Les Sillers (0:01)

From World Radio, this is Doubletake. I'm Les Sillers. Today we have something a little different. It's a series of letters I wrote to my father last year. I never sent them. I don't think I could. Some of these things I've told him in person. Others will just have to wait for another time, another place. And there maybe some of these things won't need to be said. Also in these letters you'll hear me mention my wife Jennifer and my sister Arvella. October 2, 2023. Dear Dad, I tried to call you yesterday but you didn't pick up. You always picked up when you and mom were living in the duplex. If you didn't, I'd get worried. Call Arvella. But after you moved into that seniors facility, it's been hard to get a hold of you. I'm glad Arvella arranged to put in the landline. But I don't know if you can't hear the ringer or you're sleeping when I call or what, you don't answer. So I've decided to start writing to you. Not that you'll be able to read this. I know it's been hard to concentrate the last few years. You used to read all the time. You were always reading something. Often a Western. Max brand or Louis L'Amour. Sometimes those spy stories by Alastair Maclean. You liked Mark Twain a lot. Once I watched you reading Roughing it while sitting in your rocker by the living room window on the acreage. Every so often you'd stop and chuckle. You read me a passage about a bull supposedly trying to climb a tree. And then you laughed and laughed. I think I laughed because you were laughing. I was maybe eight at the time. I still love Mark Twain and I still remember that passage and how you shared it with me. I think you just liked it. So you read it to me. Maybe I'll get a chance to read this to you. I'll try calling again soon. Love less October 5th. Dear dad, Arvella called. Not good news, she said. Your entire seniors facility has been locked down because of COVID New strain coming through. I am so done with COVID Anyway, Arvella is not going to be able to come see you for a while. The thing is, with your short term memory the way it is, the next time you see her, you won't know how long it's been since you last saw her. It's strange. You losing your short term memory has been both the hardest thing about all this and the only thing that Makes it bearable. When you and mom were still in the duplex, Jennifer and I would walk up and ring your doorbell. You'd greet us with a big smile. I'd say, hey dad, we made it. How are you? And you'd hug us and say how glad you were to see us. But there was always this slight hesitation, like have they been here lately? How long has it been since I've seen them? It could be our first time through the door in six months or six minutes. You weren't sure. I could see it in your eyes. You try to piece it together. Did we have suitcases with us or groceries? Just looking for a clue. Living continually in the present. Must be brutal. Always trying to guess what had just happened. Where you are, where you're going. Mostly, other than me and Arvella, you're probably never quite sure who you're with. I could tell when your memory was starting to go. Several years ago now. I knew you were trying to hide it, but it was our phone conversations. I'd ask, how was your day? And you'd deflect because you didn't know. Sometimes you'd say apologetically, I'm having a little trouble with my memory. You'd ask me lots of questions, but they were all really general. You remember Jennifer's name. We'd been married 30 years at that point, but you didn't know our kids names. How are the kids? You'd ask. I started to casually include who they were when talking about them. It wasn't just Kelsey, it was our daughter Kelsey, our son in law, Danny. So I'm sure it's hard on you, dad, but oddly it makes it possible for me to function. Living 2,300 miles away to not see you very often. Because I know you weren't there. Stewing, counting the days since we last made the trip. And you never made me feel guilty when we spoke on the phone. That's not how you are, dad. I've always appreciated that. Just wish I'd called more often though. Love less October 10th. Dear dad, Tomorrow would have been Mom's 83rd birthday. I tried to call but I couldn't get through. Arvella called with more bad news. They're going to move you back into the second floor, back to the memory wing. We were so glad when you got that room in the regular population. That sounded awful. Regular population? Like you're in prison. I didn't mean it that way. It's a perfectly good place. Comfortable, clean. The staff are great. There's a nice dining hall and somebody came and got you for every meal. Arvella said you really enjoyed eating there. He just liked to be around people. So it was a pretty big shock to us. When the director told Arvella they'd had a few issues with you in the dining hall. We guessed that you were getting up to go over and talk to people you didn't know. People who probably just wanted to eat lunch in peace because you just wanted to chat. You've been doing that a lot more. Last year, Jennifer and I took you to Boston Pizza. You saw a baby in a high chair at a nearby table. You kept leaning out into the aisle to look and finally went over to talk to the family. You just wanted to tell them how cute the baby was. You made some joke, and soon everybody was chuckling. Jennifer and I sat there and squirmed until you got back. Then you forgot that you'd already gone over there once you started out of your seat to go over and talk to them again. A couple of times you had to say, no, dad, just stay here. Talk to us. Arvella says you do this every time she takes you to a restaurant now. She always gets a booth and puts you in the inside seat. I hate the idea of you back in the Memory Wing. When you and mom first moved into that facility, that's where they put you. Jennifer and I came a few weeks after you got there, and the room was fine. It was a one bedroom suite. They had your rocker in there with the ottoman, a couple of chairs, your TV set and your stand. It was fine, but the atmosphere was sad. Tile floors instead of carpet. The