“Is today Sunday?” my dad asks. Here we are again, having the usual phone conversation, when we go over the day of the week, the time, and whether it’s a “shower day” at the nursing home.
If we talk two hours later, the same questions are bound to come up. What day is it? Do I have a shower today? What time is it where your brother lives? He hasn’t forgotten, exactly. He just can’t quite remember. If that makes sense.
Yep, this is where we are.
He survived COVID-19, but I think COVID-19 took something with it when it left. The changes are subtle if you don’t know him, perhaps, but they are there. No doubt. Interest in puzzles, books, and politics has slunk to the edges where it used to be front and center. And nothing simple stays put. Not the capital of Arizona, not where he keeps his hats, not why it’s essential that he keep getting up and moving around.
I guess it could just old-man brain worsening, as it would have done regardless of the virus and the isolation and the loss of his partner. Who can say.
But now, if it is a shower day, that’s all there is. We will discuss it ad nauseam. He’s going to have to “wrangle” them to come do it, he insists, even though they have a 5-hour window to fit him in: He decides if they don’t come get him in the first 10 minutes of the first possible hour, they have forgotten him. So, he’ll push that little button by the bed, jab, jab with his finger, prepared to “give them hell” for skipping him. Sometimes he shuffles into the hall to complain, because often the button push is fruitless. (I suspect the call light above his door is lit all day long. Remember the boy who cried wolf?) The nurses must love seeing him suddenly appear outside his door calling “hello, hello, is someone there? Is anyone coming to get me?”
And so, as our conversation begins that way, again, I feel a little panicky that this is how it’s going to be from this day forward, nothing to talk about but the shower schedule, the date, and what time it is in Germany.
And then, suddenly, he’s humming a tune, and then come these words:
Ell-ee-a-zer Wheelock is a bargain-hunting man
His cousin, name of Fealock, makes the footwear for our clan…
“How‘s that for a start?” he says. “I’m not sure where I come up with these gems. I’m just lying here thinking of rhymes and there it is.” (Fealock’s family, in real life, had some kind of shoe business, he tells me. So, it totally makes sense.)
“Maybe when I finish it we can sell it and make a few mil,” he says.
And finish it he does, during our next call. Here’s where he lands:
Ell-ee-a-zer Wheelock is a bargain-hunting man
His cousin, name of Fealock, makes the footwear for our clan.
Cut a deal for his relations? Never Fealock. That’s a laugh.
While if I had near his money, I would slice my price in half!
That’s so dad, remarks my brother when I read it to him.
Yes, indeed it is. Which means everything.
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Photo by Daniel Öberg on Unsplash
I feel for you. If it’s any comfort, I can tell you that his memory will probably return. I am a COVID-19 Long Hauler in a support group with *thousands* of other long haulers. Memory suppression is a huge issue. Everything from “what day is it” and “did I just take my pills” to “what are these weird marks on this paper? Are these words?”
No one knows what’s going on for sure, but the consensus seems to be solidifying around inflammation in the brain & central nervous system – the symptoms are eerily similar to a concussion or traumatic brain injury. The treatment for these is basically “rest and wait”.
Though your dad may have beaten acute covid-19, he may have entered into a protracted period of healing. I’m on month 10. My 30 yo daughter on month 8. Many of my covid friends are between 8-13 months. It does get better, but it takes time. Also, getting vaccinated appears to help. Most of the people in my support group who’ve been vaxxed have noticed an acceleration in healing about 2 weeks post vax, as if the virus was sequestered in one of the immune-privileged parts of the body (like the central nervous system) and the vax has finally spurred the immune system to action.
So hold out hope. You’ll get more of your dad back.
Thanks, Dr. D! I’m sorry that you and your daughter also have struggled with this nasty virus. Glad to hear there can be continued improvement months later. Wishing you well!
Several years ago, I co-led a writing group for seniors living in a assisted living facility. There was one gentleman, he could only be called that, who had a number of song-poems like your father’s. Whenever he’d start up, we’d write furiously hoping to get it all down. We’d type them up and bring them the following week to share again, and again. I felt like I got to know the area of rural Pennsylvania where he grew up so long ago through those ditties. Thanks for sharing your father’s poem!
Rachel Sturges, I love that you did this–how fun it must have been! I wish there were others at my dad’s place who were openly clever and wanted to share. Not so much, I’m afraid.
Thanks for your comment!