Wispiness
Summer 2005, Frederick, Maryland
By Jef. Hyde
Today we visited my father at the nursing home. He’s been there since we realized last month that he couldn’t take care of himself any longer.
Marsha, my wife, remembers that he’s fond of these cookies she makes and figures that she could coax him into eating something fattening, so she bakes a large batch for him.
Pop has Alzheimer’s and hasn’t been eating. It’s like a wrestling match to get food into him. All he wants to do is sleep. He weighs about 100 pounds or so - he’s emaciated. Every bit of sustenance we can get into him is a major victory.
She bakes them, cools them, cuts them into bite-size squares, and stacks them in little plastic containers. When I see them in the kitchen, I smile because she’s just so damn thoughtful. She’s a deeply caring soul; a real giver.
After I shower and shave, we head out on our 45-minute drive. We get about a mile from our destination, and I glance into the backseat. “Where’d you put the cookies?” I ask.
“OH, I CAN’T BELIEVE I FORGOT THE COOKIES! OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE! THE COOKIES ARE ON THE TABLE IN THOSE LITTLE PLASTIC BOXES! I CUT THEM ALL UP SO NEATLY! DAMMIT! I’M AN IDIOT!!”…and so on for several minutes until we arrive at the nursing home. She tells me to go inside while she parks.
Pop is wearing brown pants, a yellow shirt and a green pajama top. The shirt and pajama top are buttoned to one another in a fashion that’s hard to explain. Both are tucked into his pants. His hair looks like he combed it with an eggbeater, and he smiles broadly when I enter the room.
The effect is both alarming and comical, like he’s clowning for me. I realize that he has no idea how he looks. Not long ago, he’d have been mortified to be seen in any condition other than carefully dressed, clean-shaven and neatly barbered. He’s a man in whom old habits and disciplines are deeply ingrained. A neat, regimented - dare I say fussy? - man.
I adjust his clothing for him, and I discover that his pants are wet. The nursing assistant comes in, and we lift Pop off the bed while his sheets are changed. We get him washed and into clean pajamas, and we reinstall him in the bed.
My cell phone rings. It’s Marsha, calling from Pop’s apartment. She’s gone to the store to get the ingredients to make another batch of cookies. Pop has nothing remotely resembling food - or cookware - at his apartment.
I chat with Pop about his days as a paratrooper and his combat jumps into Belgium with the 17th Airborne. He reminisces about the Ardennes and the most ferocious engagements of the Battle of the Bulge. He described how he burned anything flammable to fight the cold.
It was so hard to picture him scrambling through waist-high snow, fighting Nazis. How’d he survive that, only to wind up in a nursing home in Maryland with wet pants? God’s little jokes are surreal and baffling. I await an epiphany that - maddeningly - fails to come.
We talk about my mother, the Army nurse who was the first person to shampoo his hair for him after he’d been severely wounded and evacuated from the combat zone. He spent 27 months in Army hospitals when he was less than half my age.
Through the afternoon, he dozes and wakes and apologizes. I tell him he doesn’t need to entertain me; it’s OK if he’s tired.
No, he doesn’t want to go for a walk in the hallway. No, I can’t get him a candy bar from the hallway machine. No, he doesn’t want a glass of water. AND WILL I STOP TALKING TO HIM LIKE HE’S A GODDAM BABY!?
He nods off and wakes up. He asks how Debbie is.
“Who’s Debbie?” I ask.
“Your wife!” he says.
“That’s Marsha, Pop.” I say. “My wife is named Marsha.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I am one goddam falling-apart old man!” he says.
“It’s OK,” I say.
“I’m getting … sort of … wispy!” he says. I think it’s a fine description of the process he’s undergoing. “Wispiness” overtakes him, and he sort of fades away as I watch him nod off again.
I wander down to the activities room where, amid an obscene number of crappy romance novels, I spy a paperback copy of Norman Mailer’s Tough Guys Don’t Dance. I snag it, return to Pop’s room, and sit quietly and read for a while.
Mailer rambles on about his wife leaving him, tourists in Provincetown, how hard it is to quit smoking. I wish he’d just move the goddam story along. Where are the tough guys? Why aren’t they dancing? I want to punch Norman in the face for no good reason except that he’s not distracting me today.
Pop wakes up. He says he misses the Army and the food they served. Can I get him anything to eat? No, he doesn’t want anything to eat. He’s tired and having trouble staying focused on what we’re talking about. He laughs at the memory of devouring almost an entire lemon meringue pie my mother baked and then trying to blame it on our beagle when Mom discovered it.
