Writing Assignment - Week One

Week 1 Assignment – Deb Porter-Jones

Write a 200-word description of a place. You can use any and all sensory descriptions. Describe what it feels like, sounds like, smells like and even tastes like. Try to write the description in such a way that people will feel as if they are in that place with you.

I am at the Coatesville Veterans Administration Hospital Dementia Ward where my 73-year-old father is a patient. I don’t actually visit him as much as I should because of three reasons. The first reason is that the hospital is about an hour and 15-minute ride from my home and the drive is torture.

The second reason is because my father has Alzheimer’s Disease and he usually does not recognize me right away. On the days that I can muster the courage (and relinquish the guilt) enough to pop in for a visit, I always feel this overwhelming sense of dread upon entering the hospital. As I walk down the long, drab vomit-colored hallways to the generic elevators and push three for the Dementia Ward, I make sure to exchange pleasantries with the staff there. I smile widely for them and try my best to call them all by name. I’m told that if a patient’s family is very friendly with the staff, they are less likely to suffer any abuse my when no one’s around. Even though everyone says that my father is their “favorite patient” (which I find hard to believe, because he was no one’s favorite when I was growing up), I figure it can’t hurt to be polite and pleasant to the people who take care of him. It’s actually in my nature to be friendly and speak to those that I pass in my travels. But I just find it interesting that one of the nurses who takes care of my Dad told me that.

I walk through the doors and greet the regulars, (the nurses, the orderlies) most of them I don’t know by name, more by sight. I say hi to Beverly, the lady in the Housekeeping Department who writes my Dad’s name on all of the clothes and shoes that I bring in periodically for him. She’s a really sweet, warm woman with an easy smile who reminds me of my favorite Aunt Bunny and my mother at the same time. When I met her about a year ago, within 15 minutes she had told me her life story and I had told her my Mom and Dad’s. She wanted to know if I was the “designated family member” who cares for the ailing senior. She told me that there’s always only one, even in a large family with relatives and family nearby, only one person takes the time to look out for old Dad or Mom.

I say hi to Mr. Robert Cunningham, another patient there who introduces himself to me every time I come. He tells me his name and then tells me how pretty I am. I’m not creeped out because Mr. Cunningham seems to have a very keen sense of humor for someone on the Dementia Ward. Sometimes he asks me to drop him off at the bar when I’m ready to leave. He has this hysterical way of talking without moving his lips at all.
He would have made a fabulous ventriloquist before he suffered brain damage. Every now and then, I recognize my father’s clothes on Mr. Cunningham, even after Beverly has tagged them. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t just remove my Dad’s clothes from Mr. Cunningham’s back, so I just take care not to buy overly expensive things for him. Besides, I have no way of knowing if my Dad is wearing Mr. Cunningham’s clothes. I wouldn’t want someone to treat my Dad like that.

I say hi to the old guy who’s bent over and wears a helmet. He’s actually very friendly, but that’s hard to tell because he doesn’t seem able to lift his head far enough for you to see his face. He usually takes up residence in front of the big-screen television and you can see him wandering the halls near the lunchroom. My mom and I call him Snoopy because of the helmet. I know that’s probably not a very nice thing to say, but I’m one of those people who finds humor in everything. Gotta laugh to keep from crying.

I walk down the newly-renovated and brightly-painted hallway to my Dad’s room. I always check to see if he’s in there, even though I’m pretty sure he never hangs out there. He’s usually in the TV room or the lunchroom. My dad likes to eat. And he loves TV. When I find him, I give him a big hug and of course, he looks surprised. I take his hand and we walk down the lunchroom.

The lunchroom is normally the busiest place at this time of day. Everyone’s in there having their lunch. Most, if not all, of the patients are incontinent. As a result, the room reeks of urine. I often wonder how the staff can work here and appear not to notice.

It’s lunchtime, so I feed him his lunch. A tuna fish sandwich, potato salad and Jell-O. By the time he’s done eating, he’s fallen asleep with his chin on his napkin. I wake him and he gives me a look like my son Ronnie did when I used to wake him up to finish his bottle when he was a baby. Then Dad starts babbling in that familiar language that only he and I share. It makes no sense to anyone else but I know what he’s saying. I respond as though he’s making absolute sense and his answer to every question that I ask is “Yeah.” He may say the word “car” over and over again, but I know what he means. He’s not really talking about a car. He always asks if I can take him home with me (hence, the talk about a “car”). I smile and wipe his mouth. And I tell him as sweetly as I can (without crying) that he can’t go, he’s doing fine here.

When he finishes his meal and I’m about to leave, I give him a big hug and leave him some orange slice candy. He loves them and proceeds to stuff as many as he can into his mouth. Then he follows me to the doors of the Dementia Ward and just stands there, waiting for the doors to open. Because he’s a patient and wearing a special wristband, the alarms go off and the orderlies come running. He sets his jaw with a conviction that reminds me of the man he used to be. As the orderlies begin to try and gently direct him towards his room, he plants his feet. For a 73-year-old man, he is still rather strong. Some of the skills he learned during his Marine boxing days are evident at times like this. He stares at the red light and the buzzer above the Dementia Ward doors and refuses to be moved. The orderlies and nurses are loudly calling his name and trying to get him to voluntarily move away from the doors.

This scene, right here, is the third reason why I don’t go to see my father more often. It is obvious that his heart breaks when he recalls who I am and realizes that I won’t take him with me. My heart breaks, too.