He was pale. His brow was damp. His blue eyes looked more blue for the tightening of his pupils. The Tardive Dyskenesia made his jaw cock side to side and his fingers drum rapidly. I could barely stand the sound of his dry tongue in his mouth, a response to heavy anti-depressants. For many, many months doctors and therapists had claimed, “severe depression,” but today someone finally said, “your dad has Alzheimer’s.”
The neurologist also said, “you won’t die of Alzheimer’s, you will die with Alzheimer’s. Our patients generally die of pneumonia when they become too sick to get out of bed.” He said “here is some literature,” and “come see me in two months.” He did not say, “I am sorry,” or “I know this is hard to hear.” He left the room. The silent neurology resident followed him like a strange lamb observing how flocks are slaughtered.
We drove home listening to the Beatles. I asked him if he recalled hearing them for the first time. He did. “Did they sound like something new?” He said they sounded “happy.” The first time he heard them was after returning from Japan. He was stationed in Okinawa as a Navy doc during the Vietnam War. “Will you write down your other stories for me?” Sure. “The Harry the Hat stories, and the one about canned peaches at your aunt’s house?” Sure. “And that bully you punched?” Yes. We laughed. He put his hand on my arm. He said, “I am sorry; I know this is hard for you.” He always said the right thing at the right time. I have never known another human who finds such ease in others’ feelings.
I took him home. He told mom. She did not cry. He reached out his hand to her. She sat, teacup in one hand and his hand in the other, disappearing into her oversized floral chair. He bent to hug her. I took the teacup. Her long, lean arms slung around him. I crept away. More tea.
I peeked in from the kitchen many minutes, but not a word, later. They had moved to the couch where he could lean on her. She was in the sun. He was in the dark, split into slats by thin bands of light creeping through the wooden shudders. I brought toast with too much butter like he liked it, like she complained about, and three fresh cups of tea. We said nothing I can recall. I haven’t decided yet if memory means more, or less, as of that day.
Then he got up to call his son. A credit to what the disease had not yet touched, he made up an excuse to get off the phone within minutes of delivering the news. He paused in the hall. When he returned to us, the room was dark.
“I need somewhere to collapse.” My mom and I stood, sweeping books and laundry from the couch, making way for him. “No; I don’t want to lay down.” He leaned toward me. I recalled suffocating my tears into his shoulder the first time he took me to hear the orchestra. His shoulders now slumped and subtly shook. Crying overtly would be a disservice to our forty-year history of just gently holding on.
He sat down, finally, like a child with both arms hanging between his knees. He put into words what most of us say with tears. He said, “I feel heavy things falling down on me.”
In his seventies, he reduced his private practice hours in order to work one day a week at Lutheran Social Services. He did it again when Tennyson needed infant care. He loves babies. Do other dads stay nearby and offer breastfeeding advice? With my parents doing childcare for me, I felt like I got to witness how they raised me–what a practice in gratitude.
“Yes. There has always been hatred and extremism and war. But now children see it everyday. They have access to images and stories and videos because media and information have changed. It doesn’t matter if there is more violence in the world. Our perception of the world is more violent than it once was, and it is that perception that shapes our well being, our sense of safety and our mental health. I worry about that for children and I worry about access to guns. Talk about violence and their fears, but talk about peace too. Talk about solutions and let them know they are safe.”
are losing a little of him everyday. I miss him sometimes after spending the day with him. We will miss his thrilling intelligence and stories of American history, adventures in Fargo and recollections of his cousins. Alzheimer’s feels some days like a sickening long goodbye. Alzheimer’s also has the potential to feel socially awkward. Luckily for us, nothing new there. A nurse recently said, “He seems to be growing more quiet and thoughtful. He didn’t want to talk about the weather.” My mom and I just laughed. Some days I’m angry that the universe paid him back for his service by afflicting his mind. But mostly, I am grateful he is turning eighty today and I am still his girl.
This I can do!! Doesn’t it just give you HOPE? Its all the mindfulness you can muster, with a hint of reality and a dash of forgiveness. Its understanding that I can’t always change my messy microclimate, but I can adapt to it. Its acknowledging that seasons affect us and consistency will be rare. “Mindful mess” is the sweet spot between frantic red squirrel and glorious red tree. We know this place deep in our roots; its all the fun of finger painting and none of the restraint of the canvas. Survival, after all, is a messy and artful thing.
2% Magic 