By our first Christmas in North Carolina, we had settled into a fairly unremarkable routine. Randy’s new job was going well. I was still teaching Amy and Emily at home. (We had become home-schoolers the year we moved to Brooklyn.) Five days a week, Benjamin commuted to his job at IBM in Raleigh. Rachel remained in Brooklyn. Randy, Benjamin, Amy and Emily were all part of our caregiving team. We took care of Daddy and he shared the last years of his life with us.

Physically, Daddy was doing exceptionally well for an eighty-seven year old farmer who had worked hard all of his life. Besides a “bum” knee for which he compensated by using a cane, he was the picture of health. He saw his doctor for regular check-ups. His blood pressure and cholesterol were normal (I attribute that to lots of exercise and very-few fast-food meals). Daily, after eating his home-cooked dinner, he would say he was going to see “Dr. Maple” and head to the backyard to do pull-ups on the iron rod he had lodged between two sturdy limbs of the spreading maple tree. His only regular prescription was for eye drops to treat glaucoma. From childhood, his eyesight had been his one frailty. School and sports had been a struggle for him until he got his first pair of glasses when he was a teenager.

Now, his struggle was mental: confusion, forgetfulness. He was still as sweet as ever. The one time he became frustrated and lashed out at me, he immediately apologized. “I didn’t mean to talk to you that way. I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s okay, Daddy. It’s okay.” I prayed this uncharacteristic behavior would not prevail as he fell deeper into the abyss of dementia. It didn’t.

The first time I cried about his failing memory was at the doctor’s office. Dr. Wolf administered a mini-mental exam. It was simple. “J. Boyd, when I say “go” name as many vegetables as you can.”

Dr. Wolf looked at his watch to begin the countdown. The desired goal was ten vegetables in sixty seconds.

Daddy looked at me and grinned, as if to say, “What’s this all about?”

“Go.”

“Green beans.” Daddy spoke clearly, looked at me and grinned. “Green beans.” He paused, looked at me again and then at Dr. Wolf.  He seemed a little confused. He knew something wasn’t working right. “Green beans.”

For years, this man had – with his bare hands, a mule and a plow – produced an abundant array of vegetables worthy of a king’s table: tomatoes, squash, okra, corn, cabbage, cucumbers, onions, peppers, lettuce, watermelon, cantaloupes, pumpkins, potatoes, peanuts, beets, turnips…and green beans.

After the third “green beans” Dr. Wolf realized no other vegetables would be forthcoming and brought the exam to a dignified end, halfway through the allotted time.

“Okay, J. Boyd. That does it for today. I’ll see you again in six months.”

I not only shed tears for the loss of Daddy’s memory in Dr. Wolf’s office…when we got home I secluded myself in the bedroom and bawled like a baby. I had not felt so sorry for Daddy since the time angry hornets had attacked him after I disturbed their nest while trying to evade a spanking. 

But then a picture flashed in my mind…Mama and Daddy, sitting together in the kitchen, a big aluminum pan on the table between them. Snapping green beans. Mother loved green beans. She cooked them (I still use her best-ever method); she froze them; she canned them. She always reminded Daddy to plant plenty of green beans. He did. He remembered them because they were Mama’s favorites. The tears went away.

After the day I came home from the grocery store and found Daddy standing in the middle of “his” road, we never left him alone again. Generally, we just took him with us, whether we were going shopping, out to eat, or to visit friends. My sister Rodema still attended the church in which we grew up, so she took the responsibility of taking Daddy to church. If her family had other plans, we would take him with us. We made sure he never missed church. At least once each week, Anna and Rachel would invite him to dinner at their homes. These activities expanded his social life significantly. No longer did he sit alone in the front room, perusing sympathy cards. 

At least once a week I would accompany him to look in on friends or family members at their homes or in nursing facilities. Visits with his best friend Erwin were particularly entertaining. Erwin would immediately began talking and Daddy would listen. There was frequent laughter, guffaws from Erwin, quiet chuckling from Daddy. We would show ourselves in and out, as Erwin – several years older than Daddy – was having difficulty “getting around.” Erwin would often continue talking, even as we made our way toward the back porch. Once, as I was about to open the door, he called out in a final exuberant proclamation, “Yes, Boyd, you and me, we never needed to get married again because we had the best wives the first time!” This assertion was followed by uproarious, happy chortles from Erwin and a nod of agreement from J. Boyd. 

