The first day

My first day of school was in early February 1982. At that time mum was 7 months pregnant with the twins and bed bound due to a gynaecological complication, and so Dad was my responsible adult. Dad and I navigated a few milestones together during that time. He had taken me and two of my friends to the circus for my birthday a few months before. Presumably three was the number of small children that was manageable for Dad at that time. During the recent process of packing up the family home, mum found a detailed drawing I did for her of that circus party. She’d kept it for 45 years

Dad was part of a movie club in those days, and liked to film or at least record important occasions. There’s a cassette tape somewhere of him asking me how I felt about my first day of school. “I feel joyful all over” was my enthusiastic reply. However, we never found any photos of me dressed in my school uniform, the type of image that every parent nowadays shares on social media at this important juncture. That step in the process must have been forgotten amongst everything else. I distinctly remember that I didn’t cry when we said goodbye, whereas another boy from down the road did cry. Mum told me recently that he cried a lot, that boy, but is now a successful executive or something. 

And so it felt important to me that I was there for Dad’s first day at 'the village'. Dad and I had come full circle. We’d been the two family members in Sydney during the pandemic, and during that time we had developed a comfortable relationship where the conflicts of yesteryear were behind us. We would share cups of tea on the verandah, discuss current affairs and do meditative walks around the block together. 

We visited 'the village' the day before Dad was due to move in officially, with the plan being that mum and I would set up his room with a few familiar things ahead of time. Just as we were getting out of the car, Dad asked if he could come with us. None of us could think of a reason why he shouldn’t, and so the three of us signed in, did a RAT test, and headed to the room. Dad was pleased to discover that his bathroom was quite close to his bed, and he didn’t particularly mind the view of the carpark. Having seen the place for himself, he was happy to go off with Jess while mum and I put clothes in the wardrobe, draped one of mum’s handmade quilts on the bed and placed a few photos and pictures up on the wall. 

The next day, which was the official moving-in day, was a bit more daunting and emotional. When I arrived at mum’s two bedroom townhouse where the two of them had been staying, Dad was sitting in an arm chair all dressed and ready to go. 

“How are you feeling about the move?” I asked. 

“I expect it will probably hit me soon enough,” he replied, not nearly as joyful as I had been all those years before. 

As Mum and Tom busied themselves with addressing some kind of bank issue, I suggested a walk and Dad happily agreed to do a circuit of the block. I accidentally took us down a cul-de-sac rather than around the block, but that didn’t really matter in the end, as it still took us a good half hour, and by the time we returned it was time to head off. Plus, Dad’s new 'village' had cul-de-sacs as well, so there was a nice synergy to it. 

One of the nice things about 'the village' is that each resident has a small glass cabinet outside their room, which can be filled with mementos or items that represent the person. Mum and I had put several Commonwealth Bank items including Dad’s old business cards on the middle shelf of his cabinet. On the top shelf were photos of Dad’s parents, Wilbur and Flo, and on the bottom shelf we’d just put a personalised mug decorated with photos of the family. The bottom shelf could be filled properly later. As Dad approached his new room on that first day, he glanced at the cabinet. 

“That’s my parents” he noted, and my eyes welled up with tears.

As we were standing around in Dad’s new room all reviewing the window mechanism, the capacity of the wardrobe and the proximity of the bathroom, I noticed that our small group had increased ever so slightly in size. One of Dad’s new housemates was amongst us, nodding along earnestly as we commented on the features of his new room. And there on her shoulder was my handbag. I have to admit that I panicked and completely forgot anything I had read about how to communicate with people living with dementia. 

“That’s my bag!” I exclaimed loudly. Hannah simply smiled warmly and shared a few thoughts in German. Luckily, one of the staff came to my rescue, and skilfully distracted Hannah by talking in soft tones about something else, then calmly suggested that since we were heading out soon, we’d be needing the handbag for now. Hannah graciously handed it over, and allowed herself to be steered back to the living room, still smiling warmly. 

During the first week, several doctors and nurses wanted to chat to Dad about various aspects of his health. It became clear that Dad was establishing himself as the kind of dementia patient who was easy to deal with, at least for the most part. One particular doctor had quite a long list of questions for Dad. He had dutifully walked up and down the length of his room with his walking stick and without it, given detail about his recent bowel movements, and answered the mental health questions with as much self-awareness as he could muster up. As the doctor and her assistant were leaving, Dad turned to us and said in a stage whisper “The other woman was very fat, wasn’t she?”

