I Am Nothing

The relationship I have always cherished most in my life - the relationship with my father - is now non-existent.  He does not know me.  He does not recognize my face. He does not recognize my voice.  He does not recognize my name.  And for the first time ever, no amount of recounting of tales, vivid descriptions, or intimate details of our family life are able to jog his memory.

I am a blank spot to him.  He looks at me almost suspiciously; as if he is wary of this peculiar stranger.  Clearly, I make him uncomfortable.  That's the worst part.  He is wondering, "Who is this woman?  Why is she here? Why is she taking me to lunch? How does she know where to go?  How does she know where I live?   How does she know so much about me?"  I have spent the past five years trying to put him at ease and it has reached the point where I am no longer successful in this endeavor. He is now troubled by my presence.

He made no attempt to lift his fork today; I fed him.  He made no attempt to drink; I brought the glass to his lips.  He could not put words together to speak; I did all the talking.  There was no interaction; I might as well have been speaking Russian. Outwardly, I tried to give the appearance that everything was perfectly normal. Inwardly, I was horrified.  I don't know this man.  I am unaccustomed to this awkward silence.  I am unaccustomed to failing in my attempt to cajole him into himself again.  I want to run away and get the hell out of there, but I can't do that.  I have to stay and ride it out.  I want to scream.  I want to cry.  I want my dad back.

I always felt like I was special to him.  (Whether I really was or not is entirely inconsequential.)  I always felt like I had a privileged connection to the most important man on earth, and being important to the most important man on earth made ME important.  His love and approval meant everything.  My identity was largely defined by this father/daughter relationship; he made me feel worthwhile. Now, all of that is gone.  I mean no more to him than a stranger on the street.  What am I if I don't matter to him anymore?  I am nothing.

If he were dead, I don't think this would be quite so devastating.  But the fact that he is sitting before me - the fact that my living, breathing father looks me in the eye and does not have any memory of me is indescribably painful.  The fact that my father will spend the rest of his life not knowing who I am is crushing.  The fact that my entire life has been effectively erased from his mind is heartbreaking.

I know life goes on.  I know that to lament this loss is futile.  I never expected to be so deeply affected by something I knew full well was coming, but for some reason my armor of Realistic Rational Acceptance - the impenetrable armor that served me so well dealing with Mom's demise - has suddenly failed me.  The same cold, hard logic which once afforded me the luxury of being dispassionate has been rendered useless.  Sadness now permeates every thought.

I know the memories of life with Dad will live on in my mind, but somehow that isn't good enough.  Knowing he doesn't remember any of it makes those memories seem pointless.  It's almost unbearable - as though I have no right to try to find joy in the past when he cannot.  And frankly, knowing my history doesn't exist for him, how could I possibly find joy in it anyway?  

I miss my dad.  I miss him so very much.

Full Sentences

I walked into his room.  He looked at me and said, "You didn't dress very well for going out."

My first thought:  "Wow!  I think he  actually knows who I am and why I'm here!" My second thought: "Holy crap!  My father just uttered a full sentence!!!  I haven't heard a full sentence come out of his mouth in ages!!!"
My third thought:  "Hey, wait a minute!  What do you mean I didn't dress very well?"

(Never mind all that.  For god's sake, he just delivered A FULL SENTENCE!!)

     "Hi Dad.  It's time to go out to lunch at Daytons.  Are you ready?"
     "Yes.  I've been waiting.  Let's go."

We're at lunch.  Ourida stops by and Dad asks her, "Where are you from again?"
    "I'm from Tunisia."
    "That's right.  North Africa."

(Good god!  He remembers she's from a foreign country and he knows where Tunisia is!!!)

Dad brings up Mom all on his own.  "Helen used to love this place."
     "Yes, I know, Dad.  She especially loved the desserts."
     "Too bad she was in such bad health."
     "Yes, Dad.  It was a shame."
     "How old was she when she died?"
     "She was 83."
     "Too bad.  She was a good one.  How old am I?"
     "You're 85."
     "Is my father still alive?"
     "No.  He died a long time ago."
     "Oh.  I don't remember that."
     "Do you believe in an afterlife, Dad?"
     "No.  I suspect it isn't true."
     "Me neither, Dad."
     "But people want to believe it."
     "Yes.  They sure do."
     "When did Dick Bringgold die?"
     "I'm not exactly sure, Dad.  I think it was about 10 years ago."
     "It's too bad he smoked.  You know, I was really upset for a long time when they moved to Arizona."

****************************

WOW!  WE JUST GLOSSED OVER THE FACT THAT HE DOESN'T BELIEVE IN THE RELIGIOUS FANTASY!  THIS IS HUGE!!!  THIS IS STUNNING!!!  Or is it? No.  Not really.  I guess if I'd ever bothered to give it any thought (which I didn't) I wouldn't have found it all that surprising for a man of his intellect and pragmatism. I'll admit, I take comfort in this knowledge - I'm glad to know I'm not alone.  Oddly, I find I take greater comfort in not believing than I ever did when I tried to believe. Why is that?  I don't know; maybe because with acceptance comes peace.  As it turns out, it doesn't really matter.  It had no bearing on the way Dad lived his life: being honorable, forthright, loving, generous and kind.  He was a shining example of what is GOOD and it had nothing to do with religion.

