A Presbyterian since 1969—when he converted from Catholicism in order to join a church with my Mom—my Dad suddenly decided in 2008 that he wanted to go back to the Roman Catholic Church. The only Catholic left in both our immediate and extended families, he looked to me, his eldest daughter, for help.
It was a warm September afternoon when we had our first conversation while enjoying lunch on the sunny patio of an Italian restaurant in Paradise Valley.
I said, “Have you asked Mom?”
“Um. No.”
“You better ask her, Dad. I think that’s a conversation you should have with Mom, not me.”
Meaning: This wasn’t a conversation I particularly wanted to have with my mother. I could only imagine how she might feel about her husband going back to the Catholic Church.
As adamant as he had been about his conversion to the Presbyterian Church, Dad became equally adamant about going back to the Catholic Church. Perhaps because his mother was Catholic. Perhaps because he had been an altar boy and had strong memories of the Catholic Church—memories he thought he might be able to hold onto. I didn’t really understand why.
But for many months, every time I saw him, and as soon as my mother was out of earshot, he asked if I would take him. And I kept answering, “Have you talked to Mom, yet?”
“Um. No.”
In July of this past summer, my Mom and I concluded we needed to take stronger measures to slow down my Dad’s decline. I told her about his request to go back to the Catholic Church. As we talked more about it, we agreed that going to the Catholic Church—rich in ritual and repetitive activity and 2,000 years of tradition—might help his motor ability and his memory. And he wanted it so badly, it seemed wrong to say no.
Most Sundays since then, I drive to my parent’s house, pick my Dad up and bring him to 10:30 Mass at St. Patrick’s Catholic Community in Scottsdale, where my son and I have been parishioners since 1996.
We Catholics joke about our rituals—how being Catholic is like riding a bike; you never forget when to sit, or stand, or kneel, or how to make the sign of the cross. But Dad can’t remember any of the rituals from one week to the next. So, I quietly show him what to do and he repeats after me. Otherwise, he looks and acts normal to me and to everyone else in the congregation.
And since I’ve been going to our church for 14 years, and have been involved in nearly every ministry, a lot of people know me and want to meet my dad. They start conversations with him as though he were a regular dad. He smiles his charming smile and shakes their hand and laughs at their jokes—and most walk away having no idea that he has dementia.
One Sunday in November, I picked him up, we climbed into my truck, snapped in our seat belts and headed down the driveway. As soon as we reached the road, he said, “So, where were you born?”
My heart stopped.
Minutes later, or so it seemed, I answered, “East Orange, New Jersey.”
He said, “Really! That’s where we’re from. Small world!”
I said, “Really! Where in East Orange?”
And he launched into the history of his life in New Jersey. He flashed his charming smile at me as he talked about meeting my Mom in high school and wooing her in college, having his first daughter (that would be me) at a Catholic hospital in Montclair, New Jersey, living in a tiny apartment in East Orange, then moving to a house in Cedar Grove and having more children (my siblings).
A few weeks before, my sister-in-law shared with me that my Dad had told her all about the nice lady who helps him go to church on Sunday. I understood how he might not remember who I was when I wasn't in the room. It never dawned on me that he could no longer connect that same nice lady with his eldest daughter sitting right next to him in her truck.
But on this cool November morning, I listened to every word my Dad said and interjected questions at appropriate moments as though I were a stranger making conversation with the nice gentleman who I helped go to church every Sunday. And throughout our conversation, my mind could not stop churning around what would become my new world view—my Dad has absolutely no idea who I am.
dementia brain injury my father Dad family Catholicism daily life
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Memory Lost
Before we start Christmas dinner, each member of my family takes a turn at giving thanks for something in their life. There are a lot of us, generally between 15 and 20 at holiday dinners, so this process takes a while and the food gets cold, but it makes us happy.
When his turn came a year ago, my father said, “I’m thankful that each day I wake up and I remember my name.” We chuckled. Uncomfortably.
My dad is a charming man and a warm man, but he has never been demonstrative. Since that Christmas, however, whenever he gave me a goodbye hug, he hugged hard. Really hard. And held on as though he'd never let go.
I didn’t completely understand then. He was healthy; it’s not as though he was dying and had to worry about whether or not this was the last time he would see me. He didn’t have Alzheimer’s disease, just a brain injury that left him a little spacy. Well, he was always a little spacy, so what’s a little spacier?
I’m thankful that I never pulled away or was irritated by his sudden demonstrativeness. Because now I realize that he wasn’t holding on to me—he was holding on to his memory of me. Before any of the rest of us understood, he knew. He knew he was losing his memory.
dementia brain injury my father Dad family daily life
When his turn came a year ago, my father said, “I’m thankful that each day I wake up and I remember my name.” We chuckled. Uncomfortably.
My dad is a charming man and a warm man, but he has never been demonstrative. Since that Christmas, however, whenever he gave me a goodbye hug, he hugged hard. Really hard. And held on as though he'd never let go.
