I received a disquieting call at work about a month ago while I was finishing up my shift at the hospital. When I saw the area code of the incoming number, I knew it was about my father.
“Don’t worry,” the caregiver at his assisted living facility assured me, “your dad is fine.” I sank into a chair at the nurse’s station while the caller explained that there had been some concern earlier in the day when my dad was found walking alone, “quite a ways from the facility,” by an off-duty employee who graciously returned him in one piece.
While he is technically free to come and go as long as he signs in and out, the employee’s concern for my father’s safety was justifiable.
“It’s just that the road is so busy,” she said, “and there’s no sidewalk…” Then she cleared her throat and gently reiterated the part about his dementia.
When I got home from work that evening, I called my dad and got his version of the story. As he saw it, he had gone for a walk to enjoy the sunshine, then out of the blue, he was picked up by “a very kind police officer” who brought him back to what he referred to as his hotel room.
“Apparently it’s against the law to walk on that road to McDonalds,” he said. I could almost hear him shrug, then the rattling sound of him shaking Reese’s Pieces from a box into his mouth. “First, no driving, now a guy can’t even go for a walk without being arrested,” I could hear him crunching through a mouthful of colorful candy shells.
When my dad’s longtime doctor told him several months ago it was time to give up driving, he obliged out of professional respect, and some degree of fear. Later, however, he boldly reconsidered. He mused that if he were going to be expected to adhere to such a stipulation, he wanted the order to come down from a “city official,” suggesting that a police officer or a judge would be a more appropriate authority figure to deliver the mandate than the kindly doctor.
“I’ve been driving for 66 years,” my dad protested. This is true. He came of age in rural North Dakota where any fourteen-year-old tall enough to reach the foot pedals could get a provisional license in order to drive to school, basketball practice, and back home in time for farm chores. “I’ve never had an accident,” he continued, which is also true. However, this statement came on the same day when, instead of reaching for the cell phone ringing in his pocket, he put the car key fob to his ear and pleasantly said, “Hello?”
These days, most things pass quickly through my dad’s mind. Thankfully, this includes his frustrations. He no longer mentions the unfairness of the driving restriction, and quickly left last month’s walking episode behind, too. But shortly after the reprimand, his need to be in motion propelled him to start taking walks again. At first, the cold temperatures kept him cruising the hallways indoors, but as the spring weather warmed, he ventured outdoors, using the sidewalks surrounding the facility, always keeping the building in sight as he had been instructed to do.
When I walked in the entrance last week on my most recent visit, I could see him at his usual post in one of the armchairs in the lobby; crossword book in his lap, pencil in hand. The strategic position assures he won’t miss a beat, whether it’s the therapy dogs trotting in for a visit, a local musician with a guitar coming for a sing-along, or the exercise class where he recently demonstrated how he could still do 27 push ups, correctly.
Sitting in the lobby also makes him available to the women in the building who play dominoes and Yahtzee, the ones who dote on him the way older sisters fawn over a little brother.
He waved wildly when he saw me pause at the guest register in the entryway to sign in. This was encouraging.
My dad was in good spirits that day, telling me that “a lady” had just come for a visit. After a guessing game that felt similar to a round of charades, we were able to land on the name of a woman he used to teach with. I was surprised, because I thought I’d heard that she had died recently, and for some reason said so out loud.
“Hmmm,” my dad said, tapping the pencil eraser to his chin, “I don’t think she died yet, but let’s check to be sure.” I followed him back out to the guest register where he ran his finger down the page and landed on the woman’s name at an entry for 10 o’clock that morning.
“Nope, she’s still alive!” He said with a grin, arms raised in victory.
Every time I am back in Minnesota, I look for the things about my father that are still intact. Besides his penchant for keeping his living space neat as a pin, his sense of humor and love for candy remain. That day, I checked the inside of one of his cupboards to see several boxes of Reese’s Pieces lined up in a straight row, reminding me of the time I watched him turn a corner down an aisle in Super One, and without skipping a beat of our conversation, reached out and blindly grabbed five of the movie-theater-sized orange boxes with one hand and tossed them into his basket.
After a minute or two he said, “Well, should we go?” It was an unbearably cold afternoon for the end of April, with a bitter wind blowing out of the north, but the plan was to take a walk, so we bundled up and went outside.
My dad’s new walking path employed all of the sidewalks around the building, and the perimeter of the parking lot. He told me it’s about a mile if we walked his new circuit twice. I believe him. He was a runner once upon a time, and forever a walker, so the memory of what a mile feels like is stored in his muscles; a reliable source of information.
As we walked, I reminded him of when he used to live on a county road where he’d walk 4 miles a day. It was two miles to the halfway point, a metal speed limit sign that he would always touch, then turn around and walk the two miles back home.
I mentioned the time when it was 20 below zero and someone had stopped to ask if he needed a ride. Apparently it was hard for the driver to believe anyone would be out for exercise in that weather.
We both got a good laugh out of that one.
After the walk, we peeled off the layers and headed through the lobby, back toward his apartment. I spotted a few Reese’s Pieces on the carpet in the hallway, first yellow, then orange, then brown. I pointed them out, teasing him. “Yep,” he told me, “that’s the trail I leave so I can find my way home.”
When you live 1,118 miles apart from someone you love, the goodbyes always mean something. But as my father’s mind drifts further into the dream, and his walking paths make tighter and tighter circles around his life, the final chapter sometimes feels just a few pages away.
“I know I am supposed to worry about you because I’m your dad,” he said as we hugged, “but I can’t even remember all of the things I’m supposed to worry about anymore,” he added apologetically. “So just promise me you will be extra, extra careful about everything.”
I’d be extra, extra careful, I promised. I wanted to assure him that I remembered all of the things that needed to be worried about, and that I was worrying enough for both of us. Instead, I just squeezed a little tighter, a little longer.
Karla Theilen is the Neighborhood Storyteller at Strong Towns. Karla is a writer, storyteller, and Registered Nurse based out of Missoula, Montana. Her penchant to explore wild places informed early career choices as a trail builder in the Grand Canyon, and a forest fire lookout in Idaho. Her current writing inspiration comes from a different kind of wilderness, navigating healing journeys with her patients in far-flung places where she works as a travel nurse. Her writing has been featured on NPR, and select stories and essays have been anthologized. She has been Facebook-free since 1972.
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This post was previously published on Strong Towns with a Creative Commons License.
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The post Remembering All the Things I’m Supposed to Worry About appeared first on The Good Men Project.