Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Just Me and My Dad at the Zoo



The joy of home ownership

Mom and Dad’s house has been under some major renovations for the past couple of months. It started with yet another water leak, this time one that flooded the master bedroom on a Sunday night. After moving as much as we could out of the bedroom at almost midnight, Mom decided it was time to have the house re-piped. She’d considered it for a couple of years and even got an estimate from the plumber a few months before the flood, but this was the breaking point.

We expected a week’s preparation time, but the plumbers were available a few days after she called them. It was fun and exciting trying to get everything moved on such short notice. Dad not understanding anything that was going on added to the merriment. The plumbers were great and had the job done in two and a half days. Mom named their home the Swiss Cheese Chalet. A friend began the process of patching or totally replacing sheetrock and did all the texturizing of the walls and ceiling. He and Mom and my sister painted everything—no small task as the pipes ran through the master bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen downstairs plus the upstairs wet bar, laundry room, and bathroom. I was in charge of food for a few days.

The last step was carpeting. The insurance company would pay for only the bedroom as that was the damaged carpet. Minor technicality that the carpet runs from the bedroom to the living room, up the stairs, and throughout the upstairs. Mom opted to pay the extra for doing all the first floor and the stairs. My sister and niece helped us move everything but the large furniture either upstairs or into the dining room.  All that was left was figuring out what to do with Dad. While adding him to the stuff in the dining room was tempting because he would be contained, it was not practical as it would have led to more whining on his part.

He has his daily routine down, most of which consists of watching old TV shows from his recliner and talking to the characters in them, which at least shows he is engaging with it and understands them. The renovations had left him totally discombobulated, with belongings out of place, a bathroom sometimes being off limits, and having to sleep upstairs. We would have to disconnect the main cable receiver to have the carpet installed. No TV anywhere in the house. It would be too much. He didn’t have alternatives for the day. He doesn’t read other than parts of the newspaper. He cannot do work around the house unless it’s simple, and that has to be closely supervised. He would be confined to a small part of the house, and that would be in disarray.  

The solution

For a long time, he has mentioned that he has not gone to the zoo for years. That’s actually a true statement rather than a misfiring of his memory. Carpet installation coincided with my first weekday off work since July 4th. Rain had threatened, but I woke that morning to clear skies and a forecast of a small chance of rain later in the afternoon. Mom said that when I confirmed the zoo over running errands, and she told Dad what was up, his eyes lit up like a little kid’s.  

That was appropriate. Wherever we go, it’s like taking a kindergartener or maybe early-elementary student. We choose where we go. He asks repeatedly where we are going. He walks behind us, stopping to check out whatever catches his attention (at least that still happens) and having the occasion fit—ranging from standard fit to conniption fit, depending on the situation—when he gets frustrated. He knows who he is and who we are but not phone numbers. A problem if we get separated. He’s pretty good about waiting outside restrooms for us, but we are expecting the day he wanders off looking for us because he’s forgotten where we went.

None of that happened at the zoo other than asking where we were going and walking a few steps behind me. I’d ask if he wanted to see certain animals, to give him some control, and he always did. I read the map and led the way, attempting a route that would cover everything we wanted to see without wearing either of us out. He loved the animals, from the tiny marmosets to the elephants. We watched two silverback gorillas having a slow-motion standoff over some disagreement. He commented that it was like him and his brother. (I did not ask him which one.) At the tiger enclosure, he told me (again) about his grandfather staring down a growling big cat at the zoo years ago when Dad was little. He talked to the raccoon and the ring-tailed lemurs. Several times he pointed out where I could get a good shot with my camera.

One weird aspect was how many times I pointed out where an animal was in its enclosure, sometimes quite near us, and he would respond, “If you say so.” I’d have to give a more specific description of the animal and its location before he could see it. I don’t know whether that comes from losing language capabilities or if he’s having vision trouble. He cannot articulate a need for new glasses or if cataracts are interfering. But he never threw a fit over the difficulty and was always excited when he could see the critter, usually commenting on something specific about it that let me know he did indeed know what he was looking at.

One more stop

With his pancreatitis, I decided that food away from the zoo was safer. We went to a nearby Luby’s Cafeteria. Dining out is also an adventure with him thanks to both the dementia and the pancreatitis. I try to let him choose his meal to give him some independence, but I have to give only two options. Offer him more, and he shuts down. It’s too confusing. He was agreeable to roast chicken. They had the label, but none ready. Not wanting to hold up the line, I said, “How about roast beef?” That worked. I requested well done. Dad started to freak when the gentleman sliced off a rare piece. I softly, politely repeated that it needed to be well. He nodded understanding and reassured me that it would be, and as soon as he had a nice pile—a large pile, in fact—he took the slices back to the grill for them to cook more. By the time we had finished our other selections and were ready to pay, he had brought the plate to us with it perfectly well done and still juicy. When I went back for something later, I got the chance to thank him properly and explain how much it meant with Dad’s dementia.

The restaurant wasn’t too loud for Dad, and although he struggled to cut the roast beef, even with a steak knife, he ate plenty and was relatively satisfied with the meal overall. I was breathing a sigh of relief when he asked again about visiting his grandmother’s old house. I really didn’t want to go but also hated to say no, so I checked the address he gave me on my phone. It was not close, and he started to argue that it was. I pulled a deflect and redirect with, “I have to get home because I have to go to rehearsal tonight. I’ll owe you a trip.” He was happy with that. Whew.

I dropped him off at home as the workers were starting the stairs—the last part. Not ideal for Mom, but as much as I could do. I told her what a good day we had had and that I took a bunch of pictures that I will put into a book for him for Christmas. He won’t remember we went, but when he comments on never going to the zoo, we will pull that out and show him.

I cherish these times with him, especially when they go so well, and am grateful to be where I can help Mom and make these memories. It really was a wonderful day. Just me and my dad.

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