I didn’t completely understand then. He was healthy; it’s not as though he was dying and had to worry about whether or not this was the last time he would see me. He didn’t have Alzheimer’s disease, just a brain injury that left him a little spacy. Well, he was always a little spacy, so what’s a little spacier?
I’m thankful that I never pulled away or was irritated by his sudden demonstrativeness. Because now I realize that he wasn’t holding on to me—he was holding on to his memory of me. Before any of the rest of us understood, he knew. He knew he was losing his memory.
dementia brain injury my father Dad family daily life
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Momentum
Author's Note: The post below was originally written last July. At the time, I didn't have the heart to publish it. I completed the post, gave it an editing pass, let my mouse hover over the "PUBLISH" button, then stopped. Angry. Angry at myself for giving up so soon. My dad hadn't given up; how could I.
Our unwillingness to give up set in motion a flurry of activity focused on arresting my father's dementia, and preserving his memory and physical ability to function in the world. Little did I know that six months after writing this post, I would be thankful that my dad didn't remember what I did for a living, but at least remembered who I was.
He hasn't given up yet. And neither have I. But our goal now is to preserve his dignity and give him what joy we can within his capability for comprehension.
And surrender to the knowledge that no matter what we do, each day he will decline.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
July 24, 2009
We want to feel like we’re moving forward. We want to grow in love, grow in knowledge, strength, intelligence, fitness and happiness. And we want to see those we love grow, too.
We want—no, we expect things to look forward to in our lives and in the lives of our friends and family—the next relationship, the next job, the next award, the next wedding, the next graduation, the new house, the new promotion, the new dress, the new friend.
My dad will not move forward anymore. There will be no more growth or new or next. With luck, and a lot of time and attention, maybe we can keep him from sliding so deep into dementia that he no longer knows where he is or who we are.
Maybe.
I watched a friend of mine take care of his elderly dad for years. He would bring him every Tuesday night to Bible class and every Sunday to church. His dad had been a nuclear physicist and had been one of the best and the brightest when this science was in its infancy. He was a sweet dear old man whose brain was afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease. And all I knew was the sweet dear old man. I never knew the brilliant scientist my friend knew as his dad.
And this is part of life. Right? People grow old and sweet and mindless. And aren’t we supposed to accept it gracefully?
Sure.
I didn’t know my friend’s dad when he was brilliant, but I did know the brilliant man who was my dad. Top of his class in high school. Princeton graduate. First salesman at IBM to demo a then little-known invention called a hard drive. Turned an insurance company around as its CEO. Midas touch with real estate and investments.
Truly brilliant.
In his own way my dad is a new man now. A brain injury has turned his brilliant mind into marbles rolling about in peanut butter. My mom and I talk to each other while he looks on, trying with all his might to comprehend our conversation. And every so often, for a blink of an eye, the marbles all line up, he tunes in and you can see his mind churning out a brilliant thought. But like a lucid moment in a dream, before it’s fully formed and he can say it out loud, the thought is gone. Then, his face twists into confusion, he shakes his head and mumbles. And that’s the end of the conversation.
What once was a lively and constant intellectual challenge—keeping up with my dad’s mind—has become a moment of sad realization.
We took my dad today to visit an adult day care center. A lovely place, filled with energetic happy people who are good at what they do and truly love caring for the elderly. I should be happy that we found such a lovely place with such wonderful people.
Forgive me if I’m not.
Today forced me to admit that I’ll never have the same relationship with my dad again. Never mind that I can’t rely on him for investment advice or to help me install a new faucet. No, this is what is tearing me up—I may never again be able to go to him for career advice because he can’t remember what exactly it is I do.
dementia brain injury my father Dad family daily life
Our unwillingness to give up set in motion a flurry of activity focused on arresting my father's dementia, and preserving his memory and physical ability to function in the world. Little did I know that six months after writing this post, I would be thankful that my dad didn't remember what I did for a living, but at least remembered who I was.
He hasn't given up yet. And neither have I. But our goal now is to preserve his dignity and give him what joy we can within his capability for comprehension.
And surrender to the knowledge that no matter what we do, each day he will decline.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
July 24, 2009
We want to feel like we’re moving forward. We want to grow in love, grow in knowledge, strength, intelligence, fitness and happiness. And we want to see those we love grow, too.
We want—no, we expect things to look forward to in our lives and in the lives of our friends and family—the next relationship, the next job, the next award, the next wedding, the next graduation, the new house, the new promotion, the new dress, the new friend.
My dad will not move forward anymore. There will be no more growth or new or next. With luck, and a lot of time and attention, maybe we can keep him from sliding so deep into dementia that he no longer knows where he is or who we are.
Maybe.
