Brilliant snoop

This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my 89-year-old 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, 86, his wife of 65 years. 

Frank had a front row seat to all the action that horrible Saturday morning in November.  From his vantage, he was almost a participant.


The front row was his short couch in the tiny living room of a one-bedroom apartment.  The action was provided by multiple first responders preparing Shirley to be taken to the hospital.


On the periphery of this scene was a young woman who had watched all unfold.  She had heard Shirley on the phone with a nurse saying, "I should call 9-1-1?"  This young woman was one of Frank's in-home caregivers.  She described the event of the morning as follows:

Shirley had chest pain so she called a nurses' phone service.  Acting on their advice to get herself to the hospital ASAP, Shirley alerted the caregiver and then called 9-1-1.  Within minutes, the apartment became filled with bodies, all eyes on Shirley.

Frank watched with delight.  He loves people and he loves action.  He had no understanding that his beloved Shirley was in peril.  And worse, she would be taken from him for the next several weeks.  He saw young people who occasionally would smile in his direction.  This action beat playing a fourth game of dominoes with the caregiver.

It was agreed that family members would meet the ambulance at the hospital.  The caregiver was at the end of her shift and had another assignment.  Frank is not allowed to be left home alone.  So, the first responders offered him a lift.  Only in Missoula.

Frank was first to be put into the ambulance.  Passenger seat up front.  His escort belted him in and told him to sit tight, they would be back with Shirley.  The medic barely set foot back inside the apartment when the emergency vehicle's siren goes off.   Frank.

He returns to the vehicle, switches off the siren and asks Frank not to touch any buttons.  Frank is told to sit tight, almost done inside, and the medic returns once again to the apartment.

And once again, the siren goes off. 

I would give every cent I have to have been there and witness this display of inquisitiveness.  Or was it meddlesomeness.  Either way, it makes you cheer for Frank!  Flashes of curiosity and spontaneity and snoopiness all exposed in this one brilliant act. 
Make that two brilliant acts.