A Day to Remember

“Did you check the mail this morning?”

I look up from the other side of the table where I sit with my morning coffee and toast, trying in vain to finish the news article I’ve already invested twenty minutes in. “Benny, it’s too early for the mail, we’ve only just gotten up. Are you expecting something?”

The sweet scent of cinnamon drifts from his bowl of oatmeal, much of which he appears to be wearing. Remnants of his napkin, torn into dozens of pieces, now float atop the coffee in his cup.

“Robbie said she sent me a Father’s Day card.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper a short prayer to God or whatever deity can help me to get through another day. “Benny, when did Robbie tell you this?”

“When she called to wish me happy Father’s Day. She said the card was in the mail. Have you seen it?”

I ignore his question and instead ask that he try to dress – suggesting busywork as a means of keeping him focused. “I’m going to clean up the dishes while you dress and brush your teeth. We need to leave in an hour.”

Confusion clouds his face and I see the struggle behind his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“It’s Tuesday. You have class today with Miss Beth and Mr. Randy, remember? You get to spend time with your friends and play the problem-solving games you enjoy so much.”

His brow furrows and a low, guttural sound rises up from his throat and escapes through his mouth. “They aren’t my friends and one of them is a big, fat cheater! He always answers questions before it’s his turn and I don’t get a chance! I know the answers, I just can’t say them as fast as he can.”

I know whom Benny is talking about, and I’ve spoken to one of the volunteers in the program on more than one occasion about his frustrations. I’ve been assured that, short of muzzling this individual, he’s going to talk out of turn no matter how many times he’s asked not to.

He turns away from me, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms protectively around his legs. He reminds me of Robbie as a child, pouting when told she can’t have her way.

“Benny, do you want to dress yourself this morning or do you want me to help you?”

Defeated, he pushes himself forcefully away from a half-finished breakfast and storms out of the room.

Wearily I rise to clear the table and load the dishwasher. I’m exhausted after another sleepless night of listening for Benny to leave the bed and begin his nocturnal wanderings. During nights like these when I’m unable to talk him back into bed, we sit at the kitchen table and piece together some of Robbie’s childhood jigsaw puzzles. Unlike adult puzzles, the pieces are larger in size and each set contains sixty or fewer pieces – easier to handle and quicker to finish. I was saving them for grandchildren, but now her father and I solve them together.

I glance at the list of chores to be done while Benny is in class: return library books, pick up prescriptions, gas up the car, grab a few groceries . . . The house needs to be cleaned, but that will have to wait until Thursday.

When Robbie was in preschool, coincidentally on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would plan my errands and housework around her class time, allowing for more quality time with her. Forty years later, I find myself doing the same thing for my husband.

In the bedroom, Benny is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed and holding a pair of socks. “I don’t know which foot these go on. There’s a right sock and a left sock, isn’t there?”

I smile despite it all.

“It doesn’t matter, Benny, they’ll fit on either foot. You look nice, sweetie. Did you remember to put underwear on?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them, knowing that redressing him will add several minutes to a morning when I want to be out on time. But my question hasn’t registered, and I watch as this former engineer struggles to negotiate the basics of pulling socks onto his feet.

The clothes he’s chosen reveal two things: he pulled the shirt from the Goodwill bag in my closet and the shorts from the laundry basket in our bathroom. The Hawaiian-themed shirt is a relic from the days of parties and pig roasts at the beach; the shorts are embellished with green and red stripes cut across a white background. Normally I would suggest a more appropriate match, but today I’m happy that he has succeeded in lining up the buttons on his shirt and zipping the fly on his pants.

We’re walking out the front door with minutes to spare when Benny turns to me with an expectant look on his face. “Did you check the mail this morning? Robbie sent me a Father’s Day card.”

I take his arm and guide him toward the car, mentioning once again that it’s too early for the mail. I know I should take time to address this question better, but I want to stay on track so I can finish my errands before pick-up.

Twenty minutes later I pull up alongside the curb in front of the town’s senior center where volunteers wait to greet program participants as they arrive. Normally Miss Shirley is there to walk Benny in, but she’s nowhere to be seen this morning. 

A young man I don’t recognize approaches the car, and as I step out and make my way around to the passenger side door he is already introducing himself to me and Benny.

