I was beginning to panic after scanning the rooms and he was nowhere to be found. My nerves were already getting the best of me, wondering what this first visit with Dad in his new home was going to bring.
My boyfriend spotted him first, sitting on the back porch with a group of men. We watched him through the window for a few minutes and I had to chuckle.
He was in his element at that moment. Drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and shootin’ the bull. Without being able to hear their conversation, he seemed to be the person I’ve been grieving over since dementia stole him away.
He was excited to see us, gave me a hug and then just as quickly, returned to the group’s discussion, which was anything but normal.
From reminiscing about events that never happened to making plans for trips that will never take place, he was enjoying making small talk and I had to fight back tears of relief.
Feeling confident, since the initial visit went so well, I decided to go by again the next evening after work. The nice lady at Dad’s new home suggested I wait awhile before stopping by in the evenings, as it seems to be the time of day that a lot of folks battling dementia struggle with. Of course, I thought I knew best, and stopped by anyway.
At first he was excited I was there and even though half the time he introduced me as his wife, instead of daughter, it seemed to be going OK until everything was quiet and it was just the two of us sitting on the couch.
He started talking about how much he missed me and was tearing up, squeezing my hand as though it would be our last visit.
I reassured him that I would be coming as often as I could but soon realized his mind was bouncing between the past and the present and I was his mother, his wife and sometimes his daughter.
I left two hours later and cried myself all the way home, convinced he wasn’t happy in his new home, even though I had just witnessed him having a great time just the day before.
The next morning my boyfriend called to say he had checked in on Dad. He was folding laundry and was happy as could be, talking about the heat of the day, how lucky he was to have an air-conditioned home and friends to talk to.
They have a name for it – “Sundowners Syndrome” – a mysterious ailment in dementia or Alzheimer’s patients, which escalates their confusion when the sun begins to set.
Driving home from work that evening my mind was reeling with worries of the coming nightfall and if Dad would again be sad, without me being there to comfort him.
Passing by a church I glanced up long enough to read the message on their sign. It was meant for me to see.
“God takes care of people, through other people.”
