For 14 years my Dad lived in a care facility, the last 30
months in a nursing home, the result of a long battle with Parkinson’s disease
and his increasing dependence on others over this period of time. Movement
disorders are especially difficult on the patients themselves and nearly
equally difficult for families to watch as the progression of the disease
marches through time.
I arrived during the lunchtime and pulled up a chair
alongside Dad while he was eating.
Mealtime in the nursing home on the dementia wing to the casual observer
is less than appetizing. Most of the
elderly are on special diets that consist of pureed and finger foods that are
easy for residents to ingest. Their
neurologically weakened systems and varied illnesses compromise their ability
to eat – including chewing, swallowing, and holding silverware. Everyone wears a bib to keep them clean and
to maintain some dignity in this process so that when meals are over, they can
leave the room nearly as clean as when they arrived. Over the years it had become increasingly
difficult for me to spend time with Dad during this time of day. I felt frustrated for him and for the other
residents and had to exercise great restraint in my efforts to “assist” so as
not to insult these folks. After all,
while they were struggling to eat, many still had their pride and were fighting
for their dignity. There was nothing
they hated more than to have someone patronizing them during meals.
Dad’s eyes and peripheral vision were failing fast, and at
first, he didn’t see me. I touched his
arm and spoke his name, “Hey, Dad, it’s Chris.
How are you today?” There was
little verbal response as was often the case these days but his eyes brightened
and he turned slightly to me and smiled.
He was glad to see me. I tried to
make small talk with him and other residents at the table. Celia was on a feeding tube and nearly asleep
but smiled at me, and Mary could not speak.
It was tough. I returned my
attention to Dad. He was focused on the food
and seemed to be doing okay with feeding himself. I asked him how his lunch was. He scrunched up his face – and that spoke
volumes.
In the background a variety of music was playing – loudly –
and residents just seemed to be eating their lunches. Some would occasionally shout out, others
would wander, and yet others would just sit.
The activity director in the room was flitting from one resident to
another, singing the songs to each of them, and inviting them to sing
along. I joined in at one point and
together we sort of serenaded the room.
A few residents responded with a smile and appeared to be enjoying the
show.
Suddenly the music transitioned to Glenn Miller’s rendition
of “Moonlight Serenade” and it filled the room.
There was an immediate change in Dad.
He stopped eating. He unlocked
his wheelchair and turned away from me.
Confused by his behavior, I got up from my chair and walked around to
face him. I crouched down and asked him,
“Dad, are you okay?” He responded by
putting his arms in the air and said, “Dance with me.” For a split second, I wanted to state the
obvious – that he couldn’t get out of the chair, that he actually couldn’t
dance – at least not the way he wanted.
Quickly I changed that thought and moved into his world. Instead, I bent down, put my left hand in his
right, my right hand on his shoulder, and straddling his legs with my right
cheek on his forehead, we swayed to the music.
He closed his eyes and began to hum along. About halfway through, he said right on cue,
“Listen…the clarinet.”
I was immediately transported to a time when I was a young
girl. We were guests at a wedding. I thought my dad was the most handsome man in
the room. There was lots of dancing and
laughter and I thought it was wonderful how all the couples danced. I wanted to dance too, but of course didn’t
know how. So I asked my Dad to dance
with me and he did. He had me stand on
his feet while he made the foot moves.
He held my hand in exactly the same way he was holding it now – and we
danced. I just remember thinking how I
was the luckiest girl in the whole room and how much I loved my dad. Somewhere
in the family photos is a snapshot of this event and we are both smiling; I am
looking at our feet and he is smiling down on me.
And now here we were again, decades later; only this time, I
am the lead. But the love I feel for my
dad is equal or greater than it was then because a lifetime has passed.
When the music was over, Dad and I were both crying. I was trying desperately to hide my tears,
but he was not. He was exhausted and
needed rest. I hugged him, thanked him
profusely for the lovely dance, and allowed the staff to put him to bed for a
nap.
The few moments of joy that dance provided my dad will
remain with me forever.
Dad died a few short weeks after our dance and in the final
hours of his life, we made sure to provide his favorite music at his bedside,
including Moonlight Serenade among
the list of songs he used to play as a young saxophonist in a dance band.
I am so thankful that I was visiting with my dad that day
and that his favorite music became a part of our interaction. I am most especially grateful for the
dance. Over these last few weeks as I
recount our final days together, and our final conversations, I am grateful for
him, for all that he taught me, and for the many gifts God gave us all our
lives and especially in these final weeks.
It makes the pain, and the lengthy suffering easier to bear. We feel certain in his final moment that he
was called by God, and that he is now finally at peace with our mother, and
that both are free from the burden of their earthly cares and illnesses. There are many, many blessings to appreciate.
And now they both are dancing anytime they want.
