Applause

I am writing to you from Edmonton. My Canadian hometown.

I came here for a two week visit for several reasons, the foremost of which was to spend time with my father. (I have written about him before in this space.)

Dad has Alzheimer's disease.

Dad no longer recognizes me, has lost his ability to communicate, and passes his day strapped into a fancy wheelchair.

Sitting there.

Sometimes babbling incoherently.

And at other times clapping his hands compulsively. His caregivers put mitts on his hands to muffle the sound.

The clapping is unsettling.

"Why does he do that?" "Can't you get him to stop?" "Will some kind of drug abate that annoying tendency?"

"No there is nothing you can do, he wants to clap," came the polite reply. Or something to that effect. (I've asked more than once, to more than one attendant, nurse, and/or doctor.)

[Groan]

Oh well, I guess I'll just have to tolerate it.

And then, a few days ago on this trip I came up with another explanation.

You see, Dad has always been supportive of everything I've ever tried in my life.

He's been my biggest booster. Unconditionally. (This is saying a lot considering some of my goofy ideas through the years.)

And usually in a quiet, unspoken way.

So the way I choose to see it, is that he -- if I may dare say -- is clapping for . . . me.

He can no longer express himself verbally, so this is his own way of expressing his satisfaction for the work I am trying to do in some faraway place.

A joyous insight. And this alone has made this short, little visit a treasure.

Thanks, Dad. You have found a way to reenergize the pursuit of my dream.

Now excuse me, dear reader. I can hear someone clapping.