Most telling of all, even as he approaches his own death, he is not so fearful of dying that he has bought into the self-soothing notion he will magically live on after he draws his last breath --- the Wishful Thinking Syndrome we humans are so desperate to believe because we can't bear to come to terms with our own mortality.  It scares us - knowing we will cease to exist.  (Though, why that's any scarier than closing our eyes and going to sleep at night is somewhat of a mystery to me.)  While I used to find it strange (even distressing) that people DIDN'T believe, I suddenly find myself thinking it is even stranger that people DO believe in an afterlife.  Our impact on the world occurs while we're alive.  After we're gone we live on in the memories of those who knew us.  After those people are gone, we become just another obscure name on the family tree.  Do we wish we were more meaningful than that?  Of course - we are by nature egocentric.  But are we more meaningful than that?  Only in our own minds.

I realize this is no great revelation - and I suppose it is because we recognize (and are terrified by) our insignificance that we are so smitten with the idea of an afterlife.  No one wants to admit they are so vastly unimportant in the big scheme of things.  No one wants to admit they are limited to such a brief existence in the universe.  I get it.  I understand why the concept (preposterous though it may be) of continuing to live after we've died is very appealing.  I understand why we want to believe we'll be reunited with our loved ones.  I'm not sure why we attempt to ascribe human physical abilities to the dead -- we know better; we know we will never see them or hold them in our arms again, but that doesn't stop us from wishing it was possible.  We throw in words like "spirit" and "faith" and we keep wishing.  But wishing doesn't make it so.  I'm just not buying it.  (And the multi-trillion dollar religion industry can't sell it to me.)

******************************

Dad talks about what a good life he has had.  He waxes nostalgic about high school. The only blight in his memory is the war:
     "When I was in the war I couldn't believe what the Japs did to those women and children."
     "Yes.  I've heard it was bad.  There was a movie on T.V. where WWII vets talked about coming back from the Pacific and they had nightmares for many years afterwards."
     "Really?  I never had nightmares."

(Okay.  So I know that's not true, but I am secretly delighted his memory about that horror is completely gone.  At least, it is today.)

     "You know, I was very lucky.  That nurse in Saipan was from North Dakota and she wanted to make sure I was sent home."
     "Really?"
     "Yes.  The doctor was on the fence.  He was ready to send me back to my unit, but the nurse wanted to make sure I got sent home."
     "Why?"
     "Because she was from Fargo and I was from Williston."

(OH MY GOD!!!  NOT ONLY IS HE SPEAKING IN FULL SENTENCES, BUT HE REMEMBERS WHAT HAPPENED 65 YEARS AGO!!!!)

     "I liked being the radio man and the platoon runner.  I got to be in charge somewhat."
     "How were you in charge, Dad?"
     "I got to make little decisions.  I got to have more responsibility."
     "So in between the fighting you were going back and forth between different platoons delivering messages?"
     "Yes.  That and carrying litters.  If we weren't at the front of it we were carrying men to the back."
     "Everyone did that?"
     "Yes.  Sometimes you couldn't get to them for a long time.  And you always thought it could be you next time."
     "Well, I'm glad you survived the war, Dad.  Otherwise we wouldn't be here having this conversation."
He laughs and says, "It was all a matter of luck."
     "I'm glad you were lucky, Dad."

He picks up his fork all on his own.  Stunning!  This hasn't happened in a long, long time.  He temporarily struggles with the option of using his right hand or his left hand.  (Damn teachers in the 30's: forcing left-handed children to use their right hands.  Interesting how 80 years later he is reverting back to his natural tendency.)

He has the fork in his right hand (probably because I placed it on the right side of his plate) and then transfers it to his left hand.  The food falls off.  (As it often does.)
     "That happens to me a lot."
     "Don't worry about it, Dad.  It happens to everyone."
He looks at me... somewhat bemused...  somewhat irritated...  somewhat suspicious... and says, "No it doesn't."

No.  He's right.  It doesn't.

Then, suddenly...  as suddenly as he appeared; he was gone - as though someone flipped a switch.

     "Who are you?"
     "I'm your daughter."
     "Whose daughter?"
     "I'm your daughter."
     "If you say so."

That was the last intelligible sentence of the day.  The rest was the usual gibberish we've grown so accustomed to hearing.

BUT, FOR AN HOUR, I GOT TO SEE MY DAD.  I heard my dad's voice, I saw my dad's smile and I was privy to my dad's wit.  Yes, it was an infinitesimal slice of who he used to be.  But it was so much more than I've seen in a long, long, long time.

