The race announcer

Dads description of mom walking back to house from checking the mail.
Like a race announcer.

Oh, here comes somebody.
They're coming this way.

Looks like the bossy kind.

Now they're down that.....hill.
Making their way around that!

Yep, that's a boss.
Definitely.

Rounding the corner!
Coming up the thing there.
And there! Right here they are!

Well, it's Shirley!

He's been busy

A melted ice cream cone in a glass in the cupboard.
A half peeled orange in a pot.
The tv remote under the dog bed.
A framed picture between blankets in the linen closet.
My computer mouse on the closet shelf.
The garmin rolled in his sock in a dresser drawer.
His shoes behind the couch.
A granola bar in the produce drawer of the refrigerator.

Still can't find his old phone.

Awe yes, dad has been busy.

Bedtime

I put toothpaste on his brush.
Hand it to him, brush your teeth, dad.

He rinses it out and tries to put it away.
I do it again.
Put it to his mouth.
He stares at it, then me.
I make a motion like I am brushing my teeth.
Here, this is yours, handing it to me.
It's yours dad, brush your teeth, like this.
I act it out again.
He brushes his teeth.

Wanders back to his chair.
Stares at the cartoon.
Checks the freezer for icecream.
Talks to the tv.
Walks into the open bedrooms.
Talks to the shadows.
Opens a package of crackers.
Leaves them in a coffee mug.
Goes back to his chair.

We wait for him to be ready to sleep,
so mom can finally sleep.

His side of the conversation

I was checking your knees and back and it seems to be working alright

Once we all jump out of the airplane, we’ll know where we’re going.

I’ll stay in the barn

I don’t know, maybe this year, but there are a lot of pictures in there from this year, it’ll be interesting.

I did a couple bear hunts with my dad last time I was out that way

Doing things that need to be done and put in and not break stuff and everyone found stuff to do and not run away, but I’m wondering how you’re doing, if you’re moving ok

So tomorrow it’s mostly walking, and who are you dancing with? As long as you have water and food

I don’t play like a ca….canilly. I’m just exasperating.

And for damn shake don’t think you need pigs looking at a hole unless you’re someone else.

Do you need some card or letter to show right here, these things it’s just a thought.

 

Dads old notes to himself

Friday the 3rd.
Shirl is working way to hard.
I must get smarter.
I will get better.

Sat 4th
We- I need to get myself Together.

I do love her dearly.
NEED to get my Head working.

Thurs. 9th
Am headed to Medford for testing.
Could use some help here.

Not much I can do.
Pray that God makes the time
for Shirl and the kids.
Amen!!!

Please God and Thank u
for all your help.

Wed 29th
Thank you God
and you Shirley
and the kids.

We were going to

We were supposed to have more time.

We were going to buy a house, big enough,
and move them both in with us,
and hire in-home care
so he could live with us,
his family,
instead of giving him away.

They were going ot live with us.

He was going to live with us.

With in-home care.
With his family.

We were supposed to have more time.

 

But I'm not ready yet

Why does everyone say six months?

She pushes back her untrimmed hair.

He’s not that bad and it’s still manageable.

I’m not ready for him to go.

She cups her face.

I know why you’re not ready,

and I know why they say six months,
and you need to be ready.

But I’m not ready yet.

Pause.

I need to get ready,
don’t I?

Marathon

Hey ma. What did you guys do today?

Well, I planted that little Japanese Maple and

I also put about 10 of those hedges in.
And dad kept moving my plants around and
taking my water.
He kept taking my water.

So I had him rake leaves

and there still not raked
because he was trying to move my plants around.

It sounds like you ran a marathon.

You’re breathing awfully hard.

I feel like I ran a marathon.

Without any darn water!

 

Someday

Someday,

I will see my dad
whole.

Complete and glorious

like he was created
to be.

Not broken or

wounded.  
Pieces missing.

He will shine in love.

He will laugh in joy.
He will sing praise
to the One who
made him whole.

Someday,

I will see this.

1 Peter 1:6

How did i choose

How do you choose

where to send your dad
for someone else to care for?

