"For you, the blind who once could see, the bell tolls for thee..."

“So, what do you want to write today?”

There was no answer, but I knew he was awake. He had been a few minutes ago and nobody fell asleep that fast—not when they were sitting up on a vinyl-covered chair in an open-backed hospital gown, that is. It takes a long time to overcome that kind of discomfort, to relax enough amidst the drafts and mild indignities to drift off to sleep.

But my dad just sat there, head turned slightly away from me, with his closed eyelids fluttering and his mouth set in a determined line.

“No ideas, either, huh?” I said. I looked back at the word document, blank except for the date at the top of the page. “I know what you mean. You know, I used to be good at this. I used to write for a living. Remember that?”

He probably did not. Or if he did, he probably could not tell me so. Or if he did try to tell me, I probably wouldn’t be able to understand him. Alzheimer’s affects everyone—victims and family members—differently. It robbed my dad of the ability to communicate the way he used to, which means we don’t know exactly what he’s going through; what, if anything he’s thinking and, worst of all, how to help.

“Are you thirsty?” I rattled a Styrofoam cup filled with water and ice. No response.

Hmm.

Well, it was his second visit to a hospital in the past month and he was actually doing better this time around. I’ll never forget that first trip; it will forever be ingrained in my nightmares, from the day I had to help pry him out of the car to the 15 (15!!!!) hours spent in a emergency room to the weeks afterward. He was once the strongest man I knew and here he was reduced to a state of utter dependency that even he didn’t understand. That kind of thing doesn’t fade easily.

He was much better this time. In fact the only thing keeping him there was his own stubbornness. All his vitals were as normal: fever gone, infection apparently chased away by the latest IV drip. All he had to do was open his eyes, eat on his own, respond to us.

But it would come as no surprise to anyone who knew him that he didn’t care for the hospital stay and he didn’t like being poked and prodded at regular intervals—and it pissed him off.

“We can probably get you out of here tomorrow,” I told him, “but you’ve got to listen. You’ve got to open your eyes. You’ve got to drink and eat. That’s one of the reasons you’re here…because you got dehydrated.”

He mumbled something; it might have been a word or two but it was so soft I couldn’t tell, so jumbled I couldn’t understand it.

“You want to watch some football? The game’s almost on.”

Nothing. He was still sitting, his turned away from me. Not for the first time, I wondered if this was it. Would we ever be able to get him to understand? Was this the beginning of the end? He was only 66; way too young to check out like this.

Then I closed my eyes—squeezed them shut, actually—and pressed my fingers against my temples until those thoughts passed.

“So. You’ve forgotten everything except how to be stubborn, huh? Well, I learned that lesson, too. I learned it from the best.” I sat down in the chair beside him and flipped open the laptop.

“So what do you want to write tonight?”