A glimpse back

My father has just a few personal possessions at the nursing home and last night I nearly took one of them.

Dad's room is sparsely decorated on purpose. Dementia sufferers like to collect things, carry them off and stash them --- it's one of many compulsive, repetitive behaviors -- and Mom and I didn't want lose anything of sentimental value. So when we moved Dad in, we packed a scant supply of personal items.

Last night it was clear that one of these things had gone missing. At dinner Dad kept standing up, claiming that he needed his "armand."

Lately he's been using nonsensical words and I don't always know what he's talking about. But in this case, he cupped his hands together -- like he was holding a small animal -- and I knew what he wanted.

"Oh, your elephant?" I asked. "Yes," he remarked, as if that's what he'd said. "My elephant."

Dad has this funky elephant figurine that he once carried around my parents' house. The elephant later journeyed with Dad from assisted living facilities to hospitals and back to this place again, and it remains a favored treasure. Before dinner, I noticed it was missing. In its place on the dresser was a moccasin.

At the time, I picked up a nearby photo -- a Christmas snapshot of my mom seated beside the tree, in our old house with our old Hungarian sheepdog. I'm there too, elementary school aged, with a cheesy grin, brandishing a wooden nutcracker.

As I set the plastic frame back down, I noticed a second picture tucked in back. A close-up shot of my father that I don't remember seeing before.

In it, he takes up the entire frame. There's no identifying setting, but judging from his clothes and expression, he's at work. His sideburns, mustache and the fat striped tie tucked into a checkered vest are standard 1970s garb.

Dad's looking away from camera as if he doesn't know it's there. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, one hand poised against the stump of his pipe, which leaks a thin tendril of smoke. He wears an expression I remember well -- when he knew exactly what to say but was mulling over how to tailor his statement.

The photo is mesmerizing, not only because it captures a younger, healthy dad, but because I see myself back then. I would have been about 7 or 8 -- at an age when you know your father is smarter than anyone else. That he can fix broken toys, cook dinner and catch a snake in the yard....complete your homework and name constellations in the sky. It was a time still unspoiled by my truculent pre-teen years. When dads are flawless.

Which is why I retrieved the photo. I slid it out of the frame and pocketed it. Just a week before a nurse mentioned that Dad had shredded a family photo, then carried the pieces in his pocket. I figured I'd save this one from dementia-addled destruction.

But then I realized that the photo was a form of identification. If another resident walked off with the Christmas picture, there was no guarantee that a nurse would recognize the woman and the kid and the mop-topped dog by the tree. But they'd see the photo of Dad -- no longer lawyerly and wise -- but Dad nonetheless.

So I slid the photo back into the frame and returned it to the dresser. Hopefully it'll be there the next time. Along with the elephant.

Going it alone

Last night, while dog, kids and husband slumbered, I camped out in front of the TV to watch Butler take on Duke in the NCAA championship. (I wasn't entirely solo -- I had the kids' Easter baskets to keep me company.)

It was during the second half -- sometime after the Cadbury mini eggs and before the peeps -- when I realized that the game's just not the same anymore.

When I was a kid, my Dad never watched college or NFL football, and he'd flip the channels right past baseball, golf or hockey. But he worshiped ACC hoops, especially Duke (where he went to law school). As long as I can remember, his allegiance to Coach K and Duke ball was pure and resolute.

And early on, he molded me into a Blue Devil fan. On weekends, while Mom was at work, we'd hunker down in the rec room -- blinds drawn to protect the TV glow from winter glare. I'd cradle a dish of Doritos while Dad, pitched back in his leather recliner, cupped a beer and periodically rapped his pipe on his ash tray. From there we'd commiserate when Duke lost and gloat when they won.

College put me 450 miles away, but Dad and I still watched games together, tethered by a phone. Stretching the phone cord taut from my room down the hall, I'd perch on a communal couch to watch Duke play. Typically surrounded by Blue Devil haters, I'd plaster the receiver to my ear. Half the time Dad and I didn't talk. We ran up ridiculous phone bills silently watching.

