[Critique Group 1] resending Marcia's piece for Deanna

[Marcia Wick]

Test.Leonard and Cleora can ignore.

 

Dad's Disappearing Act

Marcia J. Wick

November 2018

Word Count:  1189

 

 

I watch as the caregiver tentatively approaches Dad with his morning orange
juice. She doesn't want to startle him; he doesn't know who she is. For that
matter, he doesn't recognize me either. The fourth of six children, I am on
hand to observe and orient the new in-home care provider during her first
day on the job.

 

Decades ago, when Mom and Dad were lucid, our family agreed that we would
help our parents age in place at home instead of moving them into a
retirement community. From a financial point of view, it made sense- the
cost of assisted living these days is $4,000 to $8,000 per person each
month! Of course we had no idea then what helping them age in place at home
would ultimately entail. 

 

It's been four years since the first hints of Dad's memory loss at age 90,
Then he developed oral cancer. The man never smoked one day in his life, but
he did research with atomic energy during the 1950s while in the Air Force.
Was that the cause of the cancer? No one could know. The anesthesia, twice
because the cancer recurred, perhaps accelerated the memory loss that had
already begun. 

 

When the time came to hire a caregiver, both Mom and Dad resisted the help.
After 40 years of managing and maintaining their retirement home without
assistance, they felt their privacy was being invaded. We argued that our
90-year-old Mom, weighing barely 90 pounds and struggling with Macular
Degeneration herself, couldn't lift Dad without help when he first arrived
home after surgery. Mom couldn't admit that Dad's memory was fading; she was
in denial over her own weakening and confusion. She expressed sour
displeasure when we remained ever-present even after Dad had mostly
recovered from his first operation. 

 

Following his second surgery, Mom could no longer fight us on Dad's need for
constant care, although she continued to refuse help for herself. Our
youngest sister moved into their house full-time.  For two years, even with
six of us and a paid caregiver, we had our hands full with the two of them. 

 

Then, Mom fell - abruptly, unexpectedly, traumatically - one minute, she
stood talking with Dad and his caregiver, and then she crashed like a tree
to the ground, cracking the back of her skull on the rock hard tile which
she herself had selected 40 years earlier for the elegant entryway to their
then-new home. It was a game-changer. She fought for three weeks to recover,
but she simply lacked the strength and succumbed. 

 

Now, we follow Dad's lead as he continues his journey "alone." At first, he
was confused as to why his wife of almost 70 years would "leave him." We
tried to comfort him, placing photographs of her pretty face throughout the
house, and making frequent visits to the cemetery.  

 

This October, on the first anniversary of Mom's death, we gathered with Dad
at her grave. His children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren chatted
and laughed as we freshened the flowers and told family stories. Dad sat on
his walker that comes with a flip-down seat, and stared at the marker,
asking again and again, "Where is my wife?"

 

We vacillated, trying to explain the afterlife to this man who has lost the
ability to understand. We assured him that Mom was in heaven waiting to be
reunited with him (at the same time urging he not be in a hurry to leave
us); still confused, we proposed the more scientific explanation that Mom's
body was buried, warm and peaceful, beneath the well-tended green grass.

 

"But, where will I go?" he demanded. 

 

Again, we offered variations on the concept of heaven, burial, and the
separation of our eternal soul from our earthly body. Thankfully, we were
the only group at the cemetery that day so there was no risk of appearing
irreverent as my brother and sisters alternated lying down side-by-side on
top of Mom's grave, blinking at the bright cerulean sky, holding hands,
demonstrating how Dad would lie next to Mom like they used to in bed. Dad
didn't seem bothered by our silliness. Somehow, I think he knew we were
trying to help him comprehend, trusting us when he was most vulnerable - not
knowing who we were. Dad asked if any of us had known his lovely wife. It
struck me then, even while he  was looking at the marker for "Barbara,
beloved wife and mother," that he was beginning to forget her name.
Eventually, Dad tired of sitting outside and we headed home.

 

At 94 with Alzheimer's, it's as if Dad is performing a slow disappearing
act. The father I've known for more than 60 years is vanishing from view. He
no longer resembles the intrepid mountain climber, the Air Force officer,
the confident chemistry teacher, or the world traveler. 

 

I tried to see Dad through the caregiver's eyes as he sat wordless, watching
birds outside the window, tapping his chest, and forgetting to eat the
breakfast she has placed in front of him. Imagining how Dad must appear to
the caregiver as she was meeting him for the first time, I was saddened she
would see only the shell of a man - stooped, shuffling, wobbly, confused,
and smelling slightly of urine due to overnight incontinence. Most of his
teeth are missing from his two bouts with oral cancer; his dentures weren't
yet in place. As always, he sat with the morning paper, flipping through the
pages front to back, back to front, and front to back again.

 

"What's in the news?" I ask.

 

He hangs his head and says, "I don't know."

 

When the caregiver prompts him to drink his juice, he stares blankly,
uncertain what she'd said either because he isn't wearing his hearing aids
or his brain can't process her words. The new aide couldn't know that the
newspaper, orange juice, and a mug of hot tea have been part of Dad's
morning routine for most of his lifetime, nor could she know my pain at
seeing the ritual fading. 

 

He is amiable, not angry; polite, not belligerent. We are grateful for small
favors. He doesn't wander or put himself at risk, but he needs prompting to
eat and use the bathroom. He eats well and sleeps soundly. His heart and his
lungs and his kidneys are strong. He sits wordless for endless hours
coloring with pencils in his special coloring book for seniors, but he can
no longer put together the pieces of a jig saw puzzle.

 

It's a mixed blessing -Dad has forgotten he is a widower, he doesn't miss
his missing teeth, he doesn't mind a bevy of "strangers" hovering about him
every moment. He is unaware that his loving daughters are helping him
toilet, bathe, and dress. He can't remember the word for "robe," and at
times doesn't recognize his own home.

 

Today, the caregiver sees a man bent over his walker, dragging his slippered
feet, uncertain of the direction to the bathroom. Although the aide is kind
and compassionate, I am compelled to follow them and flood her with stories
of Dad's disappearing past.

 

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