Kissing Goodnight in the Nursing Home

Last night I visited Romeo around his bedtime. I enjoy visiting him at that time of day. He's had dinner, he's been tucked into bed wearing clean pajamas, he's smiling, he's pleasantly tired, quiet, peaceful. It's as sweet as putting a baby to bed.

I moved a chair close to him, adjusted the hat he wore to bed to help him stay warm through the night, held his hand. He smiled, eyes closed. We stayed like that, silent, for nearly 30 minutes.

I thought how the dementia continued to change him. Day or evening, sitting up or lying down, his eyes were often closed. He might request a piece of chocolate. I'd open it and hand it to him. He'd try to take it from me, but his hand would reach, his fingers would open and close, not finding the chocolate. "Romeo, open your eyes," I'd say. When he did, he would inevitably find the chocolate. Romeo, open your eyes. I had to prompt him to open his eyes.

"I'd like to go to sleep now," he said.

I rose, moved my chair to the side, positioned the floor mat that would soften the blow if he were to fall out of bed during the night, and leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. He reached his hand out, grabbed something only he saw in the air, moved his hands to his lips, and kissed his own hand. He thought it was my hand he was kissing. I let him think that, reached out and patted his hand. He closed his eyes, still smiling.

I silently left the room, thinking to myself once again about the many faces of dementia, grateful that at least Romeo's gentle spirit is still present.