Veterans Hospital

“I’m here to see my father, William Duffy.”

Two nurses behind the station desk, both large and out of shape, glanced up. The smaller responded, “He’s down the hall to the left, watching television. He’s waiting for your mother.” She chewed gum, the other rested her head on her hand and elbow. Their hair needed care, their white uniforms bleach. Enthusiasm would be good, and the snack food competing with paperwork on the desk seemed out of place. I wondered about their care of the patients. I turned and headed down the hall.

Passing rooms on either side, I fixed my eyes ahead, sensitive to what lay beyond each door. On the left, the hallway opened into a lounge with couch, chairs and a television mounted near the ceiling, broadcasting Sunday football. Below the television in a wheelchair was my father, his back to me, his head tilted toward the floor. No other people occupied the lounge or hallway. I paused, took a deep breath and readied my face with a smile. Facing him, I crouched down, grasped his right hand and gently squeezed, as I said, “Hi Dad, how are you doing?”

Our eyes met, and he displayed a hint of a smile. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling us close, as my face brushed against his unshaven cheek. I pressed my lips to his cheek and kissed him.

“It’s nice to see you, Dad.” He didn’t answer; instead, he began to rise from the chair. It appeared there wasn’t enough strength in him, because he managed to rise only a few inches. He pulled at the cotton robe and gown covering his chest. He tried to explain his actions, but I couldn’t make any sense of the words.

I thought he needed my assistance to stand from the chair, so I grabbed his arm with both hands. As I attempted to lift, he continued the tugging at the garments covering his chest.

I couldn’t lift him from the wheelchair—something held him. Upon inspection, I learned he was tied down at both sides of the chair by a restraining jacket. I felt bad about trying to force him out of the chair. I untied the straps and helped him to his feet.

He immediately headed up the hallway.

“Dad, where are you going?” I grabbed his forearm to stop his flight. I moved in front of him and grasped both arms to stop him.

“Where are you going?”

“Where’s Mother?” he asked.

“She’s at home, Dad.”

“How come she isn’t here?”

“She’s coming to visit later,” I lied.

Again, he attempted to head up the hall, as I fought to hold him back.

“Dad, where are you going?”

“Leave me alone,” he shouted, grabbing a fistful of my sweater in each of his disfigured hands. The knuckle of each finger was inflamed and swollen from the rheumatoid arthritis that had made its home in every joint of his body for the past eight years.

The visit was tearing my heart. I had to be there, if only to satisfy the guilt and sadness I fought within. Utterly amazing, how I could accept responsibility for this disease and his being in the Veterans Hospital.

“There’s Mother,” Dad said, peering toward two people at the far end of the hall.

“No Dad, Mom’s at home,” I replied, and pulled him back toward the lounge area.

Across the back of his robe was a long strip of white tape bearing the marking, “DUFFY ROOM 424.” His ID when discovered wandering the floor.

His room was across the hall from the lounge. Another piece of tape, stuck to the wall outside the door, said, “William Duffy.” This was Dad’s map back to his room.

I forced him into his room. He still believed Mom was down the hall.

“Let me go, you son-of-a-bitch,” he fired at me.

The fierce look in his eyes and the elbow to my chest was plenty notice he was determined to be free. I had had too much experience with the temperament the Alzheimer’s disease subjected its victim to and reminded myself: “It’s not Dad’s choice to behave in this manner.” It would be anger one moment, joy the next, tears and fear would follow. Still it gnawed at my heart and hurt me to see him this way.

He walked to the bed, stopped and stared out the window. The trees still held a few leaves and the sky was cold gray. It could rain, yet the cold made me think snow. Not a pretty picture to go with this painful standoff.

He placed his hands in the pockets of the hospital robe. Here stood the man who had taught me what he knew of life. Now we couldn’t even share a conversation.

Dad took a seat at the edge of his bed. I sat beside him and held his hand in mine. My eyes fell on the back of his robe, where the tape said, “DUFFY.” It brought to mind a time long ago, when his name was displayed on all his clothes and gear. It was during World War II, after he had enlisted in what was then the Army Air Corps. Over the years I asked Dad to tell his story again and again. As a young boy, I never tired of Dad’s memory of days past when he was a first lieutenant, then captain. Now, I’m a grown man and the story is more astounding than ever.

How I love his story. . . .