Maybe the nice outside space

will distract him
from being left
with strangers.

He’ll like his cozy room layout?

That isn’t his room
in his house
with his family?

The people are kind?

Here’s my dad.
We can’t care for him
so we’re leaving him
with you,
nice strangers.

Yes.

I suppose, that
is how I chose.

My dream

Dad sat at a picnic table
on a green lawn
with a familiar, large, kind lady.

I watched him through the fence
ready to leave.

His head was down.
He was smiling, his old smile.
Laughing with squinting eyes.
He adjusted his glasses
with middle finger and thumb
hand stretched out.

He was my dad again.
The one in my pictures.
The one in my memory.

I tried to get through the fence.
To call to him.
He didn't see me. Didn't hear me.

I couldn't quite reach him.
I couldn't get to him.
I just wanted to
see him again.

You'll lose them both

Do you notice your mom is kinda spacey lately?

I don't want to answer, but
Yes.

From all the time she spends with your dad?
Always living in that world.
She can't ever get away from the hallucinations.

Pause.
Yes.

Do you think she's slipping into that world?
She won't ever decide it's time.
You will have to decide for her.
You will have to send him to the facility.
Before you lose her too.
Before you lose them both to this.

I know.

I know what we're doing

Dad, you know how you get confused sometimes.
Mom can help you pay the bills and
make some of the decisions
so it's easier on you.
She needs you to sign a paper
so she can do those things for you.

I know what we're doing.
He looks out the window.

You do?

Yes. I know what this is.
And I will do it.

Out the window.
All the things he must be looking for out there.

What it is like for him

I wonder what it is like for him

To not know your children
To call your daughter, son
That your in your own house
That you have a new grandson
To not know how to use the stove
Or turn on the television
To not know you are talking nonsense
Who cannot use money
Does not know how to drive

I wonder what he would think
if he could see himself now
Holding his head, looking for words
Looking for memories
Looking for himself

I wonder what it is like for him
I wonder if I am doing my best for him

Satellite phone

I call out of the wilderness on the satellite phone.
I have only a few minute window.

Mom gives the phone to dad.

Shana, I'm not crazy but I'm in this place
and I can't get out and....

Dad, listen to mom
She will help you
I will help you...

And I'm trying to save us all....

Phone jostles

Okay, dad is not on the phone anymore.
It's been one of those days.
She tries not to cry.
She fails.

My phone won't last, mom.
Please call Jason. Have him talk to dad.
Are you okay?

I'm alone in the wilderness
my mom is crying
and I cannot help her.

You saw the baby

Hey dad, did you see the new baby today?

So do you think I should wait here for you to call me?

Dad, you went to the hospital today and saw the new baby.

Yeah, we did that, okay, on the way to see you.

You went to the hospital and saw the new baby.

You got to hold the new baby.
That’s your new grandson, dad.

Okay, so…..i think we did that with a bunch of them today.

Yep. You saw your grandson today. You got to hold him.

It must have been pretty cool to see that baby today.

So what do you want me to do now? You want to talk to them?

I just thought it was so cool you got to see the baby today.

You saw your grandson today, dad.

Yeah, okay. Do you want to talk them now?

 

I didn't do nothing

I didn't do nothing to you.
Face distorted, pleading.

Why are you treating me like this?
I don't deserve this.
Hunched. Panicked.

I never hurt you. I didn't do anything bad.

You're my daughter, why are you doing this to me?
I thought you were my friend.
He is starting to cry. Desperate fear.

I don't understand. I don't deserve this.
Please don't do this to me.
His eyes, I do not recognize.
Lonely panic, he grabs at his head.

Why are you doing this?

Cry

My soul hurts
Panicked, loneliness, desperation

Part of me is missing
I am no longer whole
Not all the way me, anymore

I see them standing in front of me
Like they were
I am whole in an imaginary moment
And then they're gone

My insides hurt

Her breakdown

I watched my mom breakdown
On a walk, in the sun, with the dogs.

I watched 43 years of holding
our lives together
jostle in her hands and slip
to the ground.