Marsha (did I mention she’s a giver?) returns to the room. She has brought him a huge pan of warm, freshly baked cookies, as well as his radio from home. We kiss him good-bye. He asks Marsha for another kiss, and, grinning like a kid, kisses her on both cheeks. “I’m not afraid of anything,” he tells me. His eyes are closed before we step out of the room.
We drive downtown for dinner. It is our wedding anniversary today. We celebrate quietly. I count my blessings. I am healthy enough; I can communicate appropriately; my wife is a giver. I miss my father terribly, already - and he’s not even gone yet.
Jef. Hyde lives in Alexandria, Virginia, and he has an imaginary friend. The imaginary friend is a real person, he’s just not actually Jef.’s friend.
Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, July 12th, 2007 | Email This PostThis entry was posted on Thursday, July 12th, 2007 at 12:01 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
41 Responses to “Wispiness”
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July 12th, 2007 at 4:37 am
Jef
Wonderful writing - lovely peice. You are a wonderful son and an inspiration. You and Marsha are extremely fortunate to have one another.
God Bless you and your Dad.
With Love - Steve
July 12th, 2007 at 4:38 am
I cried again reading this Jef.
Damn, what a handsome man Pop was… I too miss our father, I missed him before he passed away. I missed his quick wit and devilish humor once he became …wispy.
A beautiful tribute!
Love,
Abby
July 12th, 2007 at 4:55 am
I am not sure why this story touches so many strings inside me.
Maybe because it is very well written.
Maybe because the author shows an unbearable level of humanity.
Maybe because I respect Jef’s father more than I can handle.
But most probably, all of it.
July 12th, 2007 at 5:12 am
Hey Jeff, I read with great joy and understanding your story. My wife’s father is also fading, and one day well… anyway thanks for including me as a reader.Les M.
July 12th, 2007 at 6:01 am
Nice piece, Jef.,
It’s a tough passage, but have friends that express these moments so gracefully is rare and beautiful
L., A.
July 12th, 2007 at 6:14 am
Thanks Jef. Well done. Dads everywhere thank Marsha for the cookies.
Alan
July 12th, 2007 at 7:05 am
Jef I really liked your story.thanks for sharing your dad with us.I lost my dad last year and really miss him a lot.
July 12th, 2007 at 7:48 am
Thanks for sharing this with us, Jef. My Mom also suffered from Alzheimers and seeing such a vibrant woman fade into the shadow of who she was hurt a lot. She’s gone now but, as you wrote, was absent long before her death. Alzheimers is hard on both the patient as they realize for a while that they are slipping into it and I believe harder on friends and family. You are definitely in my thoughts today, buddy.
FlatironMike
July 12th, 2007 at 8:01 am
thanks, jef.
my father died very young, before i ever knew him, i always wonder how my life wound have differed if i had.
July 12th, 2007 at 9:10 am
Jef,
I love the stories you tell about your Dad. I love it even more when you write about him. I wish you would write some more.
Thanks
Love,
annie
July 12th, 2007 at 9:45 am
Ah, Jef–
A tender, sad, piercing tribute–
You are the king of hearts, you know. You give voice to those deep, wounded moments we all experience–big questions with no answers–where all you can do is soften around the pain, love anyway, get wispy yourself…
Thank you–
Suze
July 12th, 2007 at 10:04 am
Jef, It’s Andy’s wife Jen writing. Hi… I am sitting in my office at work crying. Andy probably told you that my Dad died on March 12th of Alzheimers. Your piece hit on so many memories and feelings. My Dad too, was in WWll as a pilot, he too was a dapper dresser. Andy and I experienced so many of the same things you write about as do so many others. You know we went through it with Margie (Andy’s mom ) . I miss the Dad I grew up with and strangely enough I miss the person he became even with the disease. I miss his physical presence, I miss being able to hug him even if he didn’t know me half the time. I miss taking him for walks. Thanks for your beautiful writing. I really hope we can share some time together with you and Marsha. Jen Loew Davis
July 12th, 2007 at 10:17 am
Dear Jef. Thank you for sharing this. You are a gifted writer and I\’m sure your dad is bursting with pride watching over you today. Congrats on haveing one of your best stories sent around the world, my friend. Hugs from Steve and Sarah
July 12th, 2007 at 10:50 am
Hey Jef.
