

Zero Target people. I found a manager and asked. No, they don’t have anyone who can do that, which would correspond with having everything on top of the display cases and the cases papered over.

Sigh.

Thirty minutes down the drain there, and who knows how many minutes as we start looking again?

You’d think with all the stuff he cannot remember, even seconds later, he could forget he wears a watch, but noooooooooo. So onward we go. If you see him, don’t ask him what time it is or if he got a watch … unless you want to take up the quest in our place. We’ll be glad to hand it off.

Thanksgiving

Just a few thoughts put together quickly as we finish out the day:

Dad often doesn’t know what day of the week it is or the holiday we’re celebrating. I’m thankful he remembers the days of the week and the holidays at all. 

Dad comments sometimes that he doesn’t even know if his siblings are alive. I’m thankful he remembers he has siblings and knows who they are when we talk about them. 

We don’t know how much longer Dad will remember he has siblings or know them when he sees them. I’m thankful all four came for his birthday at the beginning of November to make memories.

Dad’s reality is that any neighborhood we drive past is the one in which he lived while in high school or where family lived. I’m thankful when Don, Paul, Lucy and Tim were here and spent three days of “remember when …” I’m thankful Dad knew who they were talking about and could participate in the conversation, even initiating some stories and confirming other details. (More about that in another blog.)

Dad has trouble telling jokes, even ones he has known for years. I’m thankful he still understands many of them and laughs, particularly at numbers 53, 76 and 117. (There’s a joke where someone just says a number and the other person laughs because they’ve told the jokes so long they don’t have to tell the joke, just the number of it. When I’m telling him jokes, I can just say, “And then there’s 47,” and he’ll start laughing.) 

Dad struggles with so many meals—chili dripping from a hot dog at James Coney Island, trying to cut his fried chicken instead of eating it with his fingers, getting dangling foods (melted cheese on enchiladas or spaghetti strands) on his fork. I’m thankful he’s always up for going out for a meal and still loves Jimmy’s and fried chicken since those aren’t Mom’s favorites, and I have someone to go with. 

Dad has to look for the door handle in the car every time he gets out when he’s a passenger whether it’s the third or fourth time in one excursion or a couple of weeks between trips. I’m thankful he’s aware of what he needs to do to get out and is still able to go out and is perfectly willing to ride with me. (No snide comments about my driving.)

Dad is limited in where he can drive and has to have someone tell him where to go, sometimes even within our neighborhood. I’m thankful he is still able to drive, and we were able to renew his license online. We’re still going to have to take his keys away at some point, but not yet. 

Dad sees granddaughter Meghan only every two or three months. I’m thankful he knows exactly who she is when he sees her and when we talk about her. We never have to say, “Terry’s daughter.”

Dad sometimes asks me how many dogs I have—if I still have three. I have to tell him again how I had to put Chloe down last April after she collapsed. It hurts to remember that. I’m thankful he remembers I have dogs and how many I had at one point. I’m thankful that my stories about the Wonder Twins, especially Rosie and her squeaky tribble baby, and Chase trying to get squeaky tribble baby, make him laugh. 

Dad’s not going to ever get better. There’s plateaus within the deterioration, but he’s always going to get worse. I know exactly where the dementia is going, and I abhor it. I hate the shadow he already is of his former self and that at some point he will be only a shell unless God intervenes and takes him home soon. I’m thankful that for now I’m able to connect with him so much of the time, often pull him out of a bad mood or soothe a difficulty, help him remember, have a burping contest, make him laugh and flash that great smile of his. I’m thankful for living a few doors down from them and working from home so I can be there literally in a minute at a full run if there’s an emergency. I’m thankful that my sister lives nearby and we work together so well. I’m thankful for Mom’s sweet spirit and patience with him even when she gets so frustrated with and sometimes angry at Dad, the situation, the disease. I’m thankful that although our family is spread around the country, if we need them, they will be here as fast as they can drive or as soon as they can get a flight. No questions asked except, “What can I do?” I'm thankful for a friend who walked almost the same path we are (also caused by medications) who is there for me when I need to talk or cry and truly understands and empathizes. I’m thankful that people are working to slow the progression and perhaps prevent dementias so others don’t have to go through this. I’m thankful for those who have gone before in it to help us through and that we will be able to do that for others until a cure is found. I’m thankful to know that we are not alone in this—others have experienced the same situations, friends help out with daily needs and emergencies, family is always there for us, and God is always in control and always good. 

In everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. I Thessalonians 5:18