I Do Not Like Going There

By Harvey Silverman

I do not like going there.

I practiced medicine for thirty-five years before retirement, I am familiar and comfortable with similar settings, but I do not like going there.

Through the locked door, past the nurses station, down the long shiny floored corridor, into the day room and there, usually in the same place each time, one among many, sits my dad.

My dad. An intelligent, hardworking, determined, funny, and loving man, a fellow with so many varied interests, energetic, reliable, a husband for more than sixty years, and a wonderful father.

Dementia has slowly, inexorably, maliciously taken all that away, not steadily but in fits and starts, good days and bad, never hinting how tomorrow may be, but clearly declaring how next month shall be.

My mom, my heroic mom, with her own medical burdens continued to care for him in their own home even as his condition progressed until finally she could care for him no longer and agreed to place him in the nursing home.

It is an excellent place, the care is wonderful, it is nearby. My visits are difficult. Usually my dad recognizes me, he smiles and brightens, but after a minute or two his conversation becomes confused, his eyes become dull, I cry inside.

More recently I am not certain he still recognizes me and at this visit he gives no sign of recognition at all. No smile, no brightened eyes, just confused speech. I cannot continue, I give a gentle hug and kiss, say goodbye and walk out.

As I reach the door of the day room, out of the corner of my eye I see my dad lean over to the demented patient tied into the next seat and hear him say, “That’s my son. He’s a doctor but he’s retired.”

I smile. I walk back down the long corridor, shake my head, and smile again.