In broken speech
between fragmented cries
the pieces jumbled
slippery with tears
of broken dreams
and broken lives
She could hold them no more
and 43 years of pieces fell.

Into the dirt of the old fire road
43 years of held together pieces.

Hotel hallway

Honey, don’t go out there without your pants.

Well, because people don’t like that.
You need to put your pants on.
Here, I’ll hold your ice cream while you get some pants.
Here, I’ll hold this, you go get your pants.

Hidden places

Someday, when we sort through the house,
we'll find all the things he's hidden.

We'll find his phone.
We'll find his razor.
We'll find his photo wallet.
We'll find hidden batteries.
We'll find hidden pens.

We'll find his memory in hidden places,
and we will remember him.

And we will wish we could have
found him,
instead of his things.

Grabbing things

On the phone with mom, talking her through her new camera.

Can I put the card back in the slot now?

Yes, put the SD card back now.

Okay. Hey, where's the batteries? Honey, did you take the batteries?

I can't believe it. I put it down for a second. They're gone.

Honey, did you see some batteries?

He's so fast at grabbing things.
Oh, they're just gone.
I'll find em someday, I guess.

I will never talk to my dad again

I will never talk to my dad again.

He will never know what is happening in my life.
He will never know how I am doing.
He will never know what I am doing.
He will never know where I am.
He will never know how sad I am.
He will never know I miss him.

I will never talk to my dad again.

I will watch him die a little bit each day.
I will turn the tv on for him.
I will put toothpaste on his toothbrush for him.
I will remind him to go to the bathroom.
I will get his hat for him.
I will watch cartoons with him.
I will dial the phone for him.
I will start the shower for him.
I will watch him die a little bit each day.
I will never talk to my dad again.

Look for your phone

I called mom tonight. They are driving over here to visit tomorrow.

He follows me around and I tell him to help me look for his phone and he doesn’t do it. He doesn’t even try. Then I tell him I’m talking on the phone and to take the dog inside and he tells me he is, but he isn’t. He’s just following me around…I’m talking to Shana, take the dog inside….and there, he’s not doing it.

Mom.

He just isn’t even listening.

Mom.

And I keep telling him.

Mom. The words don’t mean anything to him. He can’t look for his phone. He can’t put the dog inside. He doesn’t know what the words mean. And mom, he follows you around because you are the only thing he recognizes. You are the only thing he recognizes.

I’m just trying to talk to him so he can help me.

You will never talk to him again. Not like you remember him. You will never talk to him, the him you remember, again. He’s gone, mom.

So I never talk anymore? It’s all meaningless?

No. You talk. And you will have a happy moment, or an unhappy moment, it’s up to you. Your talking now is just a happy moment. Not meaningless, not coherent though, just happy or not. It’s up to you.

 

Take pictures

Hey ma, do you have the camera I gave you?

Yep, I brought it.

Remember to take lots of pictures of dad with the baby.

I will.

It’s important.

Jim will want pictures of his son with dad.
He will want to show his son who his grandpa was.
Someday, that child will want that picture.

Make sure to take lots of pictures for him.

So those boys can remember him.

Take lots of pictures of him.

So people can remember him.

 

My mom's retirement

Your dad worked so much.

When he changed jobs I thought he would work less.
I thought he would come home at a decent hour.
But he worked more.
And I had retired by then.
And I was just here, in this house, alone.
And he kept working longer hours.
And I was just here.
I thought that when he retired we would finally get to be together.
I thought we would travel.
I thought it would all be worth it.
So I waited. Alone……

And then this.

This is our retirement?
This is what I was waiting for?
After all that time, waiting for him…..

I’m still alone.

Velcro

Shoe shopping. Not much time left before dad melts down.

What about these ones?

Go ahead and try them on, see if you like them.

Okay.

Do they feel alright?

Yes. I like these.

Okay, let's get these.

Should we get two pair so we have another when these wear out? Mom asks.
No.
Why?
When these run out he might not be able to tie shoes anymore.
You mean Velcro shoes?
Yes. He’ll need Velcro.

My dad will need Velcro, like a child does.