I know if he was aware of his decline he wouldn't want to live like this.  I completely understand.  But for a brief moment -- the very briefest of moments --  I saw my father today.  When he sank back into oblivion I wanted to grab him and shake him into reality.  "Wait!!!  Don't go yet!!!!"  It's weird to think oblivion is his new reality. God, how he would have hated it.

But let's ignore all that.  Let's remember the full sentences.  Let's remember the hour, on April 30th, 2010, that  I caught a fleeting glimpse of my father.

April - 65 Years Ago

My dad was a soldier in WWII.  He was a rifleman and platoon runner in the 96th Infantry, 381st Regiment, L Company.  While he was overseas he wrote to Mom regularly - as regularly as he could - and we are fortunate to have all the letters she saved.

Dad artfully managed to avoid describing the atrocities he witnessed (and he wasn't permitted to discuss casualties or his letters would have been censored), but occasionally his words inadvertently revealed the losses they were suffering.  There were 40 men in Dad's platoon in October 1944 when the battle of Leyte began, yet in a letter dated January 4, 1945, he wrote, "Just got some mail in.  Only five letters for 30 men."  They were missing 10 men after 3 months of fighting.

The last letter Mom received from the Philippines was dated March 24, 1945.  The battle of Okinawa began April 1st, but there were no letters from Okinawa.  Mom didn't hear from Dad again until May 21st when he wrote from the hospital.  That letter contained only one sentence about Okinawa:  "It was as bad as hell can possibly be."

On April 29, 1945, the 307th Infantry took over for the 381st Infantry.  By the time it was relieved, the 381st had been reduced to about 40 percent combat efficiency and had suffered 1,021 casualties; 536 of them in the Maeda Escarpment in the previous four days.  Some platoons were down to five or six men.  Many of the men were so exhausted that they did not have the energy to carry their equipment down the slope to the road below where trucks were waiting to take them to the rear.

Decades later, we asked Dad to write his memoir and this was what he shared with us about Okinawa:
         We had easy going for a couple of days, but I was very uncomfortable during that period.  My intuition said, "This is just not right; I have a bad feeling." And sure enough, a couple of days later all hell broke loose.  I am uncertain as to the time frame, but one night when we were receiving artillery fire, I did four hours on watch and then went to sleep.  From that point, I don't know what happened.  Later, in a hospital on Saipan, I saw my medical chart which indicated minor injuries from rocks and other debris, and a severe concussion that left me comatose for several days.
         One of the survivors of our Company later sent me a picture taken just before the battle on Okinawa was over, which showed five men.  This was the remainder of my 40-man platoon.  Of the five surviving at the point the picture was taken, only two were original members, and three were replacements; one of whom was killed before the battle ended.

It's hard to believe that 65 years ago today my father was 7000 miles away from home on an island in the Pacific.  It's hard to imagine him as a 20-year-old soldier carrying a rifle, sitting in a foxhole up to his waist in water and mud while machine guns blasted and shells exploded around him.  It's hard to imagine the things he saw and the fear he felt.  According to the statistics, 12,513 American men died on Okinawa and 38,916 were wounded.  It's hard to comprehend how many boys and men just like my dad didn't come home.

I remember when I was a teenager we drove past the cemetery and I asked Dad if he was going to be buried at Fort Snelling.  He shook his head, no.  When I asked him why, he said, "I'm no hero."

He was wrong about that.

The Life I Don't Have

I live someplace warm.  Not California - they have earthquakes; not Florida - too humid; not Texas - I've never gotten over the Drew Pearson thing (not to mention the whole North Stars debacle); not Colorado - too much snow; not Utah - I find Mormons troubling.  I'm thinking maybe Nevada, Arizona or New Mexico... or perhaps an island in the Caribbean so I can have the ocean.

I have a nice little two bedroom townhouse with walls so thick I can't hear the neighbors.

I have a job I love.  I'm not exactly sure what that job would be, but it would be nice to get paid for doing something I loved.  (Do they pay people to eat ice cream?)

I wake up looking forward to the day.  (Not in an unrealistic, bound-out-of-bed singing show tunes sort of way, but at least not feeling encumbered by sadness, regret and nagging dread.)

I occasionally hang out with good friends.  (Kind of like Sex and the City, only the women are normal.)

My son comes home from college (which is paid for because he earned a full scholarship) on all the holidays and spends his summers with me until he graduates; at which time he finds a high-paying, secure job (with excellent medical and dental benefits, an ironclad pension, and free parking) doing something he enjoys.

My 11-year-old car lasts another 11 years.

I am inexplicably happy.

(Seriously, do they pay people to eat ice cream?)

Impending Doom

You know that feeling you used to get when you were a student and had a project hanging over your head?   It was always in the back of your mind; whether the due date was in three months or three days.  It sat there, festering; the prospect of SOMETHING needing to be done; gnawing away at you even when you weren’t consciously thinking about it.  That ever-present, oppressive, weight-on-your-shoulders, impending doom sort of feeling.