I watched a friend of mine take care of his elderly dad for years. He would bring him every Tuesday night to Bible class and every Sunday to church. His dad had been a nuclear physicist and had been one of the best and the brightest when this science was in its infancy. He was a sweet dear old man whose brain was afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease. And all I knew was the sweet dear old man. I never knew the brilliant scientist my friend knew as his dad.
And this is part of life. Right? People grow old and sweet and mindless. And aren’t we supposed to accept it gracefully?
Sure.
I didn’t know my friend’s dad when he was brilliant, but I did know the brilliant man who was my dad. Top of his class in high school. Princeton graduate. First salesman at IBM to demo a then little-known invention called a hard drive. Turned an insurance company around as its CEO. Midas touch with real estate and investments.
Truly brilliant.
In his own way my dad is a new man now. A brain injury has turned his brilliant mind into marbles rolling about in peanut butter. My mom and I talk to each other while he looks on, trying with all his might to comprehend our conversation. And every so often, for a blink of an eye, the marbles all line up, he tunes in and you can see his mind churning out a brilliant thought. But like a lucid moment in a dream, before it’s fully formed and he can say it out loud, the thought is gone. Then, his face twists into confusion, he shakes his head and mumbles. And that’s the end of the conversation.
What once was a lively and constant intellectual challenge—keeping up with my dad’s mind—has become a moment of sad realization.
We took my dad today to visit an adult day care center. A lovely place, filled with energetic happy people who are good at what they do and truly love caring for the elderly. I should be happy that we found such a lovely place with such wonderful people.
Forgive me if I’m not.
Today forced me to admit that I’ll never have the same relationship with my dad again. Never mind that I can’t rely on him for investment advice or to help me install a new faucet. No, this is what is tearing me up—I may never again be able to go to him for career advice because he can’t remember what exactly it is I do.
dementia brain injury my father Dad family daily life
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Grit and Poetry
Hmmm. So what would make me start a blog entry with these two words?
Simple answer. Tim Tebow and Urban Meyer.
Hmmm. So how did those two names ever get connected with poetry?
Not so simple answer.
The story starts with my love affair with football. Which, in truth, I never really understood until two years ago when a friend took me to my first professional football game. At the Superbowl. Yup. The Pats and the Giants in Arizona.
As you might imagine, it was a first-time football experience on steroids.
Then there is my love affair with the Gators. Just this year, a girlfriend asked me, “How can you be a Gator. When. You. Never. Went. To. Florida.”
And she said it just like that.
Ok…so I guess we need to begin our story even farther back than Superbowl XLII.
Eleven years ago, I met Susan Fuchs at work. It was hard to miss Susan’s office for all the orange and blue paraphernalia, not to mention the various and sundry alligator replicas, decorating her workspace. Then, one morning in 2000, she came into the office with eyeglasses askew and a voice barely audible from having personally screamed the Gators men’s basketball team to victory during a crucial March Madness game.
On that day, I finally confessed my secret to her. I was jealous. Truly jealous. Truly, madly, deeply jealous.
I went to art school, not college. Our only sports team was a tennis team. A tennis team that actually took me in as a member. If you’d ever seen me play tennis, you’d know what a dismal statement that was. We didn’t even have a mascot. After all, what would we be? The Pratt Institute Paintbrushes?
I explained to Susan how fortunate she was for having experienced such a full college life—a life she could re-experience regularly through her passion for Gator sports. She answered, “Why don’t you come to our viewing of the final game of the NCAA tournament?”
How fun, I thought! So I went. The Gators gave me a blue t-shirt. Taught me the fight song. The game was thrilling. We were ahead. Then behind. Then ahead again.
Local NBC affiliate, 12 News, showed up to film those crazy Gators routing their team onto victory all the way west in Phoenix, AZ. We screamed. We yelled. We were ahead. Then behind. Then ahead again.
I vaguely remember a camera pointing my direction. We screamed. We yelled. We were ahead. Then behind. Then ahead again. Alas, in the end, we lost.
Channel 12 ran our story that night. And there was my face. Plastered all over the TV. Immortalized on the 10 p.m. news as the Gator poster child. And the Gator Nation welcomed me with open arms.
I’ve been a Gator ever since. Through good seasons and bad. I’ve got the beads. The alligator replicas. The name badge. The t-shirt. Even the blue and orange toenail polish.
But for the last three years, under the inspired coaching of Urban Meyer and the passionate leadership of Tim Tebow, being a Gator has been nothing short of magical. And I’ll remain eternally grateful to the Gators and Susan for having embraced me so that I could enjoy it as a member of the Gator Nation.
My language skills aren’t honed well enough to craft the poetry those of us in the Gator Nation experienced. Maybe Homer could have accomplished the feat. But since Homer never met Tim Tebow, I’ll let Pat Horan, editor of this video mashup of the 2008 season, tell his gritty version instead.
leadership Florida Gators college football
Urban Meyer Tim Tebow daily life writing
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