I’m Not Ready For This
The Activities Director stopped me as I was leaving from a visit. A lady was singing hits from the 1940’s and dad was happily singing along. He barely noticed that I left.
“I have something for you,” said Activities Director. “He made it this morning.”
She ducked into his room and brought out a construction paper Valentine’s Day card, covered in painted hearts and glitter and ribbon. The wobbly “Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you.” wasn't his usual handwriting, but it surely wasn’t anyone else’s. The thing that hurt my heart was the name. I’ve suspected that he’s lost my name, but I avoided the thought because he always lights up like a Dad when I walk in and he knows I’m his daughter. But it wasn’t my correct name at the top.
It’s always been confusing to strangers. In my mother’s family, the first daughter is always given the same name; it’s been established as a pattern for more than 500 years. The first was a duchess in Aquitaine. My mother bore the anglicized version. I was given the three-syllable Italian version. Considering that at the time of my birth, there were eight others in the family, we all had nicknames. I learned I had a real, formal name when I went to kindergarten. Took me two weeks to start answering to it.
So I can understand his being confused about what he should call me: the family nickname, my proper name, or perhaps his own nickname for me (Muffin)? He could have chosen any one for the card.
But the name at the top was the anglicized version. He’d had to ask, and someone told him the two-syllable version, because strangers always do that. I always have to correct them. He’s truly forgotten my name. Even the reminder didn’t trigger that two syllables meant his wife, not his daughter. It sounds trivial, but believe me, when you spend a lifetime with the distinction, the ear knows what to hear.
The disease is moving fast, now. I can assess this professionally and make an educated guess that we’ll be moving into Hospice status before summer. I’m not ready.