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.