I went to visit my dad today. For those
of you who don't know, he is in an Alzheimer's facility. What a
horrible, horrible disease.
No, he didn't know me today. He
immediately asked me who I was when I woke him from his nap in a
living room chair. He began speaking in nonsensical moans and groans.
I call this “Daddy-speak” cuz the language is unknown. I have
learned not to question or to try to understand him, not to try to
get him to repeat himself in words that are intelligible to me. Why?
That causes him deep anxiety because apparently he thinks he is
speaking in a recognizable manner. Apparently, he understands
himself. I have learned to make nothing replies like “Oh.
Okay. Really?” and so forth. I watch his face for any sign of alarm
and if that is noted, I say, “I'm sorry.” Sometimes I say simply,
“I love you, Daddy.” Sometimes he understands that. Other times,
he doesn't. I have come to realize that sometimes my words don't mean
to him what Mr. Webster defined them as – just like the language
he utilizes. This is something none of the books tell you. I have
found no blogs that discuss it.
Today, I interrupted his garble by
giving him a birthday card from his sister, Thelma. He said lots that
I could understand, “Nice. Bless.” I attempted to read it to him,
but he closed it. I opened it again and tried to rush thru the rest
of what she had hand-written, but he closed the card again and gave
it back to me, saying a lot of things including one “Thank you”
that was distinguishable.
Next, I gave him his birthday card from
his brother, Grady. He doesn't know how to open an envelope any more
so I did it for him and handed him his card. He doesn't read. I told
him it was funny and started to read it to him, but like before with
his sister's card, he opened it to the inside. Before I could finish
the joke, much less read what my uncle had written, he closed the card
again. I did manage to take a couple of pictures of him with his
cards. But then, I realized he had fallen asleep while looking at
them. My uncle had included a photo of the 3 of them -- Grady, Thelma
and my dad. I took a picture of it with my cell phone. My dad roused
pretty soon after that. So I tried to direct his attention towards
the picture and explained the people in it and when it was taken –
October 2001.
We had flown together, just he and I,
out to his home town in Arkansas. Shortly following 9/11, it was a
trip I would never forget and not for that reason only, but because
my mother had passed April 1 of that year. This was the only trip my
dad and I had ever gone on together, just the two of us.
Back in the present, he had fallen
asleep again, but he was holding the picture on top of his cards. I
was attempting to upload my picture of him with his cards onto
Facebook when he awoke and abruptly sprung from his chair and headed
for the door to the outside. I bolted after him catching him at the
door. I took the cards and the photo from his hands. He didn't seem
to like that. Said stuff in his special language, but his face showed
concern, maybe distrust, definitely displeasure. I told him I would hold them while he was
gone and that I would be right there when he returned. Don't know if
what I said was understood, or if his attention was just diverted by the
bright light beckoning him outdoors and that instinct, that addiction
he seems to have that causes him to walk much of the time.
I placed his cards in the glass wall
case outside his bedroom door. His room was neat and clean today. I
took the picture Grady had sent and placed in a frame on his dresser.
Maybe he will look at it some more? Maybe he will remember? Maybe it
will lend him some inner peace? Maybe it will cause the anxiety and
turmoil that descends on him in later hours of the day to vanish, if
only momentarily? I placed the bag of his favorite candies – the
butterscotch and the peppermints -- in his top drawer. I know he will
find them. As the day wears on, he becomes very concerned about “his
stuff,” churning through drawers continually looking for only he
knows what. Today he will find a surprise, a treasure!
I left his room with door open – the
way I found it, and proceeded back towards the living room. He is
now sitting in the dining room at a table with 2 others. He looks at
peace, without his teeth. He glances casually at me and I wave to
him, but he looks away. He doesn't know me again. I guess I don't
even look familiar to him.
And so I continue on down the hallway
that leads to the outside door. I almost want to run, like running
could cause the awfulness of my father's condition to suddenly
evaporate....like Superman did when Lois Lane died and he flew fast
around the globe several times turning back time. But I don't run. I
don't look back.