My dad won’t remember how to tie his shoes.
My mom’s husband will need Velcro, like a child does.
My mom’s husband won’t remember how to tie his shoes.

Shana's on the phone

Say hello. It’s Shana. Hold this and say hello.

Dad?

Hold onto this and say hello. Shana wants to say hi.
This, right here. Yep. Shana wants to talk to you.
Say hello.

Dad?

No, right here. Okay, not talk to Shana.

Dad?

Hello? Hello?

Hi dad.

Oh! Hi there!

He will say hi

Dad will say hi to anyone, everyone, anywhere, anytime, without warning, as he would to a best friend, with sincerity and interest and honesty.

He will try to push a cart for an old lady because she looks like she needs help.

He will call an old man, dad, and shake his hand and thank him for his service.
He will mimic strangers’ babies until they laugh and then they will both laugh.
He will check in with unknown teens to make sure they are okay.

He does not understand their uncomfortable looks of confusion.

He does not understand their mistrust and annoyance.
He does not know why strangers think he should not do these things.
He does not know why others do not do these things.

Again, I wonder, which of us is actually lost.

I buckled his seat belt for him

Today, I had to buckle my dad’s seatbelt for him. I tried to tell him how. Then I got out of the car, went to his side, opened the door,  pulled the seatbelt across him, and buckled it. My dad couldn’t buckle his own seatbelt today.

My mom watched me, buckle my dad’s seatbelt for him. Because it was too much for him. Watched her daughter buckle her husband’s seatbelt, because today, he didn’t know how.

What was it like to watch your child perform such a simple act that today, was too much for her husband? What was is like to know that today, he couldn’t reach over his shoulder, grab the buckle, pull it across himself and click it secure?

It’s because I don’t want it to be true. She had told me one time. I ask him to do things because I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want him to not be able to do things.

Buckle your seatbelt, dad. I want him to be able to do this. Today he cannot. I don’t want him to not be able to do this.

 

I get it mom. I get it.

I tried it

Remember how the remote has been missing for a week now?

Yes.

So I tried your trick. I said, honey, where would you put the tv remote if you were going to keep it safe?

And he wandered around the house for awhile and then he comes to me and do you know what he had in his hands?

No!

Yes. The remote! I have no idea where it was.

Ask him where he would hide his phone!

And his shaving bag!

 

Do you think he can do that?

He asked if he could help and I said he could get his stuff out of the front seat. He goes to the driver side and I say, no, your stuff is in the passenger seat. Then he opens the back door and I pointed to the passenger door and said, that door. Open that door and get your stuff out and…..

Mom.

…..he still tried to open my door…..
Mom.
…..and he wouldn’t listen to what I was saying…..
Mom.

What?

Do you think you can tell him to open the passenger door and get his things and he can do that?

Well, yes, I guess I do.

He can’t do that.

Anymore.

I watch her break in half.

He can’t open the passenger door and get his things. He doesn’t know what the passenger door is. He doesn’t know which things are his.

I watch loneliness fill up the cracks in what was once a whole person.

It isn’t that he doesn’t listen to you. It’s that the words don’t mean anything anymore. He can’t hear you, mom.

I watch hope disappear. Like the last lingering fingers of a fog, dissipating into the day, I watch hope disappear.

 

Garbage day

Put the can down, and pull it.

Dad is carrying the garbage can.

Put it down, and pull it. Don’t carry it.

Frustration.

His eyes are confused. His face is contorted, trying to understand.

He carries the garbage can.

Put it down and pull it!

Hopeless.

He tries to make words that don’t come out right.

He stops, garbage can heavy in his arms.
He looks to her for an answer.
He looks to her.
He looks to her.

You have to put the can down and pull it!

Tired. Crushed. Hurt. Again.

Mom.

He has to listen to me!

Angry.
She rushes by me.
Anger. Sadness. Panic. Loneliness.
Loneliness. Panic. Sadness. Anger.

Mis-matched shoes

Dad comes out of his bedroom after getting dressed to go to town. Jeans, t-shirt, denim button up over shirt, mismatched shoes.

