My wife Nancy and I visited her father in the nursing home last night. It’s not that much easier for me to visit. The sights, sounds and smells transport me back to the time my grandmother was there.
It might have appeared to have been easier for me and truth be told I believe that I have developed a more intact form of denial. It’s difficult to see him so unresponsive to almost any stimuli.
I wanted a picture of my wife holding her father’s hand. She reached for his hand and he would not comply. She returned to feeding him and I put down my camera and returned to reading the paper. Minutes later out of the corner of my eye I noticed him reach out and take her hand in his. I doubt this was reflex but one of those mildly lucid moments I’m sure he has on an inconsistent basis.
In a previous post I included a photo of his hands titled, “Hard working hands.” It was touching to see Nancy’s hands in her father’s because I would describe hers as hardworking. My wife is a hairdresser who has her hand deep in wet hair, water and chemicals on a daily basis. Her hands, especially in the winter resemble those of someone who has worked outside for decades. When we exchange backrubs she must apply generous amounts of hand cream as they have a texture consistent with 10-grit sandpaper. It makes me happy to see my wife with her father. The love of a father and a daughter is something special.
