I'LL SHOW YOU A REAL GOOD TIME

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My father had been displaying a great degree of lethargy during what turned out to be the last couple of years of his life; content to just sit in his recliner, and look out at the birds on the pond behind his mobile home. Once, when I was visiting in his home one day, daddy and I had jumped on his and mama's bicycles, and pedaled around the mobile home park. 

The closest I came to being overtly concerned about his mental acuity occurred that day. Several times during the course of our ride, my father would coast off the pavement, and into the grass. There was simply no common reason for him doing so. I recall saying something like, "Daddy, what's going on?" (and) "Stay on the street. You're gonna fall over, if you keep running into the grass."

However, it was only after my father fell, and hit his head on the dining room table, and I found him in bed the next afternoon that I took it on myself to insist he go to the emergency room.

As a result of a CT scan or MRI, as the case may be, it was determined that daddy had sustained a major stroke. He was transferred to the 7th floor of the local hospital; a floor primarily dedicated to the treatment of stroke victims. 

My father did a couple of things which were completely out of character for him; during the 8-10 days he was in residence there.  

He would get out of bed, and walk down the hallway, and occasionally the nurses would find him in other patients' rooms. As a result, the decision was made to immobilize daddy in his bed. Oh, they didn't shackle him with wrist and ankle cuffs. No, the decision was made to confine him to a, for lack of a better term, bed tent. Once, when I came up to visit, I recall finding him lying inside this weird fabric enclosure which had been zipped up, and buckled to his mattress.

The doctors and clinicians did an admirable job of intervening for my dad, and I had few, if any complaints about his treatment. One day, after I had been chatting with my father, a female speech therapist walked into the room, along with one of my dad's nurses.

"Mr. McDonald, we're going to put you in a wheelchair, and roll you into my office."

I suppose daddy nodded, and having been helped into a wheelchair, the nurse pushed him twenty feet down the hallway, turned the corner, and into a small office.

"Okay, Mr. McDonald. I'd like you to repeat these syllables and words as I say them to you."

As my mother and I looked on, he did a fairly admirable job of correctly pronouncing the syllables and words. Now, when the speech evaluation was nearing its conclusion, daddy did the second thing which I previously inferred was out of character.

He looked directly into the eyes of the speech therapist, grinned a slightly crooked little grin, and said...

"Honey, I want you to come see me when I get outta here. I'll show you a real good time!"

I almost fell out of my chair! However, to everyone's credit, neither I, nor mama, nor the therapist expressed surprise, nor did the second and third of the foregoing parties respond. 

But now, for no particular reason, I felt constrained to say something humorous. It had to do with daddy's and the therapist' respective ages, and his marital status. (But, I will spare you my exact words). Of course, we all realized my father's cognitive wherewithal was significantly challenged, and we "marked it off" for what it was. 

Daddy was released, went home, but found himself in a nursing home shortly thereafter. He lived just three more months.

Even in the midst of calamity, one has to appreciate those occasional humorous moments which serve to break up the difficulties of life.

by Bill McDonald, PhD