My iPhone rings, and Dad’s face lights up the screen.

“Please talk to your father,” says the personal support worker.

I try to ask what and why, but the PSW interjects. 

“Just talk to him,” she says firmly.

*

I’ve received calls like this several times over the past few months. Dad doesn’t know how to use the phone anymore. But his PSW understands that, at times, a particular voice, language, or word is just what Dad needs.

“You’re speaking to Māra,” I say, deliberately, in Latvian.

Dad doesn’t respond. His words come fast and frantic, like ping pong balls of various sizes. For the moment, it’s all English, as if he’s forgotten his native tongue. But the PSW has often told me how she pretends to understand what Dad’s saying when it’s all in Latvian. I feel language might be the key here.

“Es tevi mīlu, tēti,” I say. I love you.

Dad doesn’t stop. He goes on about comings and goings. He reads out random lines from a magazine. I catch words and phrases that might lead to deeper understanding. But on this Saturday, a week before Christmas, I remind myself that that’s not it.

“Es tevi ļoti, ļoti mīlu,” I repeat slowly, enunciating every word.

Dad starts switching to Latvian. The PSW’s voice is no longer audible in the background. Dad slows down.

“Es tevi mīlu,” I say again.

“Es gribu to,” says Dad. That’s what I want. And he starts to cry.

*

When we’ve passed through this brief, heartfelt moment, as we have so many times of late, the conversation lightens.

I no longer worry that I can’t follow along. Now we’re on a river that goes where it flows. 

Nonetheless, as I write, I have a sublime understanding about what might occur when staff don’t understand what Dad’s saying.

They lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. They say, “There, there, Voldemārs.” But they can’t take him home.

*

On Monday, Dad came over to help decorate our Christmas tree. We drank eggnog, listened to Latvian Christmas carols, and caught ornaments just before they dropped to the floor.

Out of the blue, Dad asked, “My mother – is she still alive?”

Time stopped. Or rather, time past became time present. My daughter provided a beautiful response. Dad seemed satisfied.

Being in the moment is such a loaded concept when memory loss is concerned. 

*

Dad and I weren’t on the phone for long.

“Es tevi mīlu,” I said once more before signing off.

“I know, I know,” he replied in Latvian. “It’s just that sometimes I become stupid and forget.”

Even in the deepest wilds of dementia, my psychiatrist father was able to provide an explanation. For me, that was just icing on the cake.