This Is Dementia
As Dad and my family struggle with the insidious disease, I’m grateful for the love and care he has received
Dad told me he hated me last night. He flat out said it: “Do you think I’m stupid? I hate you.” We had just finished watching the Texas-Illinois basketball game when he turned to me and said, "I guess it's time to go." I tried to explain that there was nowhere to go; we were already at my parents’ home, the one he has lived in for almost 30 years. He was sitting in the plush, brown, but worn leather recliner he has sat in for the last 10 years. There was no convincing him. He was certain we were at the game, and he had no idea what a TV was. "How could we be home?” he said. “We were just at the game." I tried my best to comprehend what he must have been feeling. Imagine not knowing what a TV is and having your son try to explain that he wasn't at a game he had just watched. Now I was sitting across from him, trying to get him to understand we weren't. I understood why, for that moment, he hated me. This is dementia.
A couple of weeks ago, Dad was in one of the best moods I’ve seen him. He was chasing my son, Jackson, around. This was great to see because Jackson and our daughter, Annette, struggle significantly in their relationship with him. When Dad is at our house, he is often anxious or angry. Two hyper kids don't help the situation, and some of his anger is directed at them. Grandpa is often the reason my wife, Steph, or I must leave to help Grandma again. Explaining to a 7- and 9-year-old that this isn't really their grandfather often proves fruitless. They don't remember the doting grandfather who drove monthly to Chicago to babysit, change diapers, hold them, read to them and love them unconditionally. It has been one of the hardest things we’ve experienced after moving home this summer.
Anyway, back to Dad playing with the kids. Dementia clouds what is appropriate and what isn't. As Jack was climbing the stairs that day, Dad jumped out to scare him. Jack stumbled, then tumbled down 14 stairs, landing on the hard white tile at the bottom. He was fine, with a few scrapes and a couple of bruises, but it was nothing a candy bar couldn't fix. Dad, on the other hand, was a mess. The roles of life, as they say, had reversed, Jackson trying to convince his grandpa that he was OK between bites of a Three Musketeers bar. (A funny aside: While Dad was crying, he brought Jack $2 as part of his apology. Dad has always been notoriously cheap, and Jackson turned to me and asked, "Can I even get a candy bar with this?" It made all of us smile.) The next day and a half were tough on everyone; my mom and Stephanie, Dad’s two primary caretakers, were always there to clean up the mess. Finally, he forgot about it. This is dementia.
Deer season has always been a holiday in northern Michigan. The schools are closed on Nov. 15 each year for the opening day. My parents live on 100 acres of hunting land my grandfather left to them, so hunting has always been part of our life. I am not a big hunter (although I did shoot a 7-pointer this year with Jack), but it has always been a time for our family to be together (except for my sister, who often sends us pictures of Bambi on opening day). This year the day ended with my brother Scott and a family friend searching for Dad in the woods for almost an hour. He had gotten angry at my mother for some made-up reason that his brain had told him and walked out. This isn't the first time this has happened, and it won't be the last. My mother had managed to get his tracker on him before he angrily walked out the door. The device tracks his whereabouts but has a safe area so as not to alert us whenever he goes outside. After following Dad’s tracks through the snow, my brother found him not far from the house. This is dementia.
As I type this, I'm sitting in my parents’ living room. It is almost 11 a.m., and Dad is still sleeping. It took hours to persuade him to go to bed because he refused to believe he was in his own house. My mom had a cold and needed a night to rest, so she went with Stephanie to our house. Steph texted me and asked if I had checked to see if Dad was breathing. "I hope he isn't," I replied. And Dad would say the same if he could see himself now. He hated watching his parents and brother live with dementia. He vowed he would never live like that. Yes, my response to Steph was harsh, but I’m just being honest. This is dementia.
I'm sharing all of this for many reasons. I'm writing to thank my wife and mother for caring for Dad. I am writing for the families who deal with this horrible disease daily. I am writing because I try my best to remember the good times and think about all the people who couldn't do the things with their fathers that I did with mine. I am writing because I am angry at Dad for what he says to my kids and mother, even though I know he left us long ago. During the darkest times, as I try to comprehend why Dad and my family are being put through this, I wonder why assisted suicide isn’t legal. I truly believe that is what Dad would want. I share all this because you have all supported me for years, and I owe it to you, to be honest about what is happening in my life. This is my therapy.
I want to close with a funny story because this is dementia too. A picture of Mark Baldwin and me from this year’s Pebble Beach Pro-Am resides by itself on a table in the TV room. Last night Dad asked who was in the picture with me, so I explained who Mark was. (Keep in mind that Mark had met Dad this summer during a visit to Alpena.) "Why the hell does he get center stage in this room?” Dad said. “I don't even know who that is." I laughed through the tears.
I love you, Dad, and I'm sorry you have to endure this.