Dad, your shoes don’t match.

He looks down. Pauses, grabs his ball cap and pulls it around sideways. They match my outfit! He does a little dance, with a dramatic ending complete with outstretched hands and a ta da.

Alright then, let’s go to town. By all means, matching shoes is the least of my worries. Dad is in a good mind. Mom is getting a break today. I get one more moment with my dad. Matching shoes is the least of my thoughts.

Arthritis

Dad sits on my bed and tells me about how his hand hurts. Three fingers.

Yes, you have arthritis in that hand. Do you know what arthritis is?

It’s the calcification of my joints. That’s what he said. As clear and logical as his past mind would have said it. For a moment, his eyes are full.

That’s when I question the diagnosis. How can he know the definition of arthritis and have Alzheimer’s?  He’s been mis-diagnosed. I’ve sentenced my dad to a slow death by Alzheimer’s, when it’s something else. I can still fix this.

And then he will look at me and tell me about this fog he was living in and thank me for not giving up on him and his voice would be strong, and his words would make sense and his eyes would be full again. The hope is like a wave and a hot stress of immediacy. I have to find someone to fix him.

I don’t.

I tried.
I made an appointment with a natural path. I hoped it was his thyroid. I hoped it was something this doctor would recognize and know what it was and know how to fix it.

He didn’t.

I didn’t.
And I sentenced my dad to a slow death by Alzheimer’s.
Again.

And later, in an Alzheimer’s support group, I hear a stooped old man talk of his wife and how he heard that thyroid problems can mimic Alzheimer’s and I know the hope he has welling. I am torn. I want to tell him not to go down that road because he will only succumb to more sadness. I want him to be right, and the old stooped man gets his wife back and we hear about it. He comes in one Saturday and sings in delight that she is saved by thyroid treatments and I will run back to a doctor and have dad put on the same medication and then we will all dance. And lastly, and most shamefully, I ask, why does she get to have thyroid problems and not dad. 

When he sleeps

I hope that when he sleeps, his world makes sense.

I hope that when he sleeps, he isn’t confused.
I hope that when he sleeps, he isn’t scared.
I hope that when he sleeps, he remembers.

I hope he dreams in memories.

I hope he dreams of us.
Remembers us in his dreams.
Remembers himself in his dreams.

The strike

We’re at Garrison’s furniture, looking for a new recliner for mom.

Hey dad, do you like this chair?

He’s walking away and towards a salesman.

Dad, come and try this chair and see what you think.
He reaches the salesman. I hurry to them.

Hey dad?

Just a minute. He’s angry.

Dad I need your help over here.
I’m asking this guy about the teacher’s strike. Angrier.
He doesn’t work for the teachers. He doesn’t know.
Yes, he does. Jaw clenched, spitting words, body rigid.
He doesn’t know about the strike, dad. Come help me over here, please.

Oh, fuck off then!

Okay. We’re by the door. It’s open. The man leaves. We’re outside now and I’m herding him farther away. He’s scary mad. Moving anger that I am leading away from the store.

I was trying to talk with those people about the strike. That’s what I do. And they know what’s going on! And you don’t interrupt me! I gotta take care of this thing. Fucking bullshit, is what this is. You don’t know what’s going on here. And I do!

His teeth touch when he speaks. His eyes are unrecognizable. He grabs his head. Works his fists.

We wait outside. Dad stays aggressively mad, although he soon forgets why.

His old self

He looks like dad, when he sleeps.

He looks like he could wake up and be my dad.

Sometimes I watch him nap in his chair and pretend.

I pretend he’ll wake up and talk to me, like he used too.

I smile, thinking of him waking up as his old self.

Then tears run warm down a hopeful face.
And I miss my dad.

But I keep watching him sleep,

and pretend he will wake up his old self.

Hello

Hello. Jim. Jim Bond. Hello. I gotta go now. We’re going somewhere. Alright. Bye now. Jim Bond.

He was looking in a mirror, talking to his reflection. I don’t know what he saw.

The mouse

Hey dad.

Yes darling.