inescapable whiff of disinfectant. Arvella told me the Memory Wing has hard floors because it's easier to clean up after all the accidents. And the dining hall in the Memory Wing is pretty depressing, especially compared to the other one that you can't eat in anymore. This one is small and crowded. People wheeled up to the table in their chairs. Nobody talking, just sitting there. And before mom passed, we'd walk down the hall of that wing with you heading to the car. Once a woman shuffling along with the walker looked at us as we passed. She said to me, can you help me get out of here? I have to get out of this place. Her tone was a cross between desperation and despair. She was lostness itself. I felt like crying. I smiled and walked on. You sometimes said things to the folks sitting in the hallway. There was a sitting area. It was the only place to sit out in the hall. And they couldn't leave the memory unit on their own. So they all just sat there silent, looking either empty or confused. One day we walked past a woman in her pajamas and a bathrobe. She was sitting in a chair. Vacant eyes. As you passed her, you said something like, who's making all that racket? With that cheerful smile. It's the kind of thing you'd have said to your high school students who were just studying on benches. That's just the kind of joke you make. Not long ago, this guy held the door for us as we walked out of a restaurant and you said, how long have you had this job? He grinned and said, a few seconds, and we all chuckled. And so you said to that woman in this hallway who's making all that racket. She just stared at you blankly and you stopped and stared back at her for a second. And then we all kept going. You're not like her, Dad. I mean, sure, you get confused occasionally, but you're there in the moment. You've always been quick with a joke. A little while ago, we were on the phone with Arvella. She keeps your place stocked with snacks. Those cookies you like and chocolate covered almonds. She mentioned that once again she'd have to go shopping. Your cupboard was empty. I had company, you deadpanned. Another time she told you she was taking it to the dentist on Wednesday. You didn't miss a beat. I don't think I'm going to be here Wednesday, you, you said. This is also hilarious because we all know you don't have company unless it's us. And you're going to be there Wednesday because you're not going anywhere on your own. You know this, we know this. And yet you can joke about it. You've always enjoyed interacting with people. Now you're desperately reaching out to whoever is around, trying to get a laugh. The staff are great and they chuckle at your jokes, but those folks you're living with now, they're not going to laugh. Not ever again. Probably. I'll be in touch as soon as I can. Love less Oct 17 Dear Dad, I guess you're probably in your new room right now. Arvella told me you left a voicemail while she was flying back to Calgary after a trip. I guess you'd borrowed a nurse's phone. She got it when she landed. You asked her to come pick you up from the hotel. She said she called the facility right away and you were fine. Yeah, I can see how you get a little confused about that, but it's. It's okay. That's where you live now, Dad. I would call you dad, but you don't have a phone in your new room. I don't think we're going to put one in there. I can talk to you when Arvella visits. She facetimes me when she goes to see you. I used to call a fair bit when you and mom were healthy. For years, basically weekly, I'd tell you about how work was going, how the kids were doing. And you were always so interested, asked lots of questions. You never forced advice on me. And I appreciated that. Sometimes you'd share things from your own experience. Stories from your classroom, being in the church board, things like that. We had good conversations, often 45 minutes or more. I think you appreciated that. But our kids were young. I had things to do. I didn't want to do that too often. It kind of put a hole in my evening. When Mom's Alzheimer's worsened, I tried to call more regularly. But I gotta admit, dad, sometimes those were hard calls. Pretty quickly, she wasn't able to talk on the phone. But you'd say, would you like to say hello to your mother? You'd take the phone over to her wheelchair. I'd hear you say, dolores, it's less. Maybe her eyes were open. Maybe she'd slowly look up at you toward the end. Not even that. You'd put the phone to her ear. I could hear you say cheerfully, okay, go ahead. And I'd say, hey, mom, how are you? We sure miss you. I'd ramble on for a minute or two, just whatever came into my head, as if she could understand me. And when I couldn't think of anything else to say, I'd just stop. It'd be quiet for five or 10 seconds, and then dad would realize I was done, and we'd say goodbye. Over the last year, our calls had become, I don't know, even more difficult. We'd talk for a while, hang up, and 10 minutes later you'd call back. Hey, how are you? You'd say, I'm sitting here watching tv, so I thought I'd give you a call. You never just called me out of the blue, but you'd call back soon after we talked. I couldn't figure it out. After a while, Arvella mentioned that your TV and phone service are from the same company. When our phones connected, my name would pop up on your TV screen. You'd see that notification after our call and then dial me up. By then, it was usually around 11pm my time, 9pm for you if I answered and pretended we hadn't talked, we'd have the exact same 30 minute conversation as 10 minutes earlier. Once I answered and said, I'm sorry, dad, we just got off the phone a few minutes ago and you got all embarrassed and apologized and that was absolutely unbearable. So I wasn't going to say that again. And I knew that if I just tried to cut the call short, then you'd be vaguely disappointed, never angry, just kind of sad. And I could never stand to disappoint you. So I hate to admit this, dad, but here's what I would do. I would ignore my ringer. Except that you'd let it ring, leave a message, hang up, and then my name would pop up on your screen again. So you'd call again and leave the exact same message. Hey, I'm just calling to see how you doing. Some nights I'd get three messages and five missed calls from you between 11 and midnight and only on the nights when I'd called you first. I just couldn't take it anymore. So on the nights I called you, after we hung up, I'd turn off my ringer, put my phone where I couldn't see it. