Every night before leaving Dad, I move in close and say, “Arlabunakti” (Good night). Initially, when I started these nighttime visits, I was amazed to hear Dad reply “Arlabunakti” back to me. But you know how things go: new becomes normal.

Then, one night, Dad surprised me with a next-level followup. “Kā ar buču?” (What about a kiss?), he asked in perfect Latvian.

I was flabbergasted! Not only was Dad getting into the nighttime routine, but he also seemed to know what words followed and could sometimes deliver without prompting.

A month of nights

It’s been a month since I decided to respond to alarms about Dad’s evening unruliness by attending his retirement residence at bedtime. “My plan is to help Dad in the evenings as long as possible,” I wrote in my February 27 notes.

I admit I had no idea what it would entail. I had never tried to dress or undress an older person, not to mention someone with dementia. I wasn’t sure if my instinct that Dad needed more care and love, not medication, was right. And a few doubters advised me that my plan was unsustainable and made me wonder whether giving up before starting might be the smarter move.

Is it some inner perception that made me do it? Faith? A human need to love and protect? An innate understanding that I could be Dad in a few years?

Moments of change

My evening visits have been eye and heart openers. I’ve learned so much about Dad and dementia, not to mention the reality of seniors living with cognitive impairment. Some caregivers lead with compassion, and others work by the clock.

Dementia care expert Teepa Snow has developed a model that suggests everyone living with dementia is in a gem state. “It’s not about the loss,” says Snow. “It’s always about what they have left.”

Like the endless days at the cottage during the Covid pandemic that helped me appreciate moment-to-moment changes in the weather, these evening visits with Dad illustrate how 6:30 PM is always the beginning of a new act.

One night, we spend 25 minutes reading Latvian newspaper headlines. On other nights, I arrive to find a disengaged Dad talking up a word-storm and barely able to calm down by the time I have to leave. Last Sunday, our greeting hug led to leisurely chatting, ending with Dad falling asleep. You never know.

Bedtime means bedtime

Although Dad may resist getting into his pyjamas, there hasn’t been a single evening that he hasn’t willingly climbed into bed and slid under the covers.

I place my red speaker on the pillow next to Dad’s ear. Sometimes, he keeps talking, but on Monday and Tuesday he just listened. Sometimes, Dad folds his hands across his chest, and sometimes, he holds a finger on his temple or strokes my cheek.

I change nightly, too. I might arrive stressed after a long day at the computer or worried about how the night will go. But after spending time together in the dim light listening to calming Latvian songs, I start to settle, too.

This is our evening meditation. We’re closing out the day as we did when I was a little girl. But now I sing “Aijā žūžu” to Dad, not the other way around.

Robert Munsch got it right. I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.