Do you know where Shirley is?

This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my father in November 2013.  My father is in late stage dementia.  At the time, he still was living at the home he shared with Shirley, his wife of 65 years. 

Do you know where Shirley is?   You have a car?  Can you take me to see Shirley and maybe we can bring her home?

Throughout our marathon visit to the VA Clinic, my 89-year-old father asked anyone and everyone about his wife's location, which was a hospital room recovering from a triple heart bypass.  In hindsight, it makes sense.  We did tell him we were going to see Shirley.  He definitely heard that part.  What he did not hear, we know now, is that it would be after his appointment at the local VA clinic.  

My brother, Jim, had made an appointment for our father to have a mental capacity assessment at the VA clinic.  Our father is one of those greatest generation folks.  He fought in Northern Africa and in Italy during WWII.  He was, in his words, "very lucky to have made it through."  His battalion won a division citation for their heroic efforts in Italy.  (That's another great story)  We were at the VA attempting to get long overdue benefits owed our father.   Benefits that would assist in getting him care he needed.  The first step was to get his mental capacity assessed.

The clinic door barely closed behind us when Frank began his search for Shirley.  "Do you know where Shirley is?"  He directed the question to everyone: To staff, to the doctor, to nurses, to all seated in the waiting room.   We kept reassuring him the Shirley visit was a sure thing, but only after he talked to the doctor.  To whom he asked, "Do you know where Shirley is?"

Once the exam was over, we set about getting information about our next move to get our father help.  About an hour later, we begin to painfully understand this benefit we were seeking was not going to come easy.  No matter that my father clearly was eligible.  We were hit that day with the rock hard reality that is the process of proving eligibility for VA benefits.   Our first clue this wouldn't be a cake walk came when the kindly VA staff began raining paperwork on us.  Do this first.  I don't know about that, see this person.  That person said talk to another person in a different VA division at a whole other  location.  Four months later, we  (our brother Andy took on the task) still are applying for what's called Aid and Attendance, or A&A. 

Back to the VA clinic visit.  It's going on almost 3 hours and Frank still hadn't seen Shirley.  He was done hearing excuses.   My brother and I were talking with the fourth person that day about this A&A program.  I had stopped telling my father not to worry we would be going soon.  He clearly saw me as a liar.  And I was.  So I let him loose, keeping one eye on him and one ear in the conversation.   I watched my father wonder into the waiting room and talk to people.  I knew absolutely what he was saying.  Man, he is persistence.  That's a nice word for stubborn.  I watched him leave the waiting room and head toward some stairs, stopping all along the way to ask people, "Do you know where Shirley is?"  As much as I wanted to stay and get information, clearly it was time to take Frank to see his Shirley. 

I said goodbye to my brother and Mr. VA person who, in the end, had nothing specific that would help our father.  "Hey Dad, I know where Shirley is."  And we were out the door!

Postscript:  As I write this, I don't like that I kept my father waiting.  It caused him anxiety.  I think I held on so long at the VA because my common sense told me we would get the simple answer from the next person.  And then the next person, and the next.  Right now my head is hurting just remembering that awful day.   I realize as difficult as it was for me and my brother, it was worse for our father.  That hurts. 

Next: No, Frank, Shirley cannot come home with us