You did your Dad proud, my friend
Steve
ps … where can we get some of Marsha’s cookies?
July 12th, 2007 at 11:58 am
THAT’S SOME GOOD WORK.
July 12th, 2007 at 12:31 pm
Thanks Jef,
even re-reading this bittersweet tribute got me a lump in my throat. Thanks for sharing your story,
Robin.
July 12th, 2007 at 2:53 pm
Beautiful story. Jef you are such a giver too, you know. I have had many a smoke-calling day enlivened by your humor and your wisdom. Thank you for both. Stephanie
July 12th, 2007 at 4:09 pm
Thank you for sharing a moment you had with your father
July 12th, 2007 at 4:11 pm
Jeff,
Aren’t you undiscovered hidden talent. You need to write more my friend. I am amazed with your writing talent and wishing you more and many days with such great stories.
Accept my best wished to your lovely daddy and your family
Best
Oz Ozugurlu
July 12th, 2007 at 4:50 pm
What a wonderful tribute to your father! Thanks so much for sharing him and yourself with us all. I know this must have been difficult to write and even harder to live through. My dad passed in 1999 and I still miss him terribly. I’m sure even through your dad’s “wispy” moments, he knew you were there and that he was loved. Kudos to you and Marsha for having the strength to see him through. Keep writing and keep his memory alive. Much love to you both!
July 12th, 2007 at 5:34 pm
Beautiful, Jef. So beautiful it hurts. I loved it!
July 12th, 2007 at 6:18 pm
I am welling with tears reading the story of your love and pain, Jef. You are a wonderful Author. When I’m reading your story and getting close to the end I wish it wouldn’t end. I keep wanting more.
July 12th, 2007 at 6:55 pm
I recently visited the WW II monument in Washington D.C. My father was a fighter pilot who flew combat missions over occupied Europe . He, like many other members of the Greatest Generation, never lived to see the monument completed.
When he finally died he had enough serious illnesses to kill ten people. Cheating death had by then become a habbit with him. He never complained.
Medical science for all it\’s miracles sometimes seems only to prolong suffering but as long as there are people like Marsha with her caring and thoughtfullness and Jef, who can bare his soul while using Norman Mailer as a punching bag, I think there is enough good to balance out some of the tragic elements in life .
July 13th, 2007 at 2:33 am
Great piece Jef, my dad passed away from Alzhiemers 5 years ago and I too watched someone who was once extremely fastidious about his appearance and hygene deteriorate into a shell of a human being
who was inontinent incoherent and unable to even speak for his last years. He too was a victim of WWII, spending his teenage years in a Jap P.O.W. camp for foreign civilians in China. I never really knew him until near the end when he could still talk and told me how frightening and vunerable he felt to be driving somewhere and realize he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. When he finally passed it was almost a relief, he had been taken from us piecemeal over the years.
Your writing does honuor to your dad and shows what great courage you have to share your sorrow with the likes of us
July 13th, 2007 at 7:09 am
Jef, thanks for the wonderful piece. I was lucky in that my mom was lucid up to a week before she died at age 87. Cherish every moment you have with your dad. Bless both you and Marsha. The love both of you have for your dad shines through.
Sue
July 13th, 2007 at 8:15 am
Thank you Jef., for writing this lovely tribute. It brought back memories of family members I also have lost to dementia before death mercifully took them. You father raised quite a son!
*sniff*
Anne
July 13th, 2007 at 10:41 am
I’m sorry to hear about your father. It is sad to see the parents age to the point where they need this kind of care when they were once so vibrant people. My mother has also required nursing home care for a few years now and while she\’s still in pretty good physical health there isn\’t much left of the old lady I knew.
Nice to see you on line Jeff, Hugs to Marsha.
July 13th, 2007 at 1:50 pm
Your story made me weep with sorrow for your father, for you, and your wife. I have lost both my parents & know that we are never “ready” for that loss, but to have lost part of that important relationship even before death must be hard to cope with. But theses words of wisdom from my mother is true, because your story proves them so well……..”No one is ever really gone as long as someone is left who remembers them.” So as I weep for your father’s lost memories in his last years, I will also smile for the hero he was as a young man, an incredible father to you, and a loved husband to your mother. thank you for your story.
July 13th, 2007 at 1:52 pm
Jef.
What a beautiful story…your Papa sounds so loveable.
Thank you so much for writing it.