I have that feeling now.  In fact, I’ve had it for years.  I first became aware of it when my mother was dying, so I attributed it to that.  But it didn’t go away after she died.  Now my father is dying.  Maybe it will finally go away after he dies.  I hope so, because the weight of it (whatever IT is) is overwhelming.

 

To be perfectly honest, I have considered the possibility I may be on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.  While I had intended to keep this revelation a secret, it suddenly dawned on me 99% of the population is on the verge of having a nervous breakdown right along with me.  There must be millions of people who are hanging by a thread; millions of people whose parents are dying; millions of people who are scared; millions of people who are wondering how they’re going to survive the next 30 years; millions of people who lie awake at night worrying about their children’s future.

I’m tired of feeling sad.  I’m tired of being afraid.  I’m tired of thinking about life’s bleak outlook.  Just when it gets to the point of being all-consuming, I step back and take a breath.  I am not willing to succumb to this.  I’m not willing to sink into the abyss of depression – I’ve been there and I have no intention of going back.  I've been able to avoid it for the past five years partly because I am (some might say, perversely) comforted by the knowledge that I'm not alone – no one likes the thought of teetering on the brink in solitude – and partly because I think I've hit upon the solution.  (One which doesn't require therapy or medication.)  It is an astonishingly simple solution, but I have found it to be remarkably effective:
DON'T THINK ABOUT IT. 
Yep.  That’s it.  Don’t think about it.

I’ve come to the conclusion the only difference between people who are able to keep living their lives and those who become paralyzed at the prospect, is the fine art of denial.  It is denial which keeps me sane.  If I don’t ruminate about it, it won’t suck me in and destroy me.  There's something to be said for those blissfully ignorant souls who look at life through rose-colored glasses and naively think everything's going to work out.  I take back all the nasty things I said about them.

I will deal with whatever today brings me.  I’ll concentrate on what Dad needs and I’ll concentrate on what my son needs.  I have a job to do.  I will do my very best for them and no matter what happens, I will not be reduced to wallowing in a puddle of useless emotion.  I will not give in to sleepless nights worrying about the future and above all, I will not lose myself.  I simply won't think about it.  Denial?  Definitely. Self-preservation?  Unquestionably.

There's something vaguely familiar about all this, and it just occurred to me what it is:
             "Oh, fiddle-de-dee," said Scarlett through her tears.  "I can't think about
              that right now.  If I do, I'll go crazy.  I'll think about that tomorrow.  After
              all, tomorrow is another day."  
            
This doesn't bode well, does it.   My memory may be a bit hazy, but I think the last we saw of Scarlett, her house burned down, her mother died, her father lost his mind, she no longer had a husband, and she was weeping on a staircase in a dress made out of draperies.

Hmm...  There's something vaguely familiar about all that, too.  Oh well.  At least I've never worn a dress made out of draperies.  

If He Knew

I feel a certain uneasiness whenever I think of how Dad would feel if he realized what has become of him.   If he could see himself he would be appalled.  But even worse, he would be absolutely mortified that we allowed anyone else to see him in this condition.  

I try to push those thoughts aside.  My father – my brilliant, confident, dignified, independent father is long gone.  The man who sits before me now has but a few simple remaining pleasures – like going to church and being surrounded by the very people he would never have wanted to witness his demise.  He doesn't go there for religion; he goes there for socialization – which is quite a stretch considering  no one is comfortable talking to him anymore, and fewer and fewer brave souls bother to make the attempt.

Dad has become the man he would have had no patience for; the man who would have been invisible to him; the man he would have avoided; the man he would have pitied.  He has become the pathetic, feeble, doddering old man with a little bit of dried egg on the corner of his mouth who doesn't realize he's still singing after the song has ended; doesn't realize he's holding up the line; doesn't realize he's interrupting the conversation; doesn't realize he's making inappropriate comments; doesn't realize he's repeating himself over and over and over again; doesn't realize he's not making any sense, and doesn't realize people are politely trying to extricate themselves from his company.  He is the antithesis of the man he used to be.

I am haunted by the knowledge that my fiercely proud father would be profoundly embarrassed, humiliated and disgraced if he was cognizant of his plight.  If he could have, he would have begged us not to let anyone see him like this.  But what are we to do?  Keep him locked away because when he was still himself that's what he'd have wanted?  No.  Of course not.

    

I try to assuage my guilt by telling myself he doesn't know – and he never will.  But it is of little comfort, because I know.  I know he would hate it with every fiber of his being.   

I’m sorry, Dad.  Please forgive me.       

The Diagnosis

I’d seen reports on the news about people who got lost while driving and ended up hundreds of miles from home.  I’d read stories about people who went for a walk and were found days later wandering in the woods.  Worst of all, I’d heard about the people who no longer recognized their loved ones.  So when my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, I girded my loins in anticipation of the devastating day when he would look at me with a blank stare and not know who I was.  That day has come and gone, and believe it or not, it turned out to be a minor event in the big scheme of things.  To be honest, I find it more devastating that he cannot remember how to flip on a light switch.

