The flight was smooth, but I was anxious to see my husband. I asked my son Steve to drive directly to the assisted living community. He attempted to persuade me to unpack first and visit later, but to no avail. We arrived at the facility at one o’clock, supposedly just as Sunday dinner was ending, so I was not surprised when the door greeter informed me that Bob was in the dining room.
I entered and observed him from the rear. Major Bed Head was seated at his table. Bob had a fruit cup in front of him, so I assumed this was his dessert. I walked around and said, “Hi, Bob.” He answered, “You’re here,” without any expression on his face and continued to pick up his grape with a fork. A worker arrived with a chair for me, as another arrived with Bob’s dinner.
Bob picked at the corn, and at his teeth where the corn was getting stuck; he spit out the skin on his roasted potatoes and moved the brisket around on his plate. “Bob,” I asked, “Would you like to go out for lunch with me?”
“Sure,” came his immediate response.
Bob walked, holding my hand, to his room. I removed all of his extra shirts, reminded him to put his belt through the loops and handed him his comb. He was able to accomplish most of the dressing tasks, once I presented each item. The skill decline in the past few weeks astonished me.
At the restaurant, Steve asked for us to be seated so that Bob could see the restroom door. After lunch, we drove to my daughter Linda’s house to see her new cat. Bob watched a bit of football with my son-in-law Dave, asked for and drank a small glass of beer, but wanted nothing to do with the new kitten. “And you shouldn’t either,” he said, “Cats are dirty.”
Bob’s family always had cats for pets.
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