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done. So that's why I didn't call more often. And now I can't call at all. Dad, I'm sorry. Love less November 15 Dear Dad, Thanksgiving is coming up, so I thought it would be a good time to say I'm thankful for you and Mom. You ask about mom occasionally. When Jennifer and I were out with you for a drive last July, you said, where's Dolores again? And we said, dad, mom passed last month. And you said, oh, right. Of course. You seemed more annoyed with yourself for forgetting than sad that we lost her. We understood. We were used to that question by then. It didn't even put a damper on things. In fact, that day was actually the best day ever. We were taking you to the mountains. Jennifer and I picked you up and headed west from Calgary on one of the minor highways south of the city. So where are we going? You asked about 10 times in the first 30 miles. We're just going for a drive, dad, we said. We're going to see the Rockies. Take a little trip. As we wound our way through the foothills, the mountains loomed larger and larger. Snow covered peaks, clear blue sky. It was a gorgeous day. After about 45 minutes, we arrived at Bragg Creek. The three of us sat on a bench by the river and listened to the water tumbling over the rocks. The air was cool. The sun warmed our shoulders. After a while we got back in the car and headed to a little bakery we'd passed, Mabel and Marie's. We walked in the door and it smelled amazing. We could hear them pulling trays out of the ovens, see the light brown crusts. Jennifer and I ordered mochas. You had coffee with cream. We peered through the glass case and picked out a blueberry muffin, a cinnamon bun, and a brownie. Then we divided them all between us so we had a few bites of each. We sat at a Formica topped table and talked and ate and drank while the clouds sent shadows across the pines outside. Then we got back in the car. So where are we going now? You asked. We're just headed home, I said. Back to your place in Calgary. Oh, okay, you said. We headed back east, this time in a different highway, just for a change of scenery. Oh, look at that, you'd say as we passed some unremarkable ranch house, maybe a herd of cows. And you'd recall something about growing up on the farm in Saskatchewan. For about the 50th time in the last two years, you told us about bringing mom home to meet your mom and dad. You were both at a residential boarding high school in southern Saskatchewan. Jennifer held her phone up to the front seat to record it. She stopped at mom and Dad's when I was there, in that case, to meet, specifically to meet them. And then she was gone, and dad leans over to me and says, she's really nice. I know you miss her. I do too. At her funeral we had a slideshow. It reminded me of her delight in life and in the things she knew were blessings from God. Mom delighted in a lot of things. She'd see her grandchildren after only a week had passed and laugh just for the joy of seeing them. Mom delighted in the view of the town lights from the front windows of the acreage. She delighted in hot tubs and walks in bright morning sunshine in winter. She delighted in caramel popcorn and apples baked with cinnamon and brown sugar. In summer it was carrot and raisin salad. She delighted in fresh raspberries over ice cream and the Bill Gaither Trio and Fiddler on the roof. Mom delighted in playing farmer Rummy and doing puzzles with her family and Dutch Blitz, although sometimes the cards were a little sticky from the caramel popcorn. She delighted in thick white frost on poplar trees against a pure blue sky. She delighted in laughter. She didn't crack a lot of jokes herself, but I often saw mom giggling over something, somebody said, laughing so hard she could hardly sit up. Where's Dolores? You asked. Mom's okay, dad. While we were driving, I think we put the cathedrals on the stereo. They're one of your favorites after a while, don't you know. I'm gonna see with the angels above. I'm gonna talk, talk to the ones that I love. I'm gonna tell him you like. A lot of the Southern gospel groups, listen to them all the time. One of my earliest memories is of you rocking in a darkened living room, headphone cord trailing over to our cabinet record player. I would go over and sit on your lap and rock with you. But I never stayed long. Somewhere on Highway 7, between Diamond Valley and Okotokes, I noticed a gravel road heading south. It seemed to go straight up the side of a foothill. I braked gently and turned right. The gravel crunched under our tires as we ascended higher and higher. At the very top I stopped and we got out for a few minutes and looked back west. The foothill sloped away. Below was a patchwork of green pastures and fields divided by fences and stands of trees. Farmhouses and granaries dotted the valley. Across from us, the white faces of the Rockies stretched across the entire western horizon from north to south, a jagged line of stone and snow I bet we could see 30 miles in either direction. Above us the sky was blue and clear. A line of fluffy white and gray clouds had just bounced off the backside of the range. They hung there, waiting for the westerlies to send them drifting across the prairies. We took some selfies, got back in the car, and took you home. We had a great day, Dad. I hope you did, too. We'll talk soon. I haven't written any more letters to dad lately. I have things I want to talk about, but they can wait. Arvella calls when she drops by to visit him. We chat, and he looks like he's doing pretty well. I'm Les Sillers, and I wrote and produced this episode. My dad's name is Roy. This is Double Take.