A Lost Language
At 5 p.m. that winter night, Mom called and said: “Come over now. Your father’s having a stroke.” She knew for sure; a speech pathologist for 25 years, she’d treated many stroke patients.
He was confused: “I can’t get the toaster oven to work.” His vision disobeyed. Reaching for his glasses, he came up with a handful of air. But it was the aphasia, the nonsense word substitution, that was the real tell.
Dad just wanted to stay home and sleep, but Mom and I convinced him to go to the E.R. He and I bundled into my car and talked about what was happening to him as I drove to the hospital. He laughed.
“I’m catching up my words,” he said. “See, I did it again. I said ‘catching up.’ I meant mixing up.”
I was concerned but not really worried. This was Dad, and we were relating playfully, as we always had, through language and through talking about language. Everything would be all right. . .
We are always on the edge, wondering how long Mom can sustain the effort to keep him out of a nursing home, where we fear he will die a horrible death, enraged or stupefied on sedatives if the ranting alien returns.
But for now, we know he’s in there. We can read him. And that’s enough.
We know when he says no but means yes, when he’s tired, when he’s uncomfortable. He still laughs fully when one of us repeats a goofy family story. He responds to questions, occasionally initiates conversation, and once in a great while drops a real zinger. For the most part he is cheerful and has good days. Things that once haunted him — the Holocaust, racism, money — no longer do. We can read him. And as long as we can, we want him home.
One recent evening, I sat with Mom and Dad at the kitchen table. Mom and I talked about Israel and the Palestinians and the chances of peace. Mom turned to Dad and said, “Gil, what do you think?” He looked her in the eye and swore, his message clear: Situation normal, all fouled up.
Yes. Exactly.
http://newoldage.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/04/24/a-lost-language/?hp
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