The Birthday Gift
Submitted by Debbie on 2008, January 29 - 15:43.
How do you celebrate a seventy-fourth birthday for someone who mostly lives in a different reality? It's a stumper, if you ask this caregiver. But I opened my caregiver bag of tricks, dug deep and came up with the following:
Call Family Members
If you're unable to gather them all in one place, make calls to the family at large. In Dad's case, that meant calling his older sister, Stella, his only surviving sibling. Stella loves to chat—looooooooves to chat—so conversation flows easily. Stella speaks; George listens.
Stella begins with her favorite topic: who has died. She recites the list and how old they were at their passing. Dad listens in shock. He then asks how old he is. I hear a shout: "Seventy-four! Dear Lord, I am 74? How old are Mom and Dad?!?" I chuckle, as I know poor Stella is searching for a way out.... Dad soon tires and hands me the phone, and Stella laughs and says, "That brother of mine." I can hear her smiling fondly through the phone.
Birthday Dinner
Dad loves hamburgers, so we go to his favorite hamburger joint. The food is good, but the restaurant is busy and has ornate decorations. It's a little intimidating with all the sounds, lights and colors, but Dad loves it. Another reason I choose this restaurant is that they give the birthday boy a sundae and sing to him. During the meal, Dad asks what the occasion is for all of us to be together, so we say it is his birthday. Then we go through the ages. This two-step conversation becomes a chorus throughout the meal.
The waiter, most efficiently, is making sure all our drinks are topped off. I did forget to warn the waiter about Dad, and when he grabs Dad's empty soda glass for a refill, my father is horrified. As the waiter leaves, Dad looks at me and says, "Did you see that? He stole my soda." I tell Dad I'd see that he receives a new one. Sure enough, the waiter returns with a fresh soda and I reassure Dad that he'll not steal his soda again. The poor waiter looks at me confused and a little hurt, and I explain that Dad is not well and that a new soda should be brought before removing the empty. The waiter looks, nods and apologizes, and Dad reassures him we will not be docking his tip.
Before you know it, a sundae appears before Dad—magically delicious, I might add—and he is all smiles. Soon a crowd of young people (wait staff) are singing and clapping and pointing at him. He loves it. Dad is smiling and laughing and enjoying the attention. At the conclusion of the song, he stands up and waves to his adoring fans (the patrons in the restaurant). It's wonderful.
Homeward Bound
As we drive home, my belly is full, music is playing and I am a little sleepy. But, always on call, I go through the to-do list that awaits me at home. The big item: getting Dad into bed.
I begin to feel a little melancholy, remembering past birthdays and thinking of how this one is quiet and that so few of us are here. In the background, I hear one of Dad's favorite CDs. Out of the blue, he turns to my husband and quotes two lines from the song, then asks my husband for his opinion on the meaning of the lyric. I am shocked. My mouth literally drops open. This CD is by an artist named Dianna Krall, and we have owned it for only a few weeks; yet it touches my dad—the Dad not affected by dementia.
These flashes of "George" occur ever less often, but are all the more powerful for their infrequency. And it's why I'm so glad I didn't give in and say, "Skip the birthday this year. Go out to eat? You must be kidding, that's wooooork!" I'm glad I sucked it up and took one for the team.
But you know what? I received the best gift of all, and it wasn't even my birthday. I had my dad with me, in the moment, and it was grand!
So, happy birthday, Daddy.