Inevitable, there were friends’ funerals to attend. Erwin spent his last days in a nursing facility. I took Daddy to see him as often as I could. The first time I saw Erwin’s DNR bracelet (Do Not Resuscitate) I was troubled. This was before I had attended nursing school; I had a lot to learn about end of life care. (More about this subject later.) When I was informed of Erwin’s death, I dreaded telling Daddy. He broke into big sobs; I had not seen him cry since the day we buried Mother. Quickly, he pulled himself together and with a big smile on his face, revealed: “Well, he always said he’d make it to heaven before I did.”

I hugged him, affirming that Erwin was now with Jesus, his beloved Zonia, and had probably received a visit from Mama. To myself I thought, “And someday you’ll join them.” But I couldn’t quiet bring myself to say those words out loud. 

So many memories come to mind when I think about those days. Daddy loved to go on rides in the country. Amazingly, he could still point out the farms belonging to old friends and family members. Occasionally, he would tell a truly poignant story, such as the one about the Sunday afternoon when I was five years old and our family was returning from visiting my Mother’s dad, Grandpa Zachary. All seven of us were comfortably riding in our ’54 black Ford sedan. We were about six miles from home when the car broke down. Daddy was a man of many skills but mechanics wasn’t one of them. He had no idea what to do. Although there were few homes back then on Rock Creek Road, the car had come to rest not too far from the home of a rather wealthy gentleman and his wife. Apparently, the man had seen our car stopped in the road, got in his car and came to check on us. (That is surely a sign we were living in the “good ol’ days.) When Daddy told him of our plight, he immediately offered to drive all of us home in big fancy car, then brought Daddy back and helped him tinker with the engine until it was running again. As we drove by that still beautiful home, after all those years, Daddy recounted the story as if it had been yesterday, still reverential that a man of such high standing in the community would take time to help our family. 

I don’t think I have yet mentioned that the year I graduated from high school, Daddy co-signed a loan so I could buy a car, which, of course I needed to get back and forth from from my job in Greensboro. Okay, so I didn’t need a brand new 1969 British Racing Green MGB convertible. I thought I did. I do not remember that it was terribly difficult to convince Daddy. (The reason I had been reluctant to include this tidbit is that I have already been called “spoiled” by certain people.)

In fact, I think Daddy rather enjoyed riding in a sports car. I suppose the open roof wasn’t very different from the horse and buggy of his youth.

Now, all these years later, as we drove along scenic blacktops with fresh air blowing through downed windows and Andy Griffith crooning gospel songs from a cassette tape, Daddy would keep time to the music by slapping his age-worn hands against his knees. Those rides together continue to be some of the best memories of my caregiving days. Moments like that gave me strength for the more difficult times. Speaking of which…

One night, during a downpour, Daddy went outside in his pajamas. Maybe he had made noises that had awakened me; or maybe his guardian angel had nudged me. I startled out of a deep sleep and walked down the hall to check on him. Covers thrown back, empty bed. I ran back down the hall to the bathroom. Dark; unoccupied. I listened for noises – any clue that would lead me to Daddy, but all I heard was the rain beating against the windows. Beginning to plunge into panic mode, I called Randy to help me. He immediately went outside where he found Daddy standing against the side of the house, trying to shield himself from the rain. Unfortunately, our un-guttered gabled roof was dumping torrents of water directly on him. He didn’t resist as Randy coaxed him back inside.

Trying not to scold, I asked him why he had gone outside. He said he didn’t know, then added, “It’s cold and raining out there.”

We assisted him in taking a warm shower and dressed him in dry pajamas before tucking him back in bed. It was just after two o’clock. I slept in the lounge chair in his room until morning. At breakfast I asked how he had slept. He replied that he had a good night’s sleep; he had no recollection of his walk in the rain.

The next day Randy installed sliding bolt locks high on the two doors that led to outside. Daddy had proved he was capable of unlocking the regular locks and for his safety and our peace of mind we had to do more. Not only were these harder to manipulate, they were out of his direct sight, and out of reach. There were no more escapes into the night.

Every caregiving family has different needs, situations and desires. We were blessed to be able to include Daddy in most of our activities because he was physically capable. Early on, I recognized the benefit of enjoying the caregiving journey. I didn’t see it as a burden to bear but an opportunity to share…love, laughter, difficulties, and memories. As in most areas of life, the attitude we embrace has a significant effect on the outcome we create. 

No, our experience was not perfect by any means. But I would do it all over again…maybe change a few things…but I would definitely do it again.  

Next week: Learn from my experience