The Stories We Carry

Will pulled into the parking space and put the car in park. He reached to turn off the ignition, but paused, closing his eyes and letting the air from the vents wash over him for just a second longer. He exhaled slowly, settling himself. He made this visit three times a week, but it had never gotten any easier. The hard, unspoken truth of having a parent with dementia is that you have already lost them, but you can’t begin to grieve the loss because they are still here.

Having gathered himself, Will grabbed the plastic grocery bag from the passenger seat and headed to the entrance of the facility where his father lived. He smiled at the familiar receptionist.

 “Hey, Joan!”

“Hey, Will! Tell your dad I said hello.”

As he navigated through the hallways, dodging wheelchairs and walkers as he went, Will rehearsed the ground rules of loving someone with dementia:

1. Don’t argue or correct. This is a fruitless gesture that will only frustrate both of you.

2. Just go with it. A conversation with someone suffering from dementia is a lot like improv. Follow their cue and go from there.

3. It’s not personal. Whatever their mood is, whatever they are emotionally presenting, has nothing to do with you. It’s the disease talking.

Will knew these rules instinctively by now, having walked with his father through this time for the last 4 years. But he still needed to prep himself for each visit.

Punching the code into the pad next to the the memory care unit, Will opened the door and headed for the day room, where his father spent every day sitting in front of the large picture windows, watching the birds perched on the multiple feeders outside. He pulled a chair up beside the frail old man, hardly believing this could be the same person who had carried him on his shoulders after every ballgame.

“Hey there!” Will girded up himself and said with more enthusiasm than he felt.

His father turned at the sound of his voice, his face lighting up. “Well, hello! My name is William. What’s yours?”

Will swallowed, choking down the disappointment he always felt when his father didn’t recognize him.

“My name is Will, too.”

“How about that! What are the odds?”

“Pretty good, actually,” Will muttered under his breath. “I brought us a snack.” He reached into the plastic bag and pulled out two cans of RC Cola and a couple Moon Pies.

“Why, that’s my favorite! How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. Here, let me help you.”

Will popped open the soda, the crack and fizz drawing a grin out of William. The old man took a long pull from the RC, and sat back in his chair, eyes closed, savoring the soft drink.

“You know, you look familiar”, William said, staring at Will. “Are you my insurance man?”

“Something like that,” Will answered. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“I thought so. Things just get jumbled in my head sometimes.”

“That’s okay. That’s why we have people walking along with us. To help us remember our stories.”

“You know my stories?”

“Sir, I know all your stories.”

“Hmm… kinda strange for my insurance man to know all my stories. Tell me one of my stories.”

“Well, you were in the Navy. Got the town doctor to sign the paper saying you were 18 and fit for war. You were three days past your 16th birthday.”

William chuckled. “That’s too young.”

“Sure was. But the war in Europe was calling, and you were itching for a fight. You crossed the Atlantic 8 times before you turned 18, running escort for the ships heading to the war.”

“Sounds like I’m a war hero.”

“Folks back home sure thought so. You came home on leave, and headed to the stadium to see the kids your age still playing football. It was you and three of your friends. They had signed up with the army, and were on leave, as well. Four girls were up in the stands watching the game. They saw y’all walk in wearing your uniforms. One of the girls said, ‘You girls can have the soldiers. The sailor is mine.’ You married her before leave was over.”

William cackled and slapped his knee. “Ha! How about that?! Folks probably thought we were crazy!”

“They did. But y’all spent the next 70 years proving them wrong. You came back after the war, and bought that little house about 3 miles from here. Planted that oak tree in the front yard. Said it would grow with the family. It did. You hanged bird houses on the tree when it was big enough, and tire swings on there when your kids were big enough. That tree is 45 feet tall now, easy.”

“Isn’t that something,” William said quietly, staring out the picture window. “We were pretty lucky.”

“You always used the word ‘blessed’,” Will rasped, choking down emotion.

“That does sound like me. Can you open my Moon Pie?”

Will reached over, grabbing the Moon Pie by the wrapper, and pulled the cellophane apart. He handed the snack cake back to William, who began eating the Moon Pie like he had for as long as Will could remember - nibbling the edges until he got to the marshmallow center. Will sat there, shaking his head. It was amazing how little habits remained when everything else melted away like a late snow in April.

A nurse came by to check on the Williams. The elder said, “Hey! Have you met my insurance man? He knows all my stories.”

Will sat in his car for several minutes after arriving at home. His wife was probably inside preparing dinner. He reached for his phone and dialed his son’s number. William the third picked up on the second ring. 

“Hey, pop! What’s up?”

“Not much. Just left grandpa. What are you doing Saturday?”

“No plans. Need help with something?”

“Just have some stories to share with you.”

“Stories?”

“Yeah. I’ll need you to carry them someday for me. Want to make sure you have them when the time comes.”