Dad was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment (MCI) in 2002, however he’d been exhibiting signs for several years prior to his diagnosis.  One of his business partners vividly recalled Dad’s inability to calculate a 20% tip at a luncheon in 1997.  That would be a stunning revelation for anyone, but for a CPA, it was extraordinary. 

While MCI doesn’t always develop into Alzheimer’s disease, in Dad’s case it did.  We took him to a neurologist and he was put on medication.  According to the National Institute of Health:

http://www.nia.nih.gov/Alzheimers/Publications/medicationsfs.htm

Several  prescription drugs are currently approved by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) to treat people who have been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease (AD). Treating the symptoms of AD can provide patients with comfort, dignity, and independence for a longer period of time and can encourage and assist their caregivers as well.

It is important to understand that none of these medications stops the disease itself.

Every 6 months we returned to the neurologist for a checkup.  ‘Checkup’ is a bit of a misnomer – it proved to be nothing more than a method of documenting Dad’s decline.  The doctor conducted the Mini-Mental State Examination:

    “I’m going to tell you three words.  I will ask you to remember them later: tree,     blue, pencil.”

    “Who is the president of the United States?”

    “What is today’s date?”

    “What day of the week is it?”

    “What month is it?”

    “What state are we in?”

    “What county are we in?”

    “What were the three words I asked you to remember?”

    “What year is it?”

    “What season is it?”

    “What floor are we on?”

    “Draw a picture of a clock with the hands indicating 10:30.”

    “Spell the word ‘WORLD’ backwards.”

    “Count down from 100 by 7s.”

    “What is this object I’m holding in my hand?”

    “Copy this shape onto that blank piece of paper.”

    “What are the three words I asked you to remember?”   

    “Repeat the following phrase: No ifs, ands, or buts.”

    “Read the sentence written on this piece of paper and do what it says: Close your eyes.”

    “Take this piece of paper in your right hand, fold it in half and lay it on the floor.”
    “Write a complete sentence.”

    “What are the three words I asked you to remember?”

At first Dad could do most of it.  Within five years he couldn’t do any of it and the neurologist advised us there was no point in coming back - that was in 2007.

No point in coming back.     

Nothing more can be done.  We helplessly watch Dad continue to lose ability and function.  We witness his frustration, his struggle and his anxiety – and we are powerless to help him.   It’s an odd sensation; a sickening sensation – like watching someone being tortured to death in a horror movie.

If he becomes too distraught, we could try medication to ease his mind.  (Ease his mind?  Now there’s a politically correct euphemism….)  Let me put that another way: If he becomes too distraught, we could try medication to dope him up so he isn’t aware of his fate.  Unfortunately, medication would increase his risk of falling and it would be awful if he was injured in a fall – though physical pain pales in comparison to the mental anguish he suffers.

So now we wait.  That's it.  That's all there is.  We watch him continue to disappear and we wait for him to die.  Just like Mom.   

Clock

Today, I stood on a chair and took down Dad's clock to change the time.
     "Don't fall down."
     "I won't, Dad.  I'll be careful."
     "If you fell down, who would take me to church?"
     "Kris and Karen would take you, but don't worry.  I won't fall down."
     "Kris and Karen?"
     "Your other daughters."
     "I have five daughters."
     "There are three of us.  You have three daughters."
     "I do?"
     "Yes."
     "Get down from there.  Don't do danger."
     "I won't do danger, Dad.  I'm just taking down the clock.  See?  Now I'm off the    chair and I'm fine."
     "Don't do that again."
     "Okay, Dad.  I won't."
     "Why did you change the clock?"
     "The time was a little bit off."  (I knew better than to bring up the baffling concept of Daylight Savings Time.)
     "What time is it now?"
     "It's ten to two, Dad."
     "What?"
     "It's ten minutes before two."
     "How can you tell?"
     "Because the big hand is on the 10 and the little hand is on the 2."
     "Hand?  Whose hand?"
     "The long black line is pointing to the 10 and the shorter line is pointing to the 2."
     "How do you know?"
     "Because I'm looking at it and I can see what it says."
     "It doesn't say anything."
     "No.  You're right; it doesn't.  You just have to look at the lines and figure out what time it is."

(I know what you're thinking; he should have a digital clock.  But he forgot how to read digital clocks long before he forgot how to read analog clocks.  I toyed with the idea of showing him the time on my cell phone - thinking that might help - but it would have said 1:50 and that would have really muddied the already murky waters.)

He asked, "How did you get so smart?"  (My god.  He thinks I'm a genius because I can tell time.)
     "Dad, you taught me everything I know."
     "I don't think so.  I never knew about clocks."

I want to scream, "YES YOU DID!  YOU USED TO KNOW ABOUT CLOCKS!   YOU KNEW HOW TO COUNT, YOU KNEW HOW TO USE SILVERWARE, YOU KNEW HOW TO PUT ON YOUR CLOTHES, YOU KNEW HOW TO WIPE YOUR BOTTOM, YOU KNEW HOW TO READ, YOU KNEW HOW TO WRITE.  YOU USED TO KNOW EVERYTHING.

