Bob walked into the main Dammert lunch room today. He hasn’t been eating in this dining room for a couple of months. It’s me, Bob, Lester, and Dad all at one table. Old times and new.
The snow brightens the room. They don’t seem to be offering Bob any coffee. He was sitting in here before we were. They said he just wandered in and sat down.
Brad got me some coffee. Bob is singing. LaDosha comes in, asks about Bob, goes out.
I have a feeling Bob wandered in because of how bright it is in this room. He can’t see very well but he might have been attracted to the light.
Dirk comes in, goes out. Bob mumbles clearly about coffee. He is missing it.
“How about a couple of coffee cups?” he says. “Isn’t there a week….”
Brad is taking the drinks cart around. A wheel squeaks.
“Coffee,” Bob says. “Please bring some coffee.”
There’s a new lady. She says to the not-so-new woman next to her, “I’m a wreck.” The other lady says, “No you’re not.”
My dad's feet are really swollen. Purple. He's got some sort of sock on, except they don't cover the most part of his feet. They're like something a gymnast would wear—ankle wraps.
But he looks alright. He's got the cradle/holster thing under him, the red, yellow, green, blue loops sticking out at four corners. I've never seen it under him before so maybe they are using a different crane than what Taylor used on him Wednesday.
Loretta is here on B Hall. She's nice. I heard her talking to one of Phyllis Nester's daughters one day. Ann. Their families were friends. They went to Michigan together. Went swimming, played tennis, enjoyed the air. Those were fond memories.
Director of Nursing Rose came in and put one pillow under his feet, to get them off the floor. I added one more. His bed is stripped of its sheets. The housekeeper whose name I don't know (not Peggy) swept in here earlier. Now she's cleaning the bathroom. If I wrote a book about this experience it would be called, The Shrine: One Year in the Hell of a Good Nursing Home.
I smell coffee from the hall. I'd love some. I didn't get any made before I left. My mom had some left in the pot at the house but I forgot to take some.
Lunch is here. Pasta, veggies, garlic bread. It smelled good. I'm sure it is. I'll never know. It'll be better than my Cucumber Worry sandwich. Side salad with egg wedge. Tapioca. I wonder who, if anyone, is eating in the main dining room. Who's allowed in there. Me?
I don't know what my objective is here today; how long I'll stay. I don't even want to go back to Rockingham. Maybe I won't stay. If so I wouldn't see my brother, but he hasn't come into the house this week anyway.
To leave Rockingham out of the day I'd have had to come over here at 8 or so. Do 8:30 to 11:30, then get back to University City to get Hugo walked and fed. That would have been fine, really. But I figured preparing to cook a meal tonight for my sick mother was the right thing to do. To make the effort. I guess my effort is not effortless enough...
Outside in the courtyard at Shrine with my dad. Brad had a mask on but no-one said anything to me about any new Covid restrictions. Within ten seconds of my clapping his shoulder to announce my arrival, Dad asked me to take him outside.
The lawn crew is edging walkways and borders.
”Where are we, the Shrine?” he asks.
”Where do you think we are?” I say.
“I think we’re there. I’m just guessing.”
The edger drones on, throttling up and down, back and forth, in and out, left to right. My dad’s eyes are blue, red, and watery.
”You want to go out there even with that lawn equipment going?”
A rhetorical question he does not answer.
It’s cooler. Way cooler. The two-cycle engine quiets for a moment, just a moment. And the rest of the soundscape steps slowly out from wherever it was hiding. The whir of crickets. Voices from inside.
”You’re not gonna see much in the sky,” he says, “ A few birds, that’s it.”
There’s the song sparrow, reeling off its spell. Nothing happens. They’ll be back to mow, and then again to blow. Maybe we’ll be at lunch by then.
The sky is cloudy. It might not even be eighty degrees, a stunning turn of events. Church bells. I’d go to that mass sometime. There are people in there who know me. Maybe they don’t know my name but they know my face and they know I’m here for my dad. That’s all I know to feel welcome. That is enough. Knowing more would break the spell. Question me, question them. See ya in another life, brutha.
”You want anything to read?”
”No, I just like to enjoy it out here,” he says, “I got papers in there I read.”
Remember back when my parents said they saw a panther, from the St Francis entrance? They said they saw a panther go through some grass, at the edge of the back parking lot, and into the woods. I thought it must have been a dog, or possibly a bobcat…
Last day of February and a beauty. Warm and windy, blend me some of that balm.
He's taking a shower. Or getting a bath. Per Karin. She saw me coming and intercepted. Not just to tell me about the shower but to tell me that, "He's more confused than usual today." She wanted to let me know so I wasn't blindsided.
Many of the days he's been here he's been confused so this should be interesting. Not a surprise to hear, per a text from my mom, and another a couple of days before that.
I haven't seen him in six days. I went to Farm this week. Two nights and a whole lot of bliss. Last time I saw him I wrote nothing. This writing, I fear, has gotten redundant.
I hear him moaning...
Farm, 2.24.25
They wheel him in.
"They got me, John," he tells me in a high-pitched voice. "They're gonna put me down. I been up too much."
"You know where you are?" I ask him.
"Dammert."
"You lookin out the window," I ask him.
He nods.
"Birds," he says. Rubbing his index fingers together, hands clasped, lying in bed now. Karin and another nurse laid him down, with the Hoyer. I could see his red and purple bottom. The other nurse put some cream on him. I'm not sure what her name is. She's not new but newer. Hell of a nurse. Dresses nice sometimes. My dad seems content but he is looking past me, out into the beyond.
"Anything new?" I ask him. "Anything going on?"