During the course of the day we also met some of the staff. It was during these interactions that the matter of the “extras” kept popping up. Mum had been sent several informational documents about “life at the village” and one had detailed the basic package, and then itemised the optional extras. We needed to decide whether we wanted all of the extras for an extra $31 per day, or just a few of them for the individual rates indicated. Extras ranged from household items like the King Single bed and smart TV with Wifi, to monthly outings, coffees in the café and a weekly ice cream. They didn’t do a very good job of promoting the outings, because on further enquiry it turned out that the location wasn’t revealed until just before, and residents didn’t actually leave the bus! Given that we intended to take Dad out from time to time and he’d be able to leave the car, we didn’t see the need to pay for additional outings. But Jess put forward a strong case for the weekly coffee club and ice creams, though. 

“You don’t want Dad being the only person not allowed to have ice cream, do you?” she implored, and mum begrudgingly relented. When Mum asked about what would happen if we chose not to go with the King Single bed, Lucy, the intake coordinator, thought for a moment and then said that this had never come up before. 

“I mean, the bed is already there in the room”, Mum said, exasperated, and Lucy said she’d have to get back to us on that. 

“The outings and the King Single beds are what makes the village the village” Lucy assured us. 

“Then why aren’t they part of the basic package?” I thought, but just glared at her instead. 

“What a lovely smile you have” mum exclaimed to one of Dad’s housemates when we arrived with Dad. I think Sue was a bit taken aback by such attention from a stranger, but responded enthusiastically. Later on, I asked Sue if she was going to the afternoon activities being held in the community centre. 

“Oh, we just don’t have time for all these activities, dear” she gushed “we’re terribly busy as it is, what with all our blah de blah blahs and our wooty woots”. Sue’s explanation then segued into a stream of gibberish, accompanied by flamboyant hand gestures and interspersed with the sorts of phrases that normally punctuate an animated conversation between friends such as “it’s just outrageous” and “she’s got no idea” and “darling, what lovely skin you have!”. When Sue’s friend visited, we learnt that she had been involved in the theatre in her younger years. 

I asked Dad a few days later how he was going with his housemates. 

“I just ignore them” Dad told me, and sure enough when Sue tried to engage him in seemingly nonsensical conversation he just turned away. When she approached him with a more pointed question, he replied quite firmly with “I’m sorry, I don’t understand”. She eventually gave up. 

“Just go along with it, John” urged mum, exasperated, from the other end of the dining table. 

“Will I end up like that?” Dad asked me during a subsequent walk around the village. 

“Well”, I reflected, “you’ll probably have your own particular quirks and eccentricities.” And Dad seemed okay with that. 

Dad’s first day happened to be 'Coffee club' day, and so we all headed over to the café to join in the fun. The café is in the centre of the 'village', a 2 minute walk (at Dad's pace) from his house, and is right near the hair salon and the community centre. Jason, the barista, knows all of the residents by name, and, more importantly, their coffee orders. Residents gradually arrived, some accompanied by staff, some with visitors, and some wandered in with other residents. Several staff were there greeting residents and assisting people to find a spot to sit. The atmosphere was warm, up-beat, and everyone seemed happy. This, I thought, is what makes the village the village. Not the size of the beds or the stupid, boring bus outings. 

By 4pm, the coffee club was wrapping up, and residents were heading back to their houses. Tom’s family had joined us and then gone home and the rest of us were pretty tired. I offered to stay with Dad so that Jess and Mum could go home and rest. He and I sat in relatively companionable silence at his dining table for a while, before I suggested a walk. I’ve realised that a walk is a good way to distract both of us from any feelings of frustration or sadness. So we made our way around the four cul-de-sacs of the 'village' and were back in plenty of time for dinner. Dad elected to eat his dinner in his room that first evening, and, since we had set up the TV and Netflix earlier in the day, we turned the TV on and settled (he in his armchair and me on the edge of his bed) into an episode of 'Long Lost Families'. Dad quite likes this show, as my older brother Andrew, who was adopted out at birth, is frequently at the forefront of Dad’s mind. 

Long Lost Families finished and we were well into Antiques Roadshow when Dad’s dinner arrived. Once he had eaten, I thought it was probably time for me to say goodbye. 

“Thank you for staying with me” Dad said quietly, and I felt an enormous surge of grief, guilt and angst. I wondered if he’d be okay on his own during his first night, and whether he was going to be happy there longer term. What must have been going through his mind as he climbed into his new bed (a King Single, don't forget) for the first time? 

Saying goodbye on the first day of kindy is always hardest on the parents, people have said. Having never had children of my own, I only had this day with Dad to compare with my own first day of school. As I did the sign out process at reception and organised my transport back to mum’s, the tears began to fall. But by the time my ride arrived, I’d pulled myself together. After all, I had to be brave for mum, who again was waiting for me back at home, but not bed bound this time at least. And I wondered how Dad had felt after saying goodbye at the kindergarten classroom all those years before.