Gentle into the night

The bees have come home to the hive for the night. Dozens of them (guard bees?) cluster at the entrance. I like to think they are keeping sentry, but I haven't checked the books to confirm this notion. Rosie and Abby, the chickens, are perched on their roost. A mockingbird calls out from the telephone pole, and the fireflies float, calling silently with their tiny bursts of light. It's a gentle ending to a full day.

The gift of the evening was sitting with Dad on the edge of his bed, lightly rubbing his back as he tried to brush away the cobwebs of confusion.

He had, as is the course of his day, spent his day sleeping. I had called at 4:45, just before his dinnertime, offering to come by and visit. But he was too confused to make a decision. He had been sleeping. He could only manage to think about going down for dinner. We agreed he would call me after dinner.

He forgot to call. ...



At 8:00 I rang him up again. "Hi, Dad. Would you like some company?"

"What time is it? I'm just getting up. I don't know. Maybe...Maybe later? I'm not sure what to do."

"Well, why don't I just come by and bring your laundry." How strange that making decisions for my dad is a simple gift I can give him.

Dad was back asleep by the time I arrived at his apartment at the senior living facility. Wrapped in confusion and exhaustion, he managed to let me in the door. "I'm so confused. I just don't know. What time is it?" He turned and headed to his bedroom.

"Would you like to go and sit on the bench outside?" I asked.

"Oh. I don't know. I'm just so tired. I never thought it would come to this." He eased himself onto the side of the bed. Leaned into his hands. Quiet.

I sat beside him. Put my hand on his back. We sat for maybe a minute in silence. I gently rubbed his back--an act of affection that he uncharacteristically accepted.

"I don't know why I'm so tired."

"Maybe your body wants to shut down. It's OK that you want to sleep. I just don't know if I should try and get you up and out or just let you sleep."

"Thank you for your patience. You and your sister are so good to me."

We sat in silence for another minute. "I don't know what to do now."

"Well, it's close to bedtime. Maybe you could put on pajamas. You know, when you sleep so much, it must be confusing to wake up in your clothes. If you wear pajamas at night, if you wake up, it will remind you that it's nighttime." My sister had been the wise one to clue me in to this just a few days ago.

"It's night?" Dad queried. Fully surprised at the idea.

"Yes. It's close to 9 o'clock."

"I'm so confused. I just don't know what time it is. It's Sunday?"

"Yes. It's Sunday. These summer nights don't get dark until late. It is confusing." I wanted to give him an "out," some way to save face to himself.

"Well, maybe I should change clothes."

I pulled out his pajamas then went into the living room while he changed. Modesty, even within the family, was a high priority in our childhood home. Only in the last year or so, as frailty prevails, has Dad given a nod to necessity over privacy. "Mary. Could you please help?" Dad called from the bedroom.

I helped him change his clothes. Other than helping with a shirt or sweater or adjusting a belt, this was the first I've ever done that for my father.

Dad laid down on the bed. "Now, what am I doing?" He sat back up. "I'm so tired."

"It's bedtime, Dad. It's nighttime."

He lay back down. "Will you be back?" he queried.

"Yes, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, don't be so long."

"It will just be tomorrow. I'm going home to bed, too." I leaned in and placed my hand on his arm. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too. You and your sister are so good to me. I'm so sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Dad. Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, don't wait that long."