“Take Me Home.”

Once in a while my father speaks. He utters the same words we dread to hear. It seems like a mantra invoking some miracle beyond our power.

”Take me home. Please take me home”

The words are almost inaudible and yet unmistakable. The mere effort of expression leaves him exhausted and the family on the threshold of tears. I wonder how many days, weeks or even months he has rehearsed and struggled to summon forth the fragile remnants of his tortured voice. My father has advanced Parkinson’s disease. In the space of twelve years it has reduced a once fit and energetic senior to a helpless body in which his undiminished mind sits prisoner. He cannot eat nor even move barely more than a quiver. His mouth hangs open. We bathe his chapped lips fearful lest a drop slips down his dry throat causing him to choke. His shrunken eyes stare up at us wide, unblinking, perhaps accusing. The stomach peg through which he is fed sticks out beneath his lightweight vest. We touch his frail skin softly to avoid bruising and search for any tell tale signs of same, since the day he managed to complain about a rough handling nurse.

Tomorrow is his 86th birthday. The family, excepting myself - an ocean and more away, will assemble round him. My mother will be there loving but tense, holding back mixed emotions of guilt and grief. She will sit next to him and pick up a big bony hand, gently rubbing it. For distraction she may notice his nails need clipping. From her bag she will take out clippers and a file and begin the manicure. My two sisters will wince but bite back their disapproval. Their daughters will frown at them disapprovingly and smile at their grandma reassuringly. Nail clippings will fly out in all directions as the great grandchildren stifle their nervous amusement. For an hour at most he is bombarded with their one-way conversation as jointly they struggle to fill the vacuum of that little room and his almost silent existence. They choose their words carefully. The children are primed into the art of censorship. Don’t mention mother’s wonderful Sunday dinner. Forget the newly dead neighbour. He had the good fortune to die quietly in his armchair after a round of golf. Try always to be a little more general but brace yourself for unexpected pitfalls. If possible, sing. Yes, singing somehow seems to soothe my father, like a baby’s lullaby. Just make sure it isn’t a war song. These can cause horrible sobbing beyond any misinterpretation. But otherwise, the right song, or the family, out of tune, may actually get dad laughing. At the very least his mouth may assume the semblance of a smile. His face seems to light up a little. Thankfully, on his birthday, his third in the nursing home, the choice of song is obvious and safe.

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