When I was leaving for the day, one of the aides stopped by.  Dad pointed to me and said to her, "Do you know who this is?"  She replied, "Yes.  This is your daughter."
He laughed and said, "No, no.  This is .... "   His voice trailed off and he stopped.  He stared at me for a minute and asked, "Who are you?"

YOU USED TO KNOW WHO I WAS.

My Father

My father -- my once brilliant (literally genius brilliant), quick-witted, engaging, funny, bright, father - has all but disappeared.  I know what's in store for him in the months to come.  Thank god he doesn't.  Words cannot express how much I dread what I'm about to see -  and from witnessing Mom's demise, I have the distinct displeasure of knowing exactly what I'm about to see.

It's not his death I find so abhorrent; it's the goddamn misery in the dying.  If he'd been just an average Joe or some middle-of-the-road schmuck who muddled through an unremarkable life in an unremarkable way, it wouldn't be so hard to watch.  The disparity wouldn't be so great.  But he was not just an average Joe; he was quite remarkable, and the disparity between what he was and what he has become is enormous.  I know it and so does he.  That's the hell of it.  He know it too.

It will be better for him when he no longer remembers all that he has lost.

I've witnessed Dad's frustration over the last 5 years as the FORGETTING encompassed every aspect of his life.  He suddenly couldn't button buttons.  He couldn't zip zippers.  He couldn't tie shoelaces.  I foolishly tried to show him how - as if I could teach him what to do.  As a parent, I'd taught the same things to my son, and I was under the misguided impression my father could still learn (or at least re-learn) to do what he'd done every day of his life for the past 80 years.  I was wrong. There was a lot I didn't know about Alzheimer's disease.

It never occurred to me he would forget how to open a refrigerator.  I had no idea he would stand in front of the sink in the bathroom, unable to remember how to turn on the water.  I didn't know he would forget how to read and write; how to turn on the television; how to use the telephone; how to go to the bathroom; how to use silverware; how to blow his nose; or how to pull the covers up at night to stay warm.

Everything the rest of us do automatically from the moment we wake up until we go to bed...  all those things have been wiped from his memory.  He struggles every minute of his life.  I wonder what that feels like - waking up one morning and not remembering how to get dressed.   I wonder what it feels like to discover you can't remember how to make a phone call, or write your name, or read the paper.  It is unimaginable.  

What do you suppose is the worst part?  Is it the beginning: the horror of being acutely aware you're losing your mind?  Is it the middle: the terror of knowing something is dreadfully wrong, but not understanding what's happening to you?  Or is it the end: when you can no longer communicate and are forced to languish for years until you finally waste away and die?

Since I'm asking questions, how about this one: where is God?

I sat with my father in church today, listening to a sermon he cannot hear, holding a hymnal he cannot read, reciting prayers he cannot say, begging for mercy which never comes.  Talk about an exercise in futility!  The absurdity of it all nearly made me laugh out loud.  If I hadn't been fighting back tears, I would have.

Startling Revelation

You know how there are some people who know a lot about a little, and others who know a little about a lot?

I'm neither.

Valentine's Day

When I was a little girl, I loved Valentine's Day for one reason and one reason only: CANDY.  It was a very special occasion because we only had candy in our house three times a year: Valentine's Day, Easter and Halloween.  (Which, now that I think about it, left quite a dearth from April through October.  It's a miracle I survived it.  But I digress.)

On February 14th, I couldn't wait for my dad to get home from work.  I knew when he walked through the door he would have his briefcase in one hand and 4 boxes of candy in the other - 3 little red heart-shaped boxes for the three daughters, and 1 great big huge double-layer box for Mom.  (If ever there was an incentive to become a mother, that was mine.)

Our Valentine boxes were always filled with assorted chocolates; I always polished mine off by bedtime, and I always felt sick afterwards.  My sisters managed to save a few pieces for the following day, but I'm convinced the only reason they did this was so they could rub my nose in it when I wanted more and didn't have any left.

The problem with assorted chocolates was... well... the assortment.  I'd labor over which piece to take; trying to guess what might be inside.  It was a very important decision because once it was made, there was no turning back.  This was because of Mom's Candy-Eating Rule Number One: You Touch It, You Take It.

Finally, after much deliberation, I'd choose a piece and hesitantly take a bite. What luck!  Pink stuff!  Yum!  I summoned the courage to try another piece.  Yuk! Coconut.  I wanted to spit it out, but this was not permitted due to Mom's Candy-Eating Rule Number Two: You Bite It, You Eat It.  I hoped I'd have better luck with the third piece...  Sadly, no.  I'm not sure what that weird red stuff was, but it tasted suspiciously like cough syrup.  What was Fanny Farmer thinking?!