Come in here.

Where are you? The house is very small.

In my room.

Okay.

Hey dad, if you were going to put my computer mouse away, where would you put it?

Blank stare.

If you were going to put something away in here, where would you put it?

Well, I would probably put it up there. He’s pointing to the closet shelf.

I feel around on the top shelf. Yep, there is my mouse.

Thanks dad. I found it.

Well sure. You’re welcome.

 

Mom's clothes

Mom and dad came home from visiting my younger brother in Portland. Dad walks in wearing mom’s jeans and her purple V-neck cap sleeve t-shirt. What?

Dad picked out his own clothes and he doesn’t wanna change.

Dad proceeds to go about his business, doing whatever it was. Walking around, sorting his things, talking to me. I can’t take you seriously, dad.

Well why not?

You’re wearing moms’ clothes.

Well she wasn’t wearing em.

I would have if you hadn’t grabbed them first.

Oh, don’t listen to her. I’m wearing this. I like purple. I look spiffy.

The coconut oil cures

I heard, I read, someone told me,

coconut oil helps the brain function. Does wonders for Alzheimer’s.
Soy Lecithin stimulates your brain, improves memory.

It’ll be amazing. The change will be so dramatic. You will be so happy you did it. You can help him!

Fish oil helps the medications work better.
Vitamin B12 for his sleepiness.
Blueberries makes your brain healthy.

We have tried them all. We have made all the concoctions. We have bought all the possibilities.

None of it worked.
None of it was amazing.
None of it helped him.

We had to try, of course. So will others.

You have to hope. That maybe. For you. It will work.
You have to hope. Again, and again, and again, and again……

Ice Cream Happiness

Dad and I are in town, and in an effort to prolong going home I take us to McDonald’s for ice cream. I order him an Oreo McFlurry and I get an M&M one. He follows me to a booth, sits down when I do, looks out the window, and looks around.

What are we doing here?

We’re getting ice cream. Take a bite and see if you like it.

Oh really?! We’re just out for ice cream? He takes a spoonful.

Yes. I wanted to get a snack with you. Do you like your ice cream?

Well that’s nice. Yes, I do like this. It’s cold. I’m happy we are out, together.

He looks happy. He’s lively. His eyes focus on things. The blue in his eyes blows around like wind over the ocean, with life. He smiles. He is happy. For this moment he is happy. Each time I remind him to eat his ice cream he is newly surprised by its goodness and I watch another moment of happiness unfold, again. I watch him be happy. We make senseless comments and laugh about them, because we are happy. We share happiness. I remind him we are out for a snack and he is happy about that, again. And I watch each happy moment. We are happy, in this moment.

I enjoy each happy ice cream moment like a thief. I steal them from the darkness and I will remember them for him.

A meeting of the minds

My mom and dad and I were in Office Max, checking out. Mom was actually checking out and dad and I were standing off to the side, waiting and this young woman comes to the line pushing a man in a wheelchair. He’s physically stunted, and malformed. He is curled up, with an odd facial expression. He is older looking.

I keep to myself and wait for mom.  

Dad walks to the man in the wheelchair. Can I talk to him? He asks her. Dad holds his hand and talks so gently and quietly to the man.

It’s alright. This will all work out for you. You’re doing pretty good. Yeah, it’s alright now. He holds his hand and looks the man in the face and gently comforts him with words of loveliness.

I don’t know what to do. Is dad bothering the woman? Is she happy he is talking to him? I don’t know what the right thing to do is. But dad knows. Dad and this man know.

You’re doing just fine. This will all work out the way it’s supposed to. Yeah, you’re alright.

In that moment, I wonder, who is really lost, and who is really found.

Please help yourself

My dad didn’t want to go to a counselor. He said he wasn’t depressed and he didn’t need to talk to anyone. Mom and I would talk on the phone and I would tell her to make sure dad knew he could help himself and how sad it made us that he wouldn’t just help himself. Tell him, tell him. The doctor said it was depression and PTSD and he can go to a counselor and it will help him. Mom and I were both mad. We badgered him. We got so mad at him.