“Where’s Miss Shirley?” I ask, trying not to sound ungrateful for his presence in her place.

Shirley Foster is a long-time volunteer with the memory care program and Benny’s favorite person. I’ve been told that he flirts with her when I’m not around, but she doesn’t seem to mind and knows how to manage his advances. I understand this kind of flirtation is not uncommon among Alzheimer's patients, but I catch myself wondering why I’m no longer enough.

“Her husband is in the hospital. He had a heart attack over the weekend, so she’s going to be taking care of him for a while. I normally work with the program downtown, but they’ve asked me to fill in this week.”

We finish our conversation and I say a quick goodbye to Benny, assuring him that I’ll be back at two o’clock. I’m struck at how I always feel liberated as I drive away after two years of doing this twice a week. If only for a while.

Today I make the best use of my time and even manage to fit in what passes as a leisurely lunch these days. I can still taste the creamy sweetness of the cheesecake I splurged on as I pull into the designated pick-up spot.

Benny is waiting with Beth Evans who, along with Randy Carlson, created this popular program for those in our community with dementia. Normally this is a job for a volunteer, so her being there suggests a problem. The look of anguish on Benny’s face confirms this.

“What happened?” I ask, the sound of my voice elucidating my alarm.

“Benny hasn’t had a very good day,” Beth replies. “During snack time he took himself to the bathroom, and when he didn’t come right back Randy went to check on him. I’m not sure, but I think he forgot how to unfasten his pants and ended up having an accident in them. It was made worse by the fact that he didn’t have underwear on. We tried to call you a couple of times, but you didn’t pick up.”

Just then I remember that I turned the ring volume down on my cell while at the library, and never did bother to check messages during the morning. “Oh my God, Beth, I’m so sorry.”

“We rinsed his shorts out as best we could, then dried them under the hand dryer in the bathroom. He rejoined the group after that but was withdrawn and moody the rest of the day. And he keeps asking about Robbie – says he talked to her on Sunday?”

I roll my eyes inadvertently as she mentions Robbie. “Robbie has come up a lot in the last few days. I think he’s remembering the last time they spoke on a Father’s Day. I need to talk to him when we get home, and I promise I’ll check my phone in the future for messages. It just didn’t occur to me this morning.”

“Look, I know you’re stressed – all of our spouses and caregivers are. Don’t worry about it. Just talk to him, and maybe send a change of clothes with him in case it happens again. Normally we call the caregiver to come back and take care of things like this, but just in case . . .”

Ben is quiet on the ride home, and I broach the subject of what happened.

“Honey, I’m sorry about what happened today. I know you must have been embarrassed and I should have been there to help you. How about a nice hot bath when we get home? I’ll put some of my lavender-scented bubble bath in the water and you can relax and tell me about the games you played with Miss Beth and Mr. Randy.”

“Miss Shirley’s husband died,” he blurts out, near tears in the seat next to me.

“No, Benny, he didn’t die. He had a heart attack and will be recovering at home for a while. But he’ll be okay.”

He stares straight ahead – focused on something I am unable to see.

“Benny, why are you telling people that you spoke to Robbie? Sweetie, Robbie died ten years ago, remember? She was in a car accident and died at the hospital. We went to the funeral, remember? Please remember,” I plead with him.

He doesn’t answer and I pull the car off the road and into a park where we often walked in the evenings in another time. We would walk at sunset, when the deer were active and often on the trail ahead of us, munching on the shrubs and low-lying tree branches. These days, Benny has no interest in walking farther than one trip to the end of our street and back.

With the car parked and the engine off, I reach for his hand – dry and rough with age. I stare at my husband of forty years and wonder if what I’m saying is even reaching the part of his brain that still belongs to him. This man, who spent his life working to support his family, coaching girls’ softball and soccer teams, and restoring old Mustangs, now needs someone to wash out the accident he left in his own pants.

“Benny, do you understand what I’m saying to you? Do you remember that our daughter has passed on?”

“Yes,” he responds. “I know. I miss her.”

“Baby, I miss her too, but we still have each other, right? We still love each other.”

After sitting silently for a few minutes, a smile creeps into his face and I’m delighted that my words seem to have brought him back to me, even if for a moment. He turns to look at me – his blue eyes twinkling like a child’s.

“Did you check the mail this morning? Robbie sent me a Father’s Day card.”