My father’s red chair
He called it red, but its color was closer to rose, or perhaps mauve.
If it had also been a camera we would have a fascinating, sometimes humorous and ultimately sad documentary of the final years and days of a gentle man’s life. Purchased from a discount chain when he moved to the retirement center at age 90, it, along with a love seat and desk, were the only furniture he every bought for himself after my mother died.
A model of frugality, fellow residents, retired professors and professionals, were amazed that a barber could afford to live there. He was a friendly, distinguished looking man with good posture, perfect grammar and a large vocabulary gained from a life long practice of doing cross word puzzles.
Initially, the chair was a comfortable place to meditate, read, or rest after a long walk or round of golf. With his feet propped up, he’d occasionally nap while watching Jeopardy, golf and football on TV. He spent many evenings quietly sitting in his chair, doing crossword puzzles and listening to classical music.
The chair’s role began changing as age gradually took its toll on him. When he became too tottery, he stopped playing golf. Senile dementia began creeping in and disrupting his life. At first his daily routine of meals, activities and chatting with friends stayed the same. But nights became tortured after he started seeing faceless strangers silently sitting in his red chair. During the day he knew they weren’t real but he couldn’t stop seeing them in the middle of the night.
One day on his way to lunch he suffered a slight stroke and fell. Leaving his independent living apartment for good after a brief stay in a hospital, the center’s nursing unit became his new residence. The stroke took away his night visitors but left him more easily confused and irritable during the day.
He lost interest in TV; the chair and radio remained his connection with past pleasures. His chair remained a comfortable place to watch birds and weather changes. Naps lasted longer. He continued to enjoy visiting with friends and relatives but became paranoid thinking that the staff was playing tricks on him by making him go to picnics in the middle of the night when they awakened him for meals.
As his dementia worsened he became increasingly more “turned around”, confused and disorientated. On assisted walks in the halls, he often failed to recognize familiar landmarks. Scooting around alone in his wheel chair, he’d become lost and panicky.
Sometimes, recognizing the red chair from the hallway he’d have a beacon shining through his mental fog guiding him back to the safe harbor of his room. Finally the beacon failed but he still used the chair’s comfort to rest and nap.
One day, shortly after breakfast, he died peacefully. Bought at a discount, no expensive chair could have served him better. Had it also been a camera, I’d have more than a mental tape to replay to provide me with his important lessons on aging gracefully.
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