In This House

My husband's father is in the final stages of dementia and the troops have rallied. A Tongan nurse has been hired. Papa's children have sacrificed and rearranged and flown in on airplanes. Helpers have filled up the house.

This is the beginning of our "adventure." It's the first phase of our grand plan to leave behind everything we have known for thirty years and find something different to know. This is where we want to be. But it's not always easy. It's hardly ever easy. Here in this house with all these grown-up people that are used to separate lives. In separate spaces. Grown-up goodhearted people trying to navigate each other's moods and egos. Trying to smooth out old resentments and untangle fresh injustices. Sometimes it's overwhelming. Lots of times it's overwhelming. But this is where we'll be for a while. Because this is where we want to be. For the father and his diminishing world. For all these grown-up goodhearted people. For us.

His world might be shrinking but Papa still wants us all to know he's here. When he walks into a room he'll tap on the wall or clap his hands to get your attention. He wants you to acknowledge his presence by giving him a sign. So he is given many signs. Like smiles and waves and thumbs up and shakas. And sometimes a sticking out tongue. And Papa gives back what he can. Like smiles and waves and thumbs up and shakas. And sometimes a sticking out tongue.

A tongue Papa uses to tell stories in stroke-garbled language that no one can understand. But everyone pretends. We all look at him when he speaks and listen to what he has to say. We nod and smile and laugh when he laughs. It's clear that in his mind the stories are complete. Sometimes, in the middle of all these words we cannot understand, a few will appear that we recognize. Like fuck. And shit. Which always make us laugh. Which makes Papa laugh. Papa still likes to tell stories.

And Papa likes to go for walks. Endless shuffling circling walks. When he decides it's time to stand up and move there's always someone there to go along. If the daughters are in charge they make a train. One of them will be in front holding her daddy's hands and walking backwards, so he can see her face and know he's not alone. The other daughter will be behind him with her hands on his waist, ready to catch him if he falls. The walking train will circle the house, up and down halls, in and out of rooms. Sometimes Papa is soaking wet when he's done, and there's always someone there with a towel or a fresh shirt. If Papa wants to walk no one says no, they walk along with him, and wipe away his sweat.

They wipe away other things too. There are rubber gloves involved. Somehow they have all gotten used to it. When the children are on duty for the night they set their alarms and wake up at regular intervals. They have perfected a rolling over and whisking out routine. Papa and his sheets are always clean and dry in the morning.

There are other routines. Dinners together at the dining room table. Saturday nights in the living room singing Hawaiian hymns. Giant breakfasts of omelets and sausages and waffles. There are drives around town and McDonald's ice cream cones. There are hugs and kisses and constant singsong assurances of I love you Daddy. Sometimes there are flashes of clarity when Papa will look into the face of one of his children and make all the connections and say the correct name. And that named and grown-up child will smile with brimful eyes.

But tears are less common here than laughter. Papa loves to laugh. Sometimes he laughs so hard he cries - his eyes squeezed shut - his mouth open in a giant O - cracking himself up with his own private jokes. His burps make him laugh. And boulders smashing cars in commercials on tv make him laugh. I don't know how or why - it seems impossible - but Papa can still be amused.

Who knows how long his sense of humor will last. How long any of this will last. Papa needs help to make it through the day. Soon he'll need more help. Someday he won't be able to stand up, or walk on his own. Eventually he'll be bedridden and forget how to eat. But these grown-up goodhearted people will still be here. Doing what they do. Stretching out their hands.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Papa is standing in the family room next to the open sliding glass door. He's trying to decide if he wants to go outside. It's Father's Day. Dinner is over and everyone wants to go sit on the back patio. Everyone wants Papa to come too. But he's just standing there in the doorway uncertain what to do. He looks out the door and sees his wife beckoning to him and calling his name. After what seems like an eternity he picks up his feet and steps outside. It has taken more than twenty minutes. Nobody has lost their patience. No one has forced him or hurried him or raised their voice.

Once Papa makes it outside he finds his own place to sit. He chooses the old sofa from Molokai that used to belong to his mother. Many hands help him. Papa has on shorts and a warm thick coat for this cool and windy Hawaiian evening. Once he's seated his children cover his bare legs with a soft white blanket. And then he looks out at the view - the red gingers in beds next to the patio - the rows of mature Ti leaf along the fence. Does he know what he is seeing? Does he remember the countless hours he used to spend doing yardwork out here?

Papa likes to watch the planes in the sky behind the house. He'll look up and point and make comments. He used to be a pilot in the Air Force. Is there still some kind of knowing deep in his brain? The lights of the planes are hidden behind clouds tonight. Papa is looking out into darkness from his spot on the old couch. He appears to be enjoying himself. He looks at his wife sitting next to him and really seems to see her. He smiles and gently puts his hand on her arm. His hand stays there. He is calm. His children and their spouses are scattered on the dark lantern-lit patio talking and drinking wine. Everyone is watchful and alert. The focus is on the father. Everyone engages in "conversation" with him.

When Papa starts to slump to one side two people jump up and bring cushions to prop behind him. When he's upright again Papa leans back and smiles. He says something no one can understand that somehow makes us think he is grateful for the pillows. And then he starts to sag again. His middle daughter jumps up from her chair and sits next to him. His bride of 60 years is on his other side. Papa sits there on his mother's couch as if he is on a throne. He seems to be at peace. The breeze is blowing and everyone's faces are glowing in the candlelight.

And then Papa gets restless. He leans forward, dusts his hands together, and says very clearly, Well. And a little while later, Okay. When he tries to stand up his entourage helps him. Adjustments are made. Doors are opened. Paths are cleared. It's quick and efficient. Papa is steadied. And then he walks. He's the only one that knows where he's going. The rest of the family follows along, holding him up the best they can.

The couch from Molokai.