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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
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