But he doesn't answer; just taps his fingers together. Is it Morse Code? Tap tap tap, tap tap dash.
"You hungry?"
No answer. Then he says I already asked him that, which maybe I did.
Now I hear the hairdresser reaming out the nurse for giving someone a shower. The hairdresser is upset because she just did this lady's hair and her family is coming to see her. Cringe. Bless these nurses. They work on behalf of God. Who could ever fault them for keeping the residents clean? Who cares about what their hair looks like.
I turn on the TV. My dad says something about me watching the stock market channel but they don't have it here. A shame. I find PBS Create, for a cooking show, which is what I watched here one recent Saturday for three hours, my dad in bed the whole time. It's peaceful with the sound off. A beeping somewhere in the background on this hall, not insistent, a slow pulse.
I had him up in the solarium 2.14.25, the only time we've ever been up there.
I know he wants me to stop asking questions but I don't know how else to talk to him, and this is all of him I have left. I ask him if he remembers his career, what he used to do.
"I used to, I used to...." he says.
I ask him if he remembers using his phone. He used to use it a lot. He doesn't remember doing that. Printing articles, I tell him, sending them out to people through the postal service, sending out lots of emails. He claims he never really sent out much.
He watches the cooking show intently, left index finger to his lips, rubbing slowly back and forth.
"You know how long you been here, in Dammert?"
"A couple weeks, " I think.
Which might be correct, if dating back only to his trip to the hospital on February 2nd, Groundhog Day, my sister's birthday, a day I was headed to Farm when my mom texted to say he was in the hospital with an illness.
I ask him if he's been having any dreams or premonitions. It's not the first time I've asked him about dreams. I've been having some strange ones. Strong and vivid. Odd. One last night that didn't feel like mine. About a kid worried about his gambling debt. I thought about it and told this kid that he might not have to pay the debt because he was a minor and never should have been allowed to place the bet anyway. Unclean hands on the other side, laches; other party estopped from collecting. I don't know who this kid was. And, no, I don't think he was me. B mentioned crazy dreams the same morning I woke up after some doozies Monday night at Farm. After feeling like it had been a while since I remembered any dreams at all. Stopped writing them down. This is as close as I'll get.
Footprints of a dream
The TV transfixes him. I don't know what else to do. I'll go out and get my salad out of the car whenever his food arrives. Could be half an hour, easy.
I listed to voices from the hall. Evelyn's daughter. Or granddaughter, who knows. I only had one interaction with Evelyn. Her chair was at a chokepoint in the hall. I wanted to move her. Asked nicely then just tried to wheel her a few feet but she put her foot down, literally.
"No," she said, "I don't think so. I'll stay right here."
Another time she didn't want CNAs to take her out of the lunch room. I look back and my dad has fallen asleep, his left index finger still trying to stay awake, to stay up, still pointing.
Evelyn played basketball in college. My dad snaps back, left hand back up to his face. It's her granddaughter that's visiting her, pretty sure. How am I the age of so many grand-kids here?
Earlier I asked him how he felt, overall.
"I feel good," he said.
It might be Evelyn who'd had her hair done—yesterday!—and then got the shower today. A whole $28 down the drain. The shower my dad got seemed to have revived him, definitely worth $28 to me.
Evelyn still has some lucidity. She still talks. I mean, I'd take pure gibberish from my dad. I'd take nonsense, non sequitur, monolog. Anything not hateful, anything not ugly. He said something to the nurses when they wheeled him in after his shower but I couldn't hear it.
My dad slowly wheeling himself away, his feet pulling, scraping along.
“Yeah, he walked him,” says a woman with glasses, another resident. “We were down in our house.”
Mass is on the TV, in the common room of this nursing home. Lunchmate Bob is singing along with the hymn, just the notes.
“Soft smell, the all cough coughs,” says the woman with glasses. I do not remember her ever saying anything before. But I do recognize her, she must eat in the assisted dining room.
“They were asking for the Christmas Day,” she says. “I never heard that one before. Least they’ll give it to the other Christmas. Have fun. We had a little.”
She trails off. I can’t follow the meaning of her words but hers is a musical nonsense language. Lyrical and sporadic, like a strange bird.
“I throw ye in the class now!”
“Hmm?” asks Bob in reply, thinking maybe she is talking to him.
Lillian, another resident, rocks back and forth in her wheelchair. She’s spoken to me a few times, thinks maybe I am one of hers. A lunch will be served in the main Dammert dining room, Dammert being the name of this place, this wing of the retirement community, the last stop on the route, the end of the line.
Bob has gotten an early start on his lunch. Someone has gotten him a bag of cookies. Maybe his wife, who lives over in the apartments, independent.
“I call on the on-derin,” says the woman with glasses.
“Yeah, hmmm,” says Bob, “Mm-hmm.”
She holds her hands tight, clenched and clawed, thumb to index finger, pill-rolling.
“Hmm?” says Bob, “I can’t hear you.”
The Mayor’s mom is also a resident here. Helen. She fell recently, landed on her head. She looks pretty beat up, a gash on her forehead, dark red, purple, dried blood.
“Thank you,” says Bob.
Later, at lunch, he turns to me and holds up just the top half of a hamburger bun.
“This is nothin but bread,” he says, and I can’t disagree.
For most of this year, I have been visiting my dad at a nursing home near Belleville, IL. Dammert, the place he's in, is the skilled care wing of a retirement community at Our Lady of the Snows Shrine. I have kept a journal during many of these visits. It is time for me to begin to type up these Shrine journals. They will not be posted in chronological order. I didn't take many photos early on so some of the photos might be redundant.
JBR.com 