Gentle, quiet man

I see the photos from the past, and he was strikingly handsome. Tall, a little on the thin side, and with the best of smiles. He's still all of those things. He has a quiet grace about him, and he speaks softly. His "uh huh" response to questions is musical. It ends on a higher note, sort of sing-song. You'd have to hear it, I guess.

He has a cane, and a walker. He doesn't like either one. Some days he's pretty steady on his feet, and some days I'm worried about him just trying to stand up. He knows he's failing. He knows he can't think of the words he wants to say, and these things bother him greatly. I can tell he was self-assured in days gone by. Now he feels, as he says, stupid.


He's worried about things like me driving in traffic or weather. He's worried that I live so far away. One day he was obviously thinking about that, and he said "Say we were to come and visit you one day. Where would we go?" Such an interesting way to ask. I described the drive from highway 522 to State Route 2. "Oh, my! You do live way, way out there, don't you?" The thought of him coming out for a visit is delightful to me.


He tries to read the paper, but it's obvious that the words just sit there and don't communicate with him anymore. He scans the same news over and over, and then quietly gives up, folds the paper, and tosses it aside. Hands on the arm rests of the recliner, he stares into space until he falls asleep, mouth open. That hurts my heart. I will sometimes come in and put my hand on his hand and ask if there is anything he wants or needs.

He tried to press the numbers on the phone yesterday, to call his sister. He was unable to press the right ones, because the word "six" and the numeral 6 did not relate, in his mind. It's happening. I hate this.


Sometimes he stands in the hall, unsure of which direction he intended to go. If it's only for a few minutes, I don't intervene. Sometimes I know that means he is trying to figure out if he has to go to the bathroom. In no way do I ever want to embarrass or frighten him. If he wanders back and forth in the hall, I will cheerfully invite him to watch TV while I do a chore. "Keep me company!" I say. He likes that, and says "Oh, okayyyy" in the same soft, sing-song lilt.


He's still at the stage where he knows he's losing himself. One day, mercifully, he will no longer be aware of this. I pray that he still remembers that he feels better when I'm there, should that day come.