“This buggy sure is a nice ride.” dad said again and again about my truck. It was just last week when I had picked him up for dinner. He was in a good mood and hardly talked at all about mom or his car that night. He sipped on a Scotch and soda while we talked about a lot of different things. He learned to like Scotch when he was in the Army as it was the drink no one else wanted and hence it was plentiful.

We talked about places we’ve lived and people we’ve known. I told him stories about a really bad neighbor I had years ago and how she’d called the police on us several times for the kids ball going over the fence or because we said “hi” to her (literally). The kids used to throw prickly Sweetgum balls at her house when she wasn’t looking and even TP’d her trees and house one night when they had some friends stay for a sleep-over. Fortunately she never suspected my kids for that and even if she did, there was no way to prove anything. Toilet paper doesn’t hold fingerprints, although I’m sure if she’d thought about it, she would’ve demanded the police dust it. It was hard for me to be upset with my kids as she really brought it on herself. She was a very bad neighbor and we ended up moving because of her.

After telling dad about this wacky neighbor and all that she did, he said, “It’s hard to believe people can be like that but they can. People will do some terrible things.” he said shaking his head. He sounded so thoughtful and lucid that night and then he added, “You should given her this!” and he raised his middle finger and laughed.

Just a few nights later it was about 20 til 10 when my phone rang.

“Hi this is Alesa from Harbor House.”

My heart sank as I replied, “What’s going on Alesa?”

“Your dad asked that I call you. He’s been looking for his wife and wants his car back. We’ve been trying to calm him down and redirect him, but nothing seems to be working. Would you mind talking to him?”

Deja vu all over again. It was like 2 years ago when dad and mom had to be moved from their home to an assisted living apartment (for all of 3 days), to the hospital psyche unit and finally, to a nursing home. They both were very confused and often angry. Visiting them was a very unpleasant experience and filled me and my sister with dread. Looking for and demanding their car be returned was one of the major points of anger with them and they wouldn’t let it drop.

The aid handed the phone over to dad.

“Hi dad. What’s going on?

“I’m worried about your mom. I can’t find her anywhere. She never said goodbye to me and I don’t know where she is.”

God, that’s almost exactly what he said the day she died a little over a year ago. My sister, her husband and I walked in to their room and saw dad sitting on the edge of his bed staring at mom’s body laying in her bed just 3 feet away.

“I wasn’t able to say goodbye.” he cried. “I just don’t understand why she didn’t say goodbye.”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve never seen my dad emotionally upset, let alone crying his heart out. He was always a pillar of strength. He made up for all those years that day.

Dad and I talked for a while and I assured him that mom was okay. “She probably went shopping and is staying out at Chrissy’s.” I said.  I didn’t want to remind him that she was dead and risk upsetting him even more but it didn’t feel right. I’d played along with dad’s fantasies before and it seemed to help both of us, but tonight it was much more difficult to calm him.

After repeatedly promising to call my sister to make sure that’s where mom was and then call him back, did he finally start to calm down. Just as quickly as he let go of his concerns about mom, he went on to obsessing about his car because he had to go back to work. Finally after repeatedly assuring him that I would drive him to work did he calm down enough for me to say goodnight.

Visiting him the next day, he was very happy to see me. Surprisingly he talked about mom but this time it was to acknowledge that she had passed. He went on about how much he loved and missed her.

“I keep expecting to see her, to talk to her but I can’t find her anywhere.” The sadness dripped from each word he said.

We talked about how, if anyone deserved to go straight to heaven, it was mom. That she was undoubtedly looking down on him from heaven right now. I couldn’t help but think about how studies of long-term couples have found that when one dies, the other often dies within a few years if not sooner. Is that what will happen to my dad? It was obvious that more than anything he wanted to be with her. He ached for her.

I can certainly relate to what he wanted. Losing the love of my life is something I’ve never gotten over, I don’t know that I ever will. I still expect to see her, to talk to her, to hear her call my name . . . but she’s gone and I still ache for her too. It’s hard to avoid ruminating. You don’t want to not think of your lover because that would mean they really are gone. It’s a way to keep them alive and close to you. When I hear dad talking like that I can’t help but think of both our losses.

When you walk a black dog it’s very difficult to get over little things, let alone the death of a loved one. Over the years I’ve lost a good friend to suicide, my best friend to cancer, my mom, my daughter, the love of my life, trouble with my son, ex-wife . . . and now I’m watching my dad leave by bits and pieces. How much loss can a person stand? Except for my niece who has battled depression too, no one really understands.

The big ‘C’ or ‘H’ ?  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me give you the name of the best oncologist/cardiologist in the state. . . I’ll keep you in my thoughts and prayers. If you ever want to talk just call.”

The big ‘D’? Cue the crickets. You find out it’s a quick way to kill a conversation even when it’s brought up in passing. You can almost see them mentally twirling their finger beside their head like a little kid indicating you’re crazy as they try to figure out how to extricate themselves from the conversation.

More than anything the greatest hurt and anger came from people I love & who I thought loved me, who flat out didn’t believe in depression or apparently in me.

I know life happens, relationships end  & people die but when it happens a lot, over a very short period of time it can be hard to just get by. It’s like being on the crest of a hill on a roller-coaster . . . all the time. At the bottom is just a big dark hole that only goes deeper & deeper in the ground. It would be nice to have a little compassion sometimes. Someone to just be there for me.

If you can’t get any compassion, you can at least give some to others. That’s what I brought with me for my dad. I was uncomfortable & I wanted to leave at times but I didn’t. I stayed, listened to him and talked to him. I reassured him again and again even though nothing was sticking. As soon as the words left my lips, he would forget them.

After a few minutes of reminiscing about mom, dad looked at me and said, “Where in the hell is my car!?”

Smiling I asked, “What do you want a car for dad, you’re retired?”

He glared and pointed his crooked index finger at me. He was three feet away but I could feel his finger jabbing me in the chest just the same. “I’m not even going down that road with you! Do you have a car? Do you? What the hell do YOU need a car for?!” he snapped.

God, I felt like I was 6 years old again and he’d caught me playing with matches.

“Yeah, I have a car and I use it to drive to work.” I answered.

“BINGO!” dad snarled. “What the hell do you think I need one for?!”

I tried to smile and keep the mood light by saying, “I was just asking dad. I don’t know what happened to your car but we can find out. If necessary we can get a newer one or I’ll drive you to work.”

It went on like that for a while, actually a long while. I asked him if he’d like to go out the the front room of the house and he said, “Yeah, I suppose.” I was hoping to get him out around others and so get him distracted by interacting with them.

When I pulled his walker out and extended a hand to help lift him from his chair, he glared at me again.

“I don’t want to go out there. YOU said YOU wanted to go, not me!”

“Okay dad, we can stay here and talk. Eventually I was finally able to coax him out of his room and into the bright sun porch they have. It’s a great room surrounded by windows that look over a large back yard that has a big patio, several large shade trees, bird feeders and a walking path.

I got him settled in a chair, gave him a hug and a kiss and said, “I love you dad.”

“Oh, I love you too, kiddo. Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t dad, I won’t.”

This entry was posted on Monday, July 21st, 2008 at 6:07 pm and is filed under Alzheimer's, anxiety, family, love.