Dusk

A Story by by.alice.gwen

a father with Alzheimer's

“Tell me about your children,” my father asks for the third or fourth time this week. “Are any of them in college?” I explain - again - that yes, two of them are getting ready to go to college.

“I’m sure they’ll find something they want to learn. College is a wonderful time.”

My dad is 77 and he doesn’t remember much anymore, but being in college still stands out as one of the best experiences of his life. He discovered his love of math and physics; his professors took an interest in him and encouraged him. He had a successful career as a physicist until he retired about ten years ago.

I haven’t seen my father in seven months. The decline is clear. He’s a little more passive, a little less able to do daily tasks independently. He has a harder time finding words to express himself.

He likes to do jigsaw puzzles with my mother, and he’s always reading something: a copy of Science magazine, or a book about inventions. We’re not sure how much he understands. My mother tells me, quietly, that she finds books for him in the children’s section of the library. One book can keep him occupied for months, because he doesn’t remember he’s read it before.

One day my mother tells him they’re going to the doctor�"she means they’re going to another chemo session, but she doesn’t say that�"and he has to take his pills. “Who’s sick, me or you?” he asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“You are,” she says gently. He doesn’t ask what the problem is, just swallows the pills.

“Alzheimer’s” is a scary word, and “cancer” is terrifying. My father is the only one of us who isn’t freaked out. He doesn’t look too far ahead. He seems to live in the present, pleasantly content for the most part.

“This is a delicious dinner!” he explains, beaming at me. “Did you cook it?” A few minutes later, he says it again, and I admit, it’s kind of nice to be complimented twice in one meal.

When my mother goes out on an errand, leaving me to watch him, she suggests that we put on a movie. “Try ‘My Cousin Vinnie,’ it’s his favorite. We watch it all the time.”

So when she leaves, I suggest watching a movie. “How about ‘My Cousin Vinnie’?” I ask. He looks at me placidly. “Have you seen it?”

He shrugs. “Probably. But I really don’t remember.” We enjoy the movie together, although it’s clear some of the jokes fly right above his head.

Later, I overhear him talking to my mother. “We’re leaving soon, aren’t we? When are we going home?”

“We are home.” I can hear the edge of impatience in mom’s voice. “This is where we live.”

When we finally get a minute together, my mother unloads her frustration: “I have to be with him 24/7. I can’t leave him alone for a minute! If I’m not around, he’s liable to come looking for me. He could wander off.” She tells me that she’s depressed and exhausted, and she’s gained a lot of weight from the stress.

I try to think of something encouraging to say. I remind her how pleasant and compliant he is. “It could be so much worse, I know,” she agrees.

In the evening we sit around reminiscing about past holidays, and my sister tells the story of one Passover when my son was five. He was hungry and wanted to eat, she recalls, but we kept telling him to wait for all the guests to arrive. He got so upset that he went outside and hid in the backyard, until we found him and gave him something to eat.

It’s a cute story, but I’m a little taken aback. “Are you sure this happened?” I ask. “I don’t remember it at all.”

“Absolutely,” she says. My sister is the one in our family who never forgets anything, so I can’t really argue with her. Then I wonder if this is how my father feels most of the time: confused and embarrassed, and a little unsure of himself. How can a memory just disappear?

During the last few days of the visit, my father tells me, again and again, “It’s so nice that you came to visit. It’s such a pleasure having you here.”

I smile. This is the essence of my father: appreciative and endlessly positive. It’s impossible not to love him. Seeing him like this feels like a gift, and I don’t want him to change.

The last day of the visit doesn’t go well. My mother and I argue, all the old resentments and miscommunications bubbling to the surface like always. We both say things that we regret, or at least, I regret saying them. I can’t appeal to my father for help anymore, ask him to reason with her or take my side. Our family dynamic has shifted and become unbalanced.

Dad doesn’t understand the argument, but he can sense my agitation. He watches me quietly for a few minutes, then asks, “Do you have any children?”

I have four, I tell him. He wants to know their names.

“And are any of them in college?” Two of them, I tell him.

“That’s wonderful,” he smiles, then adds, “It’s so nice that you came to visit.”

He never calls me by name. Only later do I stop to wonder if he ever recognized me.

© 2019 by.alice.gwen

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Reviews

KHBarr

Masterfully written. I don't have much to comment, but I wonder if the last sentence is necessary. "He never calls me by name." feels like a powerful ending to me.

Posted 4 Years Ago

Chris Shaw

Heartbreaking. I don't often follow story telling being a poetry freak, but your lines pulled me in. The fact that your Dad was a physicist an added pull because so was mine. Mine died quickly at sixty from cancer. Your Dad living older but suffering longer. Raised all sorts of questions in my head. So right about the dynamic changing in the family. Frustrations etc coming out. Great patience needed. I have to say your Dad appears to be content in his state, and that is far better than some I have seen while visiting my mum. This is poignant and so real. This could be us one day. Hopefully medical research will find an answer before too long. That's the best we can hope for. Good to read you.

Chris