You are a genius in my book. Ghee
July 13th, 2007 at 4:55 pm
Jef,
Your writing was truely lovely in it’s simplicity of the storytelling. I think you should send this in to some magazines and see if they pick it up! I’ve heard some of the stories of your dad–both his dapper days and his wispy days–and I thought your piece captured both. It’s so sad when a stranger meets a person with Alzheimers and can only see who they are today rather than be able to imagine who they were yesterday. And by the way, I agree, Marsha is a given.
Pat
July 14th, 2007 at 1:35 pm
So, you know that role reversal that happens as our parents age, as they become more childlike and we nurture them like parents? And then they holler at us to stop treating them like babies? Yes, you do.
I laughed at that moment. I cried at others. A beautifully written tribute, Jef.
Carol, still in the zone
July 16th, 2007 at 1:06 am
Loved that story Jef. Made me cry (again!)
Hugs to you and Marsha
July 16th, 2007 at 5:45 pm
Jef,
What an incredible story, you seemed to capture the essence of that terrible disease Alzheimers. The writing was both poignant and eloquent with the perfect blend of humor. I especially appreciated the excerpts about Marsha and the cookies, my dear sister who like you said is a \’born Giver\’ in heart and soul. I also agree with Pat W. you should send this in to some magazines to be appreciated by a wider audience. Thanks for sharing it with me.
Ginny
July 18th, 2007 at 12:28 pm
Jef,
You always could tell a story well. Back in the Biograph days you told many wonderful one about your dad; none so poignant as “Wispiness”. Thanks for the memory.
Alan
July 26th, 2007 at 8:59 pm
Hello Jeff, I was really impressed with your writing and how wonderfully descriptive you were when you described your father. Your father sounded like a true life hero. Through your writings, I was able to see the close knit bond you and your father had. My best regards to you and your lovely wife Marsha.
George
July 30th, 2007 at 12:55 pm
Jef:
THANKS for sharing another piece of your life with me (and others as well). I know it must have been pretty hard to lose your Dad to alzheimers, even before you lost him for good. Kim’s grandmother was also an Army Nurse, and met Kim’s grandfather, who was a Marine, during the WWII era too. Hhmmmm.
It does not surprise me to hear of your commitment to your father and your love for him. It sounds right on point that your wife, Marsha, is such a wonderful giver too (re-making the cookies is priceless).
I know that when the day comes that I lose my father…..I will never be the same again. They have a way of carrying a piece of us with them always. It can never be returned to us when they are gone. But, they are still within us in our memories and will always be looking down on us — with a smile. What a PROUD man he must have been to raise such a wonderful son.
It was a heartfelt story. My Best Wishes to you (and Marsha too).
-Jimmy (also from “AMC”)
March 11th, 2008 at 10:13 pm
I envy you and your sweetness for life. You savor and appreciate it.
Talented piece. I wish it weren’t true.
I could enter some comment here about how I identified with it, but you know that we all do in some way.
Good writers can do that.
Peace and love to you and your own.
March 17th, 2008 at 2:44 pm
Somehow, while surfing the web today, your story landed on my computer. It\\\’s a bright light in my day. My dad is going through the early stages of Alzheimers and your story filled my eyes with tears and put a smile on my face. My mom and dad are still alive and I\\\’m grateful that they got to live to see four great-grandchildren but these last few years have been hard on them. I\\\’m dreading the day that that phone call comes in. You can be sure I\\\’ll be thinking of you and your story. Many thanks.
July 1st, 2008 at 3:45 am
Looking for something else, I just came across this. I thought it was written beautifully. My mother has Alzheimer’s so I can well relate to the quiet grief for the still alive but increasingly “wispy” loved one with Alzheimers that swims along at the bottom of every other relationship and activity. Unlike recovering from a death, living with a loved one’s Alzheimers has no catharsis, or like you say there’s no epiphany, except for the sense that you’ve found that meaning, communication, relationships can’t be taken for granted while we have them. Anyway, thanks for writing this!
January 4th, 2009 at 7:51 pm
Jef, Beautiful writing. Obviously strikes a chord with a lot of folks.
Nice to see some fellow Hammond alums responding.
Jerry
July 23rd, 2009 at 2:05 am
my grandmother had alzheimers. i remember trying to make her eat, having to change her diapers, help her shower…watching her become nothing but a skelton, when she forgot who all of us were, when she’d sit on her couch staring into the cieling all “wispy”..very touching story. your very lucky to have such a loving wife by your side.