Snapshots of Dementia: Trumpets and Touchdowns

Posted by Marti on September 23, 2022 in Dementia | 16 comments

by Andrew Pieper

The Ohio State fight song rang out across the soccer field as hundreds of band members marched in unison, performing the iconic Script Ohio a mere fifteen feet in front of my dad, who sat on his walker, smiling and tapping his hand to the beat.

Dementia has stolen many things from him: walking without pain, remembering what we were going to do that day despite having the conversation several times before, even constructing sentences at times now proved difficult for one of the most intelligent and humorous human beings I’ve had the privilege to know. Indeed, the list of things that are different with my dad is much longer than the things that have stayed the same over the span of the past few years.  

However, one of the things on that short list is music. He hasn’t lost a beat, literally. His doctors told us music will probably be one of the things he keeps the longest, simply because it’s been such an integral part of his life for so many decades.  

Upon hearing this news a year ago, I decided to buy a trumpet and take up playing again after giving it up in middle school, and we’ve been able to practice and talk music together. It’s really something to see how often on my weekly video chats with my parents, my dad is quiet and disengaged, but if I start talking about music, he instantly comes back. One time, I was describing a song, “So it goes A, A, B, C . . .” and without having any music in front of him, he corrected me right away, saying “Oh, that B is a B flat.” He just knew because it’s part of who he is, just like tapping his hand to the beat of the band. It wasn’t something conscious; it’s just part of him.  

We had driven over 500 miles across five states for this: to see the pride of the Buckeyes, the Ohio State University Marching Band, practice and then perform in a primetime game on a clear Saturday evening. (My mom is the Ohio State graduate, but Dad and I have become equally big fans.) I had emailed earlier in the week with Christopher Hoch, the band director, asking him what I should do to provide my dad with the best music experience possible. He was very gracious, telling me the time and place where they practiced and what to expect on game day.  

It wasn’t the easiest trip. From constantly reminding Dad what time we were doing things to changing out pain patches on his back, I devoted my full-time attention to making sure he had everything he needed to be safe and comfortable. Despite parking as close to the stadium as possible and arriving several hours prior to kickoff to beat the hundred thousand-plus fans coming to the game, it was still a long walk to the stadium. But I’ve found worthwhile things rarely come easily. 

As the band practiced in front of us and I walked around taking photos and recording video, I was having a hard time getting a clear picture. It wasn’t my camera or the lens; that image was crystal-clear. The vision problem was with me as tears of happiness welled up in my eyes. I was overwhelmed that Dad and I were able to share this moment.

Being the only boy in the middle of four girls, I’ve always shared a special bond with my dad. Those who know me know I’m not one to sit on the sidelines of life. I’m constantly searching for the next adventure that God has for me, and I want to include my dad in as much of it as I can—while I still can.  

We made it to our seats just as the band was performing the national anthem with the sun setting behind us. I had chosen our seats at midfield on the Ohio State side for the best view of the band’s performance. We watched Ohio State kick off to the roar of the 105,000-plus fans to the Toledo Rockets, which I’ve been told is some other football team also in Ohio. It wasn’t long before Ohio State scored a touchdown, and the band played the fight song as the football sailed through the uprights for the extra point. It would not be the last; our favorite team would go on to score ten more touchdowns. 

But as amazing as some of the athletic plays were, my dad had come for the band’s halftime show. Normally the band consists of 228 musicians who compete for spots on that team just as fiercely as athletes compete for spots on many schools’ football teams, but this was Alumni Day, and the band totaled over 600 members. At every game, the band performs Script Ohio, marching from one giant “O” and spelling out Ohio in cursive, closing with the dotting of the “i” by a specially selected senior band member. The band performed four Script Ohios at the same time, one facing each side of the Horseshoe. “Our honor defend, we will fight to the end for O-HI-O!” the band members shouted at the fight song’s conclusion, as Dad and I joined in the applause.  

After the show ended and the third quarter was underway, we decided to leave. The stadium is very steep, and my dad had some difficulty in walking to and from his seat, but God blessed us with an entire row of helpful and supportive fellow fans. They made sure Dad was able to get in and out safely, and one of them was nice enough to take our picture before we left.

As we waited for a wheelchair escort to eliminate the walk back to the entrance, my dad showed another flash of his old self, striking up a conversation with one of the beer vendors. Learning that it was her birthday, he broke out into a very enthusiastic version of “Happy Birthday,” much to her delight. Shortly afterward, a young man with a wheelchair arrived to take us back to the entrance. Although Dad had to stop regularly to rest, we made it back to the car before the majority of traffic and checked into our hotel around midnight—a very long but memorable day. 

The next morning, we slept in some, as you might expect, and after breakfast, hit the road back to South Carolina, 512 miles away. We finished a Jack Ryan audio book, listened to some more music, and made the drive almost straight through. The following day, before I headed back down to Florida, my dad and I shared an extra-long hug goodbye.  

“I want to thank you for giving me one of the best days of my life,” he said, with tears rolling down his cheeks.  

“It was one of the best days of mine too,” I told him, my face equally drenched. 

Even before I left, Dad was already talking about how he couldn’t wait to go again next year. With something as cruel and uncertain as dementia, I have no idea what will be possible in 12 weeks’ time, much less 12 months’. But one thing I know is that God is faithful, and He’s not scared about what the future holds for anyone in my family because He has a plan for us.  

My dad is my hero, and it was so incredible getting to be his for one amazing day.  

Postscript from Marti: I don’t know that I would have been brave enough to do what Andrew did, but I am very grateful for this gift of time and music shared with his dad. Go Bucks!

If you or someone you know is living with dementia, what special memories have you made with them? Feel free to share your comments on social media or in the comment section below. Our story matters, and so does yours.