A Winning Moment

I gave Dad his breakfast and went to another area of the house to make some important business calls.  When I returned, Dad was fast asleep, slumped over to the right in his chair, his spoon still held firmly in his fingers.  The Cheerios scattered on the dark green carpet were only outnumbered by the Cheerios resting on his chest and lap.  They were concentrated primarily just below his chin.

“Guess I should have stayed to feed you today,” I said, mostly to myself.  

I grabbed a napkin to wipe his chin and began to clean up the cereal.  Swollen to twice their original size, the little circles of whole grain oats disintegrated in my fingertips as I tried to pick them from his neck and sleeveless T.  They were still drenched in milk and had begun to dissolve into a mystical union with the fibers of Dad’s shirt. 

Feeding himself isn’t always this big of a problem.  But, as the week had worn on, he had become less attentive and conversational, more turned inside to focus on his own inaccessible world. The inability to feed himself is par for the course. 

The signs of his inward trek were typical.  Earlier in the week he had become convinced he was being held against his will.  He woke a day or two later at 5am and began calling out for help.  Before I had a chance to turn on the light or ask him what was so alarming, he began ordering the immediate removal of everything in the apartment, from the television, to the grandmother clock, to the coffee maker, to the sheets and pillowcases.

“They took everything else while you were gone,” he insisted.  “We need to get the rest out before they come back.  I can’t believe they can get away with this.”

This seems to be a cycle Dad goes through regularly.  Today he had progressed to the part of the cycle where he stops talking and struggles with small motor coordination, part of his mild Parkinson’s disease we’re told.  A slight change in his physical condition, a head cold, or trouble with his bowels for example, will set the cycle in motion.  So far, as bad as he gets during these cycles, he has always pulled back from decline and returned to his normal self.  

But even in the midst of these cycles, he has his charming moments of clarity and wit.  Last week I found the man lying on his side on the floor beside his bed.  He had tried to stand on his own and ended up on the ground. 

I knew he had fallen but in order to downplay his fears, as I rushed over to his aid I said, “Dad.  What on earth are you doing on the floor?” 

He craned his head around and with a gentle smile he simply replied, “I’m resting!”

So there I was, wrestling him into an upright position after cleaning him up from his encounter with a stubborn bowl of Cheerios.  My face is inches from his when he suddenly bursts awake.  His eyes go wide open and he says without hesitation, “We won!”

  

A little startled and having no clear idea what he could mean, I played along.  “Really? I asked.  “What did we win?”

I walked to the sink to rinse my dishcloth and returned to wipe his tv table.  His eyes fixed on me expectantly. 

I repeated my question. “What did we win, Pop?” 

Just that fast he had lost his ability to find the right words to share.  He struggled to complete a meaningful phrase and finally fell silent again and stared away into space. 

I turned to see what he was focused on.  It was the TV.  My eyes locked on the screen and I remembered I had flipped from the Westerns Channel to Comcast Sports Net while I prepared his breakfast.  I guess I had forgotten to switch it back before I left the room to make my business calls.  

We watched together as the final seconds of Comcast Sports Rise ticked away.  Was he trying to tell me about a sporting event?  As I changed the channel back to his preferred station, he mustered his strength and mental focus once again.  He looked me in the eye and proudly stated, “Baseball!”

Dad didn’t know I had watched the Phillies win 10-7 over the hated Mets the night before.  Nor did he realize that Sports Rise runs repeatedly for several hours every morning and that I had seen the same replays twice already that morning.  

What Dad did remember, some how, was that I live and breathe baseball and specifically, the Phillies.  He had gathered all his strength and mental resolve just to let me know that my team had won a game.  

Silly as it may seem, this was a real moment of care and affection from Dad, a moment that demonstrated his selfless desire to see me blessed.  As such, it is a moment I will not soon forget.  

Way to go Dad and let's go Phillies!