Cloudy Days Ahead

Cloudy Days Ahead?

The clouds may cover the sun, but it's never really gone. ~Unknown

Stepping into his apartment, I announced like I always do: "Knock-knock, anybody home?" Rounding the corner, I found Pop with his head slumped to the side, his torso sliding out of the easy chair — a few inches away from landing on the floor. Startled, he looked up at me and growled, "What do YOU want?"

I instantly realized — today, nobody was home.

I took note of the blank look, the agitated frown, the unkempt appearance. He normally greeted me by name, but today I was simply some person interfering with his desire to sleep the morning away.

I started asking questions — how are you feeling, did you take your meds, did you have breakfast, do you know who I am? Nothing. No reply at all. Just the famous stoic Carl stare. Could he have had a stroke?

Not knowing what might have happened — or when — was frightening. Pop was no help providing any clues. Fast forward fifteen to thirty minutes, with me doing most of the talking. He eventually concluded I was his daughter but could not remember my name. Slight win. I'll take it.

This scene has repeated itself in different ways over the past several months. Forgetting he no longer lived in Ohio. Wondering where his car was — we took the keys years ago. Wanting to fly a plane again — he was an amateur pilot for many years. Thinking all his kids and grandkids lived nearby, when the majority are thousands of miles away.

We learned to stop correcting and start redirecting. His long-term memory has always been intact, and talking about his youth, his early work life, and sports reliably brings him back to himself. I've also learned to stop the barrage of questions. Give him time to engage. Make sure he drinks something — hydration makes a remarkable difference — and a small snack often helps too.

Those are the bad days.

The good days? Walking in to find Carl planted in his easy chair watching a game, freshly groomed, and then a quick "Hey Carol" with a little grin even before I get my coat off. We talk about the news, the family, favorite foods, the sports teams we love to argue about and past travel adventures. He's quick with a barb on the good days — genuinely funny — the kind of sharp, dry wit that reminds you exactly where he's been all his life and that he's still very much in there. His standard answer when asked how he's feeling says it all: Not bad for an old guy.

When he says that, I know the sun is out.

A running joke on the good days is whether I brought him any stash. Stash meaning some sweets — cookies, ice cream, or other dessert.  Carl has always had a sweet tooth and we all know it.  Carl has always had a sweet tooth, and a small treat once or twice a week will be joyfully received and polished off in no time.

Good days still outnumber the bad, and I am grateful for that every single time. I've stopped trying to predict what kind of day is waiting behind that door. Instead, I hold onto the small moments — a funny comment, a knowing shake of the head, a flash of the old Carl — and let those be enough.