Because the four of us were all in search of the pieces we loved the most, we were constantly negotiating trades.  "I'll give you this one for that one."  My mother, infuriatingly, always managed to select the caramels from my box - my most prized possessions.  (Unfortunately for me, she shared my passion.)  It was maddening.

"Mom, how come you always pick the good ones and I always pick the bad ones? It's not fair!  How do you do it?"  Clearly she was the only person in the world who knew this secret and, with my hands on my hips, I demanded to know what it was. This proved to be a tactical error.

"Stop your whining.  You're lucky you have any candy at all."  She was right, of course, and I felt properly admonished (and more than a little alarmed I was about to have my candy taken away).  Then she softened a bit and added, "Honey, you just have to take a bite to find out what's inside.  It's always a surprise and that's the fun of it!  It's like a present.  You never know what you're going to get."
Wow!  Mom may have had a few too many rules, but I had to admit, she was brilliant.  (So brilliant, in fact, that Forrest Gump later stole this line and made six hundred million dollars.)

As I was mulling over my mother's words of wisdom, my big sister - my infinitely wiser, infinitely older, big sister (she was, after all, 13 - a teenager) pulled me aside and said, "You dope.  I'll show you how to tell what's inside if you give me two pieces of candy."

My first thought was, "AHA!  I knew it!  I knew there was a way!"  My second thought was, "Two pieces?  You want TWO pieces?  Are you insane?"   I thought long and hard, and decided this singular event would shape all my Valentine's Days to come - so I reluctantly agreed.

Kris ceremoniously brought me to stand before Mom's candy box and I was trembling with excitement - I was about to be let in on the most important secret of my life EVER.

I took a piece of chocolate from my mother's box and looked at it quizzically.  I still couldn't see the magic.  Kris let out an impatient sigh, "Look at the bottom."  I examined one piece, then another, then another...  How could this be?  There appeared to be a dent in the bottom of each piece, exposing a little bit of the filling inside.  Why, it was almost as though someone had intentionally...   Hey...  wait a minute!!!  I whirled around to confront Mom.  All she did was smile a sheepish little smile and shrug her shoulders.

Initially I was shocked, of course, but my shock quickly turned to admiration.  I couldn't help but be impressed by my mother's obvious genius.  I ran to my own box of chocolates and dumped them out onto the counter so I could immediately begin the indentation process, when I suddenly stopped short.  I was stunned to see my chocolates had already been defiled.

Now, some children might have been mad, and I'll admit at first I was a little upset, but it was pretty hard to stay that way.  I mean, let's be realistic - we were dealing with candy, here.  CANDY.  Where's the downside?

After I plopped a caramel into my mouth, I got to thinking.  Wasn't this practice in direct violation of Mom's Candy-Eating Rule Number One?  After all, you were definitely touching it and then putting it back.  I was about to pose this question to my mom, but instinctively thought better of it.  I came to the conclusion if it's done for the express purpose of discerning the contents of the candy and, more importantly, if no one catches you doing it, then it's okay.  Besides, if my mother did it, it must be alright.  Hence, the birth of Mom's Candy-Eating First Amendment. 

As I was pondering this life-altering newfound knowledge (much, I suspect, in the same way Newton did when he discovered gravity) my other sister came into the room.  I was about to start gleefully chanting, "I know something you don't know," in that annoying, taunting, sing-song voice every little sister uses whenever humanly possible, but it suddenly dawned on me this was the perfect opportunity for a parlor trick.  Ooh!  This was going to be good!

"Look, Karen!  I'm going to guess this piece of chocolate is filled with marshmallow." I took a bite and (undoubtedly, very convincingly) feigned surprise as I showed her the inside.  "Oh my gosh!  I was right!  See?!"  I stole a sideways glance at my mother and smiled - we shared a knowing look.

I sat back expectantly, waiting for the accolades Karen was sure to heap upon me after witnessing my astonishing display of psychic ability.  Instead, she looked at me with pity and disdain, and started to walk away; casually calling back over her shoulder, "Duh.  All you have to do is squish the bottom first and you can see what's in there."

She knew.

Disillusioned, I realized this well-guarded secret was neither well-guarded nor secret - and I was the last to know.  I was always the last to know everything.  I may have only been five, but I was old enough to recognize a gross miscarriage of justice when I saw one.  So, after dinner, I sneaked back into the kitchen and transferred everyone's caramels to my Valentine box.  Sweet revenge!

Another Friday

Dad's word-finding was particularly bad today.  Sometimes I'm able to figure out what he's trying to say, and other times I just nod in agreement or say something inane like, "I know," or "You're right," or "Really?"  Usually this works and he is placated - I formulate a reply based on the expression on his face, or the tone of his voice.  But sometimes he looks at me suspiciously and I know I've missed the mark - clearly my response was entirely inappropriate.  I'm not sure he realizes I can't understand what the hell he's saying, or if he just thinks I'm an idiot.  I hope it's the latter.  My job is to make him believe he is the same man he always was; if he recognizes he is not, then I've failed.

