Life at Gaffney House is....

....in a word: TRANQUIL.

Each time I've visited David over the past several weeks, I find him in the same places--either sitting on the couch--usually his head nodded downward and dozing--or walking around the yard very determinedly, or sitting in a chair in the front sitting room. Many of the other residents are doing much the same. One part of me thinks this must be terribly boring, but David appears by all accounts to be enjoying the peacefulness here. 

He is always eager to go for a walk when I arrive, and we've fallen into a nice routine--walking down to 15th Ave, stopping at Caffe Ladro for a coffee, then walking back. He doesn't say much, but every now and then he'll come out with a comment that seems out of nowhere. Last week I asked him what he was thinking about, and he pointed at a house we were walking by and said: "I was thinking about the guy who lives in that house--I've been waiting for him to get home."

OK.....

One could imagine all sorts of things this might have meant to him. David was very active for many years in this neighborhood, meeting people in their homes for various reasons, so perhaps he was having a recollection of this as we walked past. 

More likely though, it was probably a random thought that happened to be going through his mind when I asked the question. His mind is now operating under a completely different set of principles than yours or mine--our brains are these incredibly complex living organisms that sit inside our heads and go about business with complete autonomy. We have no idea--or control--of how this magnificent organ operates, and Alzheimer's disease has shown us how little we can do when things start malfunctioning. This disease has taken many great minds and turned them--and their families--upside-down.

One thing I love about going to Mass with him every Sunday is how others still approach him. He was a wildly popular priest, and spent over 40 years traveling around to all of the parishes in Western Washington. He knew that he had a special gift, but would rarely tout that as some kind of grand achievement. He was humble in the way of his mentor, Archbishop Raymond Hunthausen, and never sought out special privilege or status.

People see him at St. Ignatius and reach out to say hello and shake his hand. David always responds with a big smile and nod of his head, but it is immediately obvious that he is unable to speak a word. This often brings about a subtle change in the others' expression--from a big smile of recognition to one of--'oh, something is wrong.' Then they look to me. There is no need for me to say anything.

So while it's reassuring to know that David is comfortable and happy--and to share that everything seems to be OK with pictures of all smiles--the truth is rather different.  David has suffered from a breathtakingly fast diminishment. I find myself thinking about the horrible injustice of losing David in this way. Not only the loss to me and his family and close friends, but the loss to so many in the community that would still have access to such a brilliant light of goodness; his humorous and compassionate words when presiding from the pulpit, his unique, gentle way of explaining sometimes conflicting Catholic teachings, and his calming voice when visiting the sick and dying. There are few in this world who can reach out like he could, and our lives have also been diminished by this loss.

In the end, it comes down to this: instead of dwelling on the loss of what could have been, it's more enriching to see David where he is right now. Our memories of him provide the context we enjoy to remember him with, and my close connection to him has given me a special privilege of being with him and all that he was.

He's still here. We still love him.

Come 'ere, come 'ere, come 'ere...

There is a fellow resident at Gaffney House, an elderly African American woman, who is kinda known for the phrase she repeats over and over: "come 'ere, come 'ere, come 'ere, come 'ere"... these seem to be the only phrases she is able to express. I recently learned that she apparently is able to communicate in other ways--and David picked up on it.

The other day she was repeating her phrase over and over--but she seemed more agitated than usual. Jenn, one of the day managers, was trying to console her, when David came over and sat down next to them. She calmed down. David said nothing, but just sat there quietly with her. He stayed with her for quite some time.

When the staff retold this story to me, it was obvious to them knowing David's background as a priest--and someone who has sat with plenty of sick and dying people over his long career--that this was a purely instinctual reaching out for him. The manager was very moved, and thanked David for his generosity of spirit.

While his capacity to console with words has left him, his innate ability to reach out to those who are suffering or in distress is still very much with him.

Gaffney House Visit guidelines

David has been at his new residence, Gaffney House (1605 17th Ave, Seattle 98122) for two weeks now, and I'm happy to report that he is settling in nicely. The staff reports that he has been a welcome addition to the home, and he interacts with other residents in his usual friendly way.

Please feel free to visit David when you can. He welcomes visitors, and there is a few things to keep in mind:

1. Visiting hours are open to drop-in, and the best times to do that are between 9am-4:30pm. Lunch is usually from 12-12:30 and dinner is at 5pm. David goes to church and iHop on Sundays, so is not there between 10-2pm. To be sure he's there, please call 206-838-1930 to confirm he's home. Simply come to the house and ring the bell at the entry gate. A staff member will escort you to see David.

2. While David is still recognizing family and some close friends, don't expect that he's going to remember your name or be able to answer or respond to things you mention from his or your past. I've found it's best if you keep the conversation simple and low-key. Too much chatting or fast conversation will likely confuse him and he sometimes gets irritable.

3. You are welcome to walk him around the property inside the gates. I'd not suggest taking him for walk off the property unless you have done this before and have gotten instructions from the staff.

Please feel free to call or e-mail me if you have any questions.

Sunday schedule

Thanks to everyone who has responded so warmly to these e-mails about David. I enjoy hearing from you all, and so appreciate getting your notes that acknowledge and affirm our lives together in relationship. We recently celebrated our 21st anniversary together (September 21), and it's astonishing to me when I think about it!

This past week was an ordinary week--David is well and still laughs and smiles--as the pictures so wonderfully illustrate! We've been on several long walks in the neighborhood, and of course, iHop and St Ignatius on Sundays. Btw, that reminds me--wanted to let you know that David and I go to breakfast and Mass every Sunday, so he won't be there to visit from 10am to 2pm. You can always call the Gaffney House staff to be sure he's there 206-838-1920 if you plan to visit.

Mass emotions

Thought you might enjoy some of my pictures of David from this past week. He's been well and continues to settle into Gaffney house. The staff told me that he's been a great addition--his personality and the way he interacts with the others is very positive. 

I was especially moved today with him--two different times. When I arrived at the house today, David was taking a nap in the chair. I knelt down beside him and touched his knee. His eyes opened, he looked at me and said: "Oh, I was just thinking about you." Really? What were you thinking about? "I was hoping you'd come today." That was so sweet!  

Then we went to Mass and he was very much engaged--he listened very intently during the homily--laughing and nodding where appropriate, sang along with all of the music. When we were walking back to the pew after communion i noticed he was teary-eyed. I asked him if he was OK--and he began to softly cry. I hugged him, and he held me tightly. I took his hand and held it until we left. 

It's hard to imagine what's going on inside him, but I don't think it's sadness. As you all know, Mass is very meaningful to him and I think he's still  deeply moved by the experience. I'm so glad this is something he can still connect with. 

I pray it will be with him always.