One of the enduring memories of my youth is climbing into my Dad’s ’62 VW Bug with one working door and driving about an hour out into the farmlands of Indiana so that Dad could preach at the Groveland Presbyterian Church in a little town called Bainbridge. He went every other Sunday. That was all the good folk of Bainbridge could afford. It was a treat because I got to hear him preach. He was a powerful voice in the pulpit and a gifted storyteller.
After the service was over, we went to the general store on the corner, and he would buy us each a Coke for the drive home. The drive home was the best. On the way out, Dad was usually quiet. He was rehearsing his sermon in his head, and I left him alone. But, on the way back, we would talk. We talked about history and religion and sometimes just baseball. It was great! In fact, I would argue that if you really want to get to know someone, get off social media and spend an hour or two in the car with them. You’ll learn a lot.
Decades later, dementia began to take my Dad’s mind, and we moved him into a nursing home. Every Sunday I would drive out to see him and I would talk. I would tell him about things he had done, things we had done together, things we had done as a family; and I would often talk about those Sunday trips out to Groveland.
Every year the doctors and nurses would tell me that this year would be his last. But, for five years he clung to life. Most of the time, I took my son, Alexander, with me. The two of them used to play a game. Dad would grab his grandson’s hand and Alexander would try to get away, and Xander would laugh and giggle: “He won’t let go. Grandad won’t let go!”
Over the years the dementia took his memory, his ability to speak and his ability to walk or even stand. It took his dignity. But, it could not conquer his desire to live. And every Sunday for 228 weeks he would smile when we came.
In the end, he went into the hospital with pneumonia, and it was clear that the doctors and nurses would finally be right. This would be his last year. The doctors said, “Call hospice,” because he had no quality of life anyway. He had a second heart attack on Saturday afternoon, and it took most of what was left of his brain. As Saturday night slipped into Sunday morning, he lay in that hospital bed staring at me fiercely with his one working eye and clinging to my hand. He would not let go.
I told him that it was time for him to go be with Mom, his brothers and his own Dad and Mother. And I also told him that I would not trade those Sundays at the nursing home for anything and that this would be our last Sunday together. Sometime in the early hours of the morning before the sun broke the horizon, he let go of my hand and closed his eyes for good.
Scott A. Grant is a local historian and author. He welcomes your comments at scottg@standfastic.com.