There are still times when Dad is fairly lucid, and I used to live for those moments - when I'd see flashes of my father as he used to be.  But it's a double-edged sword. After two hours of being unable to communicate today, he suddenly started speaking in full sentences and the things he said were at once inexplicable and astute.  When his building came into view he said, clear as day, "That's my home." Then he turned to me and asked, "When will I graduate?"
"Graduate?  What do you mean, Dad?"
"When will I graduate from here?  When will I get a car?"
"I don't know, Dad.  We'll just have to wait and see."
"I hope it's soon."
"Me too, Dad.  Me too."

As we pulled into the parking lot he quietly announced, "I used to have it."
"Have what, Dad?"
"All of it."

He's right about that - and the fact that he knows it breaks my heart.

One Year Ago

Mom died a year ago today.  It seems like a lifetime ago.

I guess there is one distinct advantage to watching someone succumb to the ravages of dementia - with that prolonged goodbye, you become accustomed to thinking of them as being gone long before they draw their last breath.  When the end finally comes, it's anticlimactic.  There is no sudden crushing sense of loss; you lost them years ago.  There is no overwhelming feeling of sadness and despair; there is only relief.

We're Even

When I was three years old my family moved to a new house, and within the first two days of living there I fell into the creek twice - both times under the supposedly watchful eye of my older sister.  She insists she wasn't trying to kill me, but I have my doubts.

Fast-forward 15 years.  My sister and I were in our dad's car heading down the highway on a Sunday dinner food run, and I thought it was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate my driving prowess by executing a "Hill Lane Change."  This maneuver was made famous by my best friend in high school - though she'd be the first to admit it's conception was entirely unintentional - more a result of lack of experience than anything else.  Later, however, it became her signature move - in no small part due to the screams and peals of laughter emitted by her passengers whenever she performed it.  In fact, it was so wildly popular, it was adopted by most of the teenage boys in our crowd - that infamous sector of the driving population most likely to die while proving their immortality.

The Hill Lane Change was really nothing more than a quick, unexpected jerk of the steering wheel.  The car would pitch and lurch, then eventually settle, and invariably there was some honking involved by those unfortunates who happened to be nearby at the time.  And so it came to be on that Sunday afternoon, traveling at 60 miles per hour on the freeway with my sister sitting beside me, I executed a Hill Lane Change - not before first gleefully boasting, "Watch this!"

We were instantly out of control.  We zigzagged across all three lanes of traffic - twice - before we started to spin.  I don't know how many times the car spun around.  As I was looking out the windshield in front of me, all I saw were intermittent blurs of cars, cement, cars, cement, cars, cement...  well, you get the idea.

Miraculously, the car came to a stop on the shoulder next to the center median wall, and even more miraculously, we did not touch the wall or another car during our gyrations.  Impossible as it sounds, we were completely unscathed.  We did, however, come to a stop facing the wrong way.  It's hard to describe the feeling one has when one finds oneself staring into three lanes of oncoming traffic - suffice to say, it is most unsettling.  After taking a moment to gather my composure, I waited for a break in the traffic and simply turned the car around and pulled back onto the highway.

My sister later informed me she had considered grabbing the wheel, but fought the urge because, she reasoned, I was younger and my reactions would be quicker than hers.  Good god.  Her faith in me implied she thought I knew what I was doing, which I most certainly did not - the fact that we were spinning out of control in the middle of the freeway as I was correcting, then over-correcting, then over-correcting my over-correction, was evidence of that.  (Not to mention the fact it had never dawned on me the Hill Lane Change at 60mph would yield different results than one implemented on neighborhood streets at speeds less than 30.)  Little did she know, as my sister was thinking, "She's got quick reflexes, we're going to make it," I was thinking, "I have no idea what I'm doing, we're going to die."

But we didn't.  So you see, my sister and I are now even.  Granted, I was much less likely to die standing in a foot of muddy water in the creek than she was doing 360s on the freeway, but I like to tell myself we're even.  It's one of those self-delusional things people try to convince themselves of so they can live with themselves despite what they've done - and I am nothing if not self-delusional.  Yep, we're even.

The Personal Ad

DWF, 52, seeking brilliant, funny, kind, quick-witted, straight, single, employed male; 52-67. (15 years is the acceptable cutoff, isn't it?)  No one younger than me, though.  I'd really like to avoid the whole mid-life crisis debacle.

-Hair is optional; being habitually late is not.

-Dark, obsessive, brooding types will not be considered. (Some minor brooding is acceptable.)

-You do know if you're picking your nose while you're driving, everyone can see you, right?

-No criminals, no stalkers, no spouses of missing or mysteriously-deceased wives, no sidewalk-spitters, no addicts, no iniquitous businessmen, no quiet loners who pretty much keep to themselves and seem perfectly harmless, no slow-talkers, no knuckle-crackers, no gun nuts, no serial philanderers, no toothpick-chewers, no chronic interrupters.