So he went to a counselor. And he took the anti-depressants, and he got worse. He’s getting worse. And I had gotten so mad at him for not trying. I had been mad and he couldn’t have helped himself. He tried. We told him it would work, and he tried, and he got worse, and I had been so mad at him.

How could I be mad at him?

What kind of a person would get mad at him?

Go back to the doctor and tell him what you’re doing and tell him it’s not working. If it’s caused by the things he said, then this should be helping. Tell him it’s not helping. Tell him it’s something else.

The doctor said he didn’t have anything new to say. He didn’t say why the pills and counselor weren’t working. He didn’t seem to have time for us. He said it was dementia. It was like we got kicked to the curb. You’re on your own. I told you what it was. Go, and live with this dementia. I have nothing more to say to you. Go, be on your way. Be on your way.  

 

I wonder if he knew that dad’s dementia would go the way of Alzheimer’s.

I do that too

After finding myself in the parking lot of the hardware store and not knowing why I was there or why I was in town, or more specifically, how I had driven there…..I flew home. I was going to eat mom’s food stamp inspired home cooking, sleep in, watch trashy tv, and not think. Most importantly, I would not be thinking much. Not think about all the panic attacks. Not think about the dreams. Not think about having lost control of my thoughts and my feelings, as they found fissures to surface through without permission. Just not think.

The first evening mom and I talked about the things that had brought me to call her, telling her I was flying home. We didn’t call them symptoms, just things that happen sometimes. Symptoms is to sterile a word. To dramatic. We’re practical people. We have problems, we fix them, we move on. So mom and I are talking, dad is listening.

 I finish a word rant of stressed out run on sentences.

 That’s what I do. Dad says. He leans forward. Sometimes I just forget things too. I know I have to do something and then I get distracted and I forget about it. Yeah, that’s exactly what’s going on in my head. They say it’s a stress thing. We’re just trying to do too much.

 

I didn’t think much of it, then. Now as I see it running in my memory, I see him sit back, relieved. He thinks he has found confirmation of how innocent and normal his mind is behaving. He must have felt so light just then. All that worry grabbed with hands of solidarity and wrestled from his shoulders, so that he could sit straight for a moment, and smile at his renewed future. He must have been so happy, in that moment.

And later, when we were told different, I wonder if he thought back to this moment, like I do. Did he remember that evening of joyful hope with anger, or with longing, or could he even remember that evening at all?

 

 

 

 

I think about it. I remember it. I remember how normal it all was. I spoke, and he understood, and he answered, and it made sense. It was a conversation of lucidity. 

It's not Alzheimer's

I started crying. Right there, on a jobsite of some terrible temporary job I was working. Standing in a dirty warehouse while my partner kept working.

I cried.

The doctor says it is dementia caused by stress, depression, and PTSD. It’s not Alzheimer’s.

I sat down and cried.

We’re going to start him on an anti-depressant and I have a number for a counselor that specializes in veterans. Can you believe this? Dad is so relieved. I’m going to call your brothers and let them know. He might not get all his memory back, but we can certainly stop anymore loss, and probably make it much better. The doctor said it is not Alzheimer’s.

Just a little memory thing

My mom hadn’t told any of us. They had hidden it for years. They were very good at hiding things.

The first I heard of it, mom and dad had come to Idaho to visit, like they did every summer. They left midday and went back to the hotel so dad could take a nap.

Is dad okay? I meant that maybe his back was hurting again and that’s why he had to lay down.

Oh I’m fine hon, it’s just a little memory thing. No big deal.

 

 

 

What? What was he talking about? Memory thing?

If only I could remember

Sometimes, I try to think of the last lucid conversation I had with my dad. The last time I was talking to my father, in all his mental capacities. The last time he knew what I was saying to him and what he was saying back to me. I try to remember the last conversation I had with my father.

 

I cannot.

 

He just slipped away one day. He said it’s like a fog. You know how fog can just start filtering in, in tiny increments, and you know it’s getting foggy, but you can still see until in one breath, you can’t. My dad slipped from me just like that.

 

I have to take a break.