Oh Faa-der; Yes Faa-der

Wednesday, June 5, 2013
10:30 am
In Lounge, Dressed, Socks and Slippers

I stand for a minute and watch from behind the facing row of easy chairs. Father's seatmate is just getting up, and I plan to take his seat, but an aide notices me and gets Bernie's attention and we wave.  She offers a wheel chair and Bernie assents.

"Would you like to go to the patio." "Yes, that would be nice."  I push slowly and Bernie lifts his feet barely off the ground.  "Isn't it pretty here."  I am encouraged by his positive spirit. "Sun or shade?" "How about here."  He chooses a shady spot and before I can begin the opening questions he says, "It's a little chilly here, could we move into the sun." "Why you bet."  I'm glad to have him interact and express a preference.

The next 30 minutes are a demonstration of quick easy, nearly automatic responses, but only a few words long, contrasted with incomplete sentences, trailing off into "Oh, Dear God. Oh, Dear God."

For a while now I have anticipated opening a conversation about heaven and transition.  I broach the subject and Bernie says he doesn't think about it much.  "What will that be like?" "No one knows." "Does any of that transition worry you?" "No."   He doesn't duck the subject, but doesn't have much to say about it.

I ask another generalized question, and Bernie answers, "God has a plan for every individual." 

He seems to be unafraid, but neither anxious to talk about death and heaven.



I ask about his foot.  "I have no pain in my left foot."  "Oh, is that good?" "Yes, very good."  That was the foot which was first thought to be cellulitis.  Since it has not responded to any of the antibiotics, everyone has a wait and see attitude.  "We'll see what happens. They check it every morning," Bernie offers 

"I know they mean well, but the nurses and aids can be a bother.  'Oh, Faa-der.' 'Yes, Faa-der.'" Bernie twinkles with an impish look, and I laugh out loud.  This is not the first time.  His dialect is very familiar, and I am well conditioned.  He looks up and see's how much I enjoy his sense of humor and gives a teasing smile, quite and subtle enough that we could deny everything if we were caught.

I mentioned he looks like he might have gained some weight. "Yes, that's what Kathleen said when she visited."  Why some things linger and some are forgotten.  During other visits I have asked about visitors, and he said he didn't recall any. Obviously he has many, some reported here and some not. I don't know if he would rather not discuss the visits.

I ask about meals. "Which is the best meal of the day?"  "Oh, definitely not breakfast. I suppose the mid-day meal." "Bernie, when you were growing up, what did you call the last meal of the day?" His pace quickens and answers immediately, "Supper." He interrupts himself eagerly, "Never dinner." It was as if he was afraid someone would take the floor and he needed to express himself.  "And what about the midday meal?" And, as if a switch turned off, he was unable to recall what that meal was called. "Oh dear God."  We joke for a minute, and I offer, "My cousins in Canada call the evening meal supper, and at noon they eat dinner."  "Oh, no -- never dinner."  "Sometimes the Sunday meal would be called Dinner."

I remind him of the many times he'd come to dinner (supper) at our house, and either during the meal or afterward someone would use a word and another would say something like, "do you mean connotate or denotate (or detonate?) and the four of us would each grab a dictionary and for the next two hours one word would lead to another and each of us would read from our dictionary and argue with the dictionary editors.  He remembered all this and smiled.

"Can you tell me what this watch is telling?" "Well, it IS a little hard to figure out...the little hand is between the 11 and the twelve and the big hand between the 5 and the 6 so it is hard to read.... It looks like 11:25 or so."

"OK, we still have some time."  "Are you concerned about something." "I just don't want to be late." "For lunch?" "Yes." "OK we can go in now."

We slowly wheel into the dining room and it is nearly half full. I say, "You point, I'll steer."  He raises his hand to point to the table under the clock where we sat last week. One of the aides said, that's where the priests sit.  Father Joe was already seated and had his head down.  Bernie points to his spot and we wheel around. I take a chair.  Bernie says, "I don't know what else to say."  You don't have to say anything, I'll just sit for a bit and listen. 

One of the CDs is on the player, and I cannot guess the era. I recognize the tune, but have no idea why it is familiar.  I pull out my cell phone and launch Shazam.  In about 30 seconds, the app tells me. "My cell phone can listen to a song and tell me the name.  That's Blondie 'Call me' - 1980."  "That's amazing" both priests say almost in unison.  Father Joe and Bernie both appreciated how remarkable it is that a cell phone can listen to a few seconds of a tune, and identify it.  We all shake out heads and agree, "That really is amazing."

Each of these men is amazing. They immediately came to life to acknowledge this small technical feat.