L1043956 my father, at dinner

L1043956 my father, at dinner, originally uploaded by Susan NYC.


I try to figure out my father's mood at a meal. Sometimes my presence seems to encourage him to eat a lot; other times he'll say he's so hungry until the food arrives, and then he eats nothing.   Some of the nurses won't let me stay in the dining room at dinner time because I'm so critical.  The art room is called the "Country Kitchen" and they bring his tray there, to one of the tables.  The picture above is in the regular dining room.

serious today

L1040048, originally uploaded by Susan NYC.

Sometimes my father feels he has to mug for the camera, and sometimes he just relaxes while I shoot.

Then, like with this picture, I think he looks sad. Dr. Scarmeas always asks him how he feels - if he's happy. And he always says no, he's not happy - but neither is he depressed. He's feeling okay.

I don't see how my father could be happy. He's living in a place where he has virtually no freedom to do anything he might want to do. He has to eat when he's fed. He has to have a fresh diaper when the aide is ready. He can't roam around in the wheelchair because they lose track of him. (Sometimes, though, they let him roam.)

He's become used to people doing things for him because it takes too much effort to argue. They cut his meat (some of them) because they believe he can't feed himself. He can. Perfectly well. But he's lost the will, I think.

Even I find myself doing things for him that I know he'd rather do himself - like open the plastic film on his mandarin oranges or pears.

waiting for lunch

L1038932, originally uploaded by Susan NYC.

My father nods off just like the woman to his right, who is at the moment nodding off. The residents tend to sleep a lot, wherever they are. 

When my father first lived in a nursing home, he didn't sleep a lot.  I 'd look around at the people barely able to keep their eyes open and feel depressed that they seemed to be so barely aware of where they were, who they were. 

As my father enters that stage I find it hard to relate to the man who's no longer always the man I'm so familiar with - the man who jokes and laughs and makes fun of himself. 

He still greets me with a big, "Hi Sue!!!" or "Susie!"  He's the only one who ever called me Susie.