This is a revised version of Dad Has Alzheimer’s originally published on Our Downsized Life
Having a father with Alzheimer’s changes the way you celebrate Father’s Day. If you don’t give him a card or gift, he won’t know. If you call to wish him a happy day, he won’t remember as soon as you hang up. And during that call, he will ask you several times who you are, how old you are and tell you he is doing fine. Having a father with Alzheimer’s is hard.
Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2009, at the age of 84. He will be 93 in August. Dad recognizes my stepmother most of the time and doesn’t know anyone else. He no longer has that short moment of recognition after I tell him who I am. Still living at home, he requires constant care.
Growing up, I wasn’t close to Dad. He intimidated me and I tried not to make him angry. After my parents’ divorce, he would take my younger brothers out on weekends. I never went. I saw him infrequently, maybe once a month. After I graduated high school, I saw him less and less. As an adult, there were years I saw him only at Christmas. With my stepmother’s help, he built a relationship with most of his estranged children and we started seeing each other more often.
Every year, the Dad I came to know as an adult is fading away. That dad read books, watched the news and played video games with his grandsons. He finished basements, fixed leaking sinks and built a home at the lake. Dad enjoyed taking his grandchildren out on the boat and helped them learn to fish. He walked 18 holes of golf several times a week. He was quick-witted and loved to laugh.
After his mother passed, he told us about events in his life that he had kept secret from his children. We already knew his father had died in an industrial accident when Dad was 7 years old. We learned that Dad was running the streets at the age of 14 and his mother couldn’t handle him. With no husband and 3 other children to care for, she placed him in a work camp for boys. He was living there, going to school and learning a trade when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and the United States entered WWII. The home closed and all the boys old enough enlisted. Dad was 16. He found work and a place to stay with a mechanic until he could enlist.
Having Alzheimer’s has removed his filters. Last year, he told me about his experiences during WWII. I don’t believe he realized who I was and that he was telling these things to his daughter. Even as adults, he didn’t tell his children what he did there.
I knew he had been a Marine and thought he was an airplane mechanic. That day, he talked about shooting and being shot at and doing what he was told so he wouldn’t die. He talked about landing in Okinawa and seeing heads blown. He mentioned Iwo Jima. This was not a conversation. He was sitting in his chair, repeating over and over the same several sentences about the war. Often, asking himself a question about the war and then answering it. The same questions and answers over and over. I was sitting across the room and when I asked different questions, he didn’t answer.
We learned he did not reconcile with our grandmother until his discharge from the service. When our dad was already suffering the effects of Alzheimer’s, his younger brother filled in details of their life after their father died. Details about his treatment at the hands of his mother and grandmother that Dad had still wanted to keep from us. Details that didn’t completely agree with the version he had told us.
I wish I could ask him all the questions I have about his life and his decisions – good and bad. I wish I would have had the courage to do that before Alzheimer’s took so much away. Most of all, I wish I could talk to him now and he would know me.
When I visited him in January 2017, I got angry. Just the two of us were in the house. My step-mom, Mary, had gone out for lunch with a friend – a much-needed break. We were sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch. He was repeatedly asking for my name and when he found out I was his daughter, he would say, “I remember you when you were a little girl. You were a tough little thing.”
After several repetitions of this conversation, I raised my voice and said, “Dad. Look at me. Look at me. I am Peggy. Don’t remember me as a little girl. Remember now. Remember who I am NOW.” He just stared at me. He didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to take my words back. “I love you, Dad.”
“Dad? Am I your father?”
“Yes, Dad, you are. I’m Peggy.” I got up and cleared the dishes. “Let’s go watch TV, Dad. Lunch is done.”
Dad’s health has deteriorated since last June. He no longer takes Alzheimer’s medication and has trouble swallowing his other pills. Without going into details, he no longer argues when clothing decisions are made for him. He is getting lost in his own home, especially when looking for the bathroom. He is sleeping more during the day and needs help with everything. It is getting harder for Mary to do the daily tasks, even with a caregiver coming in a couple of times a week. He is on the list for a veteran’s nursing home. Mary is getting his things ready to go and tries not to show how guilty she feels.
I visited them in March. He didn’t know who I was but hugged me anyway. He was quiet and slept off and on while Mary and I chatted.
I called Mary last week to see how they were doing. After our chat, she asked me if I wanted to talk to my dad. I said, “Sure.”
I heard her talking as she brought him the phone. “Frank, do you want to talk to your daughter?”
“Ok,” I heard him say. “Hello?” he said, into the phone.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.
“What is this?” He said. Then silence.
Mary came on the phone. “He doesn’t know what to do with the phone. He gave it back to me. I told him it was you . .”
“It’s ok”, I interrupted.
I am now missing the many calls that were always the same. When he would ask me the same questions over and over. When he would repeatedly tell me he was fine. When he sounded happy that he knew who I was, even if just for the moment.
I will call him on Sunday. I pray that he is able to talk.
If you have a loved one with Alzheimer’s please comment and share your experience.
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