Taking both of my children to visit their grandfather

I took both of my children to visit my dad.

It was the first time I’d taken my daughter, who is eight, to the care home. I took my son, who is six, to visit him for the first time just before Christmas (you can read about that here), and I’d realised then that it was OK: that he could handle it, that he wasn’t upset by the changes in his grandfather. Changes that, I realised, were much more apparent to me, because I carry memories of my dad from before there were any signs at all of dementia.

I needed to take them both because my partner was busy, and it had been too long (as usual) since I’d managed to get to the care home. But I also felt, after visiting with my son last time, that it was important to try to get my daughter to go.

She wasn’t keen — she’s always said she didn’t want to go — but I explained that I needed to visit and couldn’t leave her alone. I also said she might find it different from how she imagined. I don’t want her to regret not visiting her grandfather when he’s gone.

As with my son, I explained a bit about what the care home is like, and what her Opa, as they call him, is like now.

When we arrived and signed in, we went up in the lift. My kids squabbled, as usual, over who got to press the buttons, but eventually settled on one of them calling the lift and the other pressing the button once inside. I always stop by my dad’s room first, as it’s just by the lift, although he’s usually in the lounge. The room was empty, clean, with a window open to air it out — something I always appreciate.

We walked down the hallway to the lounge but found the lights off and the room completely empty. I’d never seen it like that, with nobody in it, and I had a moment of horror: my chest tightened. Where was my dad? It tapped into some childhood fear, or a memory from a film — a child running to find his grandfather, finding the house empty, the bed empty, and realising he was dead.

I tried to stay calm for my children as I wondered aloud where everyone was. We went back into the corridor, where there was a woman who always wanders around. I’ve never seen her sitting still with the others — she’s always on the move. Her restlessness always speaks to me in that care home, where everything feels so enclosed. I asked her if she knew where everyone was, but she couldn’t answer. I smiled at her, and she smiled at the children and pulled a funny face to make them smile.

We went back down in the lift to reception, where I was told they were using another room as a lounge because work was being done. I needed to turn left, not right, when I came out of the lift. It struck me then how unfamiliar the geography of this place — where my dad lives — still is to me. I barely know my way around. I always feel like I’m almost trespassing, popping in to see him wherever he is, trying not to encroach too much on everyone’s routine — the nurses’, the residents’.

We went back upstairs and found him watching TV in a smaller, darker room than the usual lounge. We wheeled him back to his room, where we could chat more easily. The residents were delighted to see two children — smiling at them, waving, telling me how cute they were — while my kids waved shyly back and said hello. It was really a lovely thing to see.

In my dad’s room, I told him a bit about what we’d been doing recently, prompting the kids to join in, and we showed him some pictures. He seemed really pleased to see them, and I had the feeling that he recognised them — or maybe it was simply that there aren’t many children around in a care home.

It’s interesting to watch them talk to him, because he doesn’t react like other adults they speak to. He doesn’t ask them questions, but he smiles. Although I felt my daughter was a little taken aback by some of his reactions, it didn’t seem to matter too much.

We’d watched The Sound of Music the weekend before, so we played each of their favourite songs from it on my tinny phone and they sang along. My dad smiled and seemed to really enjoy it, laughing with us as my son did a silly dance.

Eventually I could feel them getting restless, on the edge of telling me they were bored, so we wheeled my dad back to the lounge to watch TV, gave him hugs, and said goodbye to everyone.

When I asked my daughter how it was, she said it was fine. When I asked if she thought he was different, she said “a little bit”, and that his mouth was open all the time. He does let it hang open now, in a way he never used to — something I’d noticed too — and I said, yes, he does, doesn’t he.

So if you’re wondering what young children will make of advanced dementia, I would say: give it a go. You’ll also be bringing a lot of joy into a space where not enough young people — or, sometimes, any people at all — go.