The kids all clambered up the steps and shyly gave their elusive uncle Gage a fist bump as they traipsed by wearing their Sunday best. Gage smiled at each of them; even though they were unsure of him now, they would eventually learn that he was a cool uncle—a master of all board games and unbeatable at horseshoes or cornhole, whichever form of defeat they preferred!
His brothers and their wives greeted him, too, and a moment later, he followed them inside to make a sandwich and to try Mrs. Fergusson’s chocolate chess pie.
TWO HOURS LATER, GAGE WAS HOLDING THE DOOR OF THE NURSING HOME open, but when he followed his mom in, he was overwhelmed by the stagnant air in the lobby. He raised his eyebrows, wondering how long he’d be able to endure it. He recalled the refreshing breeze that always carried the scent of lilacs through the airy windows of Willow Pond Senior Care or the delicious aroma of Sal’s cooking wafting from the kitchen, and he wished his grandfather could be in a place like that.
“His room is on the courtyard,” his mom said, seeming to read his mind, “so we can sit outside . . . although it’s probably cooler in his room.”
Gage nodded. “I’ll take the heat over this stale air any day.”
They walked down the hall, and Libby smiled and waved to all the staff members and greeted each of the patients by name.
“Do you know everyone here, Mom?” Gage teased.
“Well, I come every day,” she said, “so I’ve gotten to know people.”
Gage shook his head. “I didn’t know you came every day.”
“Dutch is my dad, Gage. I’m not just going to forget about him . . . even if he doesn’t always recognize me.”
Gage nodded, wondering if her words were a guised rebuke because he hadn’t been to visit his grandfather, but he quickly decided there was no way his mom would ever say something hurtful—intentionally or unintentionally. “Have you thought about trying to take care of him at home?”
“We did try for a while. Uncle Mike and I were taking turns, but when it reached a point where he needed help with almost everything”—she looked up at him—“and I was taking care of your dad, too, we had to find a different solution. Mike and Jess both have jobs and a busy family, and I have plenty to do around the farm. Plus, there was no way I could take care of him and your dad, so when it got to be too much, we decided, very reluctantly, that this was the best option. He could linger like this for years, and caregiving is a full-time job.”
“Have you ever considered having someone come in . . . a live-in caregiver? There’s plenty of room in that house.”
“To be honest, Gage, I haven’t had a chance to consider that—life has been so hectic, and after your dad got sick, it became even more hectic. I’ve been so busy taking care of him, I haven’t had a minute to myself.”
Gage nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe you’ll have time now—I’m sure Dutch would be much happier at home.”
“He probably would be,” she said, smiling sadly. “We’ll see . . .” She paused. “Well, here he is,” she said, gesturing to the last door in the long corridor. “Hi, Dad,” she said cheerfully, bustling into the room. “I brought someone to see you.”
Gage walked in behind her and saw a frail man sitting next to the window in a wheelchair. “Hey, Dutch,” he said, and the man looked up. Gage searched his face, hoping his grandfather would recognize him, but his eyes were far away and listless. Gage swallowed and bit his lip. He’d been trying to prepare himself for the very real possibility that his beloved grandfather wouldn’t recognize him, but the empty stare that greeted him was not at all what he had expected.
“Would you like to sit outside, Dad?” Libby asked, releasing the brakes on his wheelchair, but when the old man didn’t respond, Gage took his cue from his mom and walked around to open the door. Libby wheeled him out into the courtyard and pushed him to a shady area under a small dogwood tree and sat down next to him. “How’ve you been today?” she asked softly, but Dutch still didn’t answer.
Gage watched and listened as his mom gently talked to her dad, telling him about her day and news she’d heard at church that morning, and he was amazed by her utter devotion to him. “Does he ever respond?” he asked.
“Sometimes, but the times are becoming fewer and farther between.”
Gage nodded. The faraway look in his grandfather’s eyes reminded him of the little lady Maeve took care of at Willow Pond—Ivy Lee Byrd—and then he remembered how Ivy’s face had lit up when he and Bud had played the fiddle, and she’d even started clapping and tapping her feet. Maeve had talked about the profound effect music had on people with dementia or Alzheimer’s. “Have you ever tried playing music for him?” he asked.
“There’s a radio in his room, but I can’t say I’ve ever turned it on.”
Gage nodded, thinking about the music he knew Dutch loved—hymns, for sure, and country music, but what song might he remember? He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his playlist, and then it hit him—he knew exactly what song to play. He looked at his mom. “Is it okay if I play a song for him?”
“Absolutely,” Libby said, and even though she doubted it would make a difference, she was glad her son was trying. “I’m sure he’d love it,” she added encouragingly.
Gage nodded and scrolled to a song he’d been listening to lately, turned up the volume, and tapped the start arrow. He waited, knowing the song had a quiet intro, and then held the phone near his grandfather’s ear. A moment later, the unmistakable voice of Garth Brooks drifted