When games got too stressful for me, I'd turn off the TV and let Dad relay play-by-play. The most memorable of these episodes was after college in 2001, when Duke and Maryland were well-ranked and set to play. Martin and I watched at his friend's house with a bunch of Maryland grads and for 39 minutes, I was taunted and jeered as Duke trailed the whole game.

Stressed out, I retreated to a dark, tv-less room where I cowered on the couch and phoned Dad. He calmly described each play while I blocked out the din of Maryland cheers. And in the final minute Dad excitedly described the unthinkable: Duke clawed its way back from a 10-point deficit. They eeked the game into overtime and won. It was one of the best games I never saw.

I don't know when my father stopped caring about ACC basketball -- dementia kicked it to the sidelines and eventually it floated away like everything else -- history, politics, softball, travel. Sometimes I'll throw a Duke score into the conversation but there's no spark of recognition.

So last night I watched the game with interest but without the nail-biting fervor I once had. In fact, after Duke won, I half-wished that Butler had sunk the buzzer-beating shot from half court.

That would have been blasphemy back in the day. And if the old Dad had been watching last night, he would have sighed with relief when Butler's ball rocketed off the rim. "Christ, that was a close one," he might have said. "But my Dukies did it again."

Dad moves again

They're calling for snow so it's a perfect day to load Dad up and cart him to another facility.

Dad's last move, from nursing home to hospital, coincided with the biggest snowstorm on record. This time we're only expecting a few inches and he'll be transported by ambulance. Still, Mom has to see him off and tail the ambulance to the next medical facility.

Dad's been in limbo for a while, ever since he dismantled the nursing home alarm system, hit a kindly maintenance worker, and chucked a nurse's cell phone across the room.

Oddly enough, it was the less offensive act -- the phone abuse -- that landed him in a hospital pysche ward. And that's where he's been while nurses tinker with his meds to rein in his paranoia.

You'd never know about the psyche ward unless you visited someone there. It's tucked away on the top floor, beyond the cheery labor-and-delivery wing and the somber ICU. On the elevator, fathers clutching new baby seats are too dazed to wonder what's above. But the hospital staff know. When I illuminate the number 7 button, a nurse glances over and looks me up and down.

What sets this floor apart are the doors. They're thick, steel-lined and double-bolted -- designed for abuse. They've probably seen their share of it. Beyond the nurse's station it looks a little like a community center -- a really crappy, underfunded community center. There's a magazine rack, boldly labeled "magazine rack" but the slots are empty. There's a sign taped to it that says, "magazines have been discontinued; sorry for the inconvenience." I can't help but wonder what kind of threat periodicals pose.

Stark hospital rooms are standard fare but up on 7, they're stripped down to just a bed and chair. No TV, no artwork, no wipe board with a bubbly note from the nurse on duty. Nothing that a patient can damage or arm themselves with. Just two stubby nozzles jutting out of the wall: one says "oxygen" and the other, "valium." They look old and unused. Probably phased out by pills and shots.

The patients move up and down the halls with an odd freedom. They aren't slowed by wheelchairs or grounded by IV stands. They look too healthy to be hospitalized. Until they say something. Initially, I couldn't distinguish patient from visitor -- some wear clothes instead of hospital gowns. I had check their wrists for hospital bands.

But sit around for 15 minutes and you can ID every patient. Even the band-less, pear-shaped man who talks with an affable smile and a conspiring tone -- as if we're the only sane people in a sea of crazies. It's his eyes that give him away. While he talks he watches the door. And I know why: after it buzzes open, there's a delay before the locks snaps home again. But he's escaped before so the nurses make him stand back.

The real blow is that Dad is the troublemaker on the ward -- resisting medication and fighting treatment -- being "noncompliant" in nurse-speak. Using pens as weapons and striking out. It's a bad scene when security is called and they knock him down with a shot. Though it's not his fault. "We're used to high functioning psyche patients," a nurse says apologetically. And that really depresses me. Even on the psyche ward, Dad's at the bottom of the pack.

But there is hope with the next hospital. It's better staffed and more experienced with Dad's kind of dementia. They're even conducting some studies and research. They told Mom to expect Dad to stay for 19 days. Then maybe he can return to the nursing facility. Who knows. Limbo continues.