pineapple man, day 1

Little more than two weeks ago, I planned on a long weekend in Nashville, Tennessee to check in on my dad and love-mom (I don't call her stepmother) Sally. She'd had surgery and dad was showing signs of forgetfulness. It seemed a good idea to lend some support.

I never dreamed of the week that would unfold before me. Now on the other side I realize it was the worst - and best - week of my life.

Two weeks ago, my 84-year-old father landed in the hospital after several hours of dizziness and nausea. The plan to stabilize him and send him home changed drastically into a 9-day hospital stay.

I entered his hospital room on day five around 8 a.m. He stared at me, a stare empty of the father I know. He looked vulnerable, scared. His hair spiked in all directions and he lay crookedly in his hospital bed, unable to straighten himself up. For that matter, he was unable to sit, stand or walk unassisted.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked, my throat tightening.
"Yes ... Barbara," he whispered.
I began to cry.
"You're crying," he said. "So cruel. Why do people do those things?"

His mind imagined all sorts of horrors.

In short, my dad was forgetting to take most of his meds at home, and coupled with the strange hospital environment and other medical issues, he tipped into what seemed a severe dementia.

I cried some more.

I acclimated during those first two hours to what the next six days would bring, none of which even remotely resembled the relationship I'd formerly had with my dad. Initially this scared me. Then, the two of us embarked on a sort of journey together. A new closeness took shape. Yes, even in the course of that first day, something changed between us.

He talked, I listened. I talked, he listened. Of memories, of God, of family and friends. I felt an urgency to talk as much as he could listen, to tell him things like never before. My mind raced, looking for words or memories that might connect and pull him back to reality. I stroked his arm, combed his hair, dabbed his tears. And talked. And laughed. And I listened, leaning in to catch his labored words, trying to make sense of them.

He'd say, "I'm lost, something's wrong with my mind." This terrified me. He seemed to be coming back, bit by bit. Then he'd slide away again. What if the slide continued? What if, what if?

Amazingly, dad's sharp wit was nearly intact.
A doctor quizzed him: "Mr. Matlock, do you know where you are?"
"I'm right here," he deadpanned.

His old gruff exterior seemed to soften. A child-like sweetness emerged. I told him he's like a pineapple, and that we all wanted to see more of his inner sweetness. That one puzzled him.

I held dad's hand, wiped his tears and his nose. It was the first time I'd seen him cry in 30 years. This day, he cried frequently. I warmed his oatmeal in a microwave across the hall and fed him spoonfuls. I held cups of juice and water for him to sip through a straw.

Giving him a first bite of scrambled eggs, I realized the bite was too large so I divided it. And suddenly I was feeding my baby, not my father.

He hallucinated frequently, pointing out cats, whales and bugs in his room. And I cried some more.

As medical personnel came and went, I forced myself to put emotions aside, to listen and formulate questions regarding dad's care. I look back in the notebook I kept. In it I scribbled possible diagnoses, various drugs, questions to ask and needed phone numbers.

Somehow I made it to the end of that first day. As I packed up to leave, it felt so wrong. I was leaving not my dad in that hospital bed, but my small child.

On the way to the parking garage, I was numb. What could God be teaching me? I could only pray, trusting he would carry me in the coming days.