Dad and his new friends

Dad has new friends. He doesn’t remember their names and probably never asked them. They share a table during all three meals. Sometimes they don’t say anything to each other. Other times, fragments of conversations or gestures are the extent of their interaction.

Still, I call Neil, Walter and Ira Dad’s friends.

Neil: The one with thick, white hair who loves plaid. And he’s a big flirt.

Walter: The quietest of the bunch. When he does talk, he speaks softly and likes asking questions or talking about the old days.

Ira: Has a sweet smile and a pleasant demeanor. Wears an oxygen tube but you hardly notice it. “I’m not old,” reads one of his t-shirts.

During a recent visit, my dad noticed Walter hadn’t finished his ham and cheese sandwich. He pointed at it and then asked him – in Spanish — if he no longer wanted it. The problem is Walter doesn’t understand Spanish. None of them do. But my dad insisted on speaking to them in his native tongue. I tried to explain to him the problem, but he didn’t seem to grasp what I was saying.

It’s likely that my dad is developing dementia. Almost one fifth of stroke victims experience some mental decline, called vascular dementia, according to the National Stroke Association.

It shouldn’t be surprising then that my dad’s starting to show problems with language, either forgetting how to say things in English or not realizing what he’s doing.

Still, it caught me off guard the first time. When he did it at the nursing home dining table, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Sometimes, you have to find the humor in these situations. His new companions didn’t seem to mind.

“I know a little Spanish,” Neil told me. “Probably not enough to carry on a conversation.”

As I often do during my visits, I scribbled a few notes in my notepad.

“Oh, you’re a lefty,” Neil said.

“Quería uno izquierdo para pitcher,” Dad chimed in (okay, so maybe that’s Spanglish).

Translation: “I wanted a child who was left-handed so that child could grow up and become a pitcher.”

I explained to Neil and he nodded. I imagine many dads who love baseball can relate.

After he was done eating, Ira said goodbye and tried to maneuver his wheelchair around the dining room. My dad noticed he was having trouble and asked me to help him. So I guided Ira between two tables and let him continue on his own. Dad, however, insisted I take Ira back to his room.

Maybe the language mix-up isn’t such a big deal. Maybe just sharing meals, nodding, gesturing and the occasional exchanges – regardless of what language – is enough to form a bond.