A picture is worth a thousand words, and sometimes they’re worth a thousand feelings.
I was going through some old photos and came across one that triggered an emotional memory, like the ones I wrote about previously. It was of my Dad and his physical therapist at the dementia unit he resided in during the last nine months of his life.
Even the confusion from dementia didn't prevent his appreciation for a beautiful young woman. Dad’s wry smile was like a glance back to a different time. He didn't understand who she was or the purpose of the therapy but happily followed her instructions like a good student. He was losing his ability to walk and falling regularly.
My Dad spent most of his 60-year career in managerial roles. And he ran a tight ship. I know because I was one of those employees. It was my first job at 16, and he taught me much about job performance and honesty. That solid foundation served me well for the rest of my working life, and I'll always be grateful that he was my first boss.
In the beginning, dementia didn't prevent him from acting like a manager. Interestingly, during those nine months in the Alzheimer's unit, he often mistook the other residents and staff for his employees.
During one visit, my mom and I were sitting with Dad in the main visiting area. We were off to the side in chairs near the giant fish tank that he enjoyed watching. About seven other patients, all women, were seated around the long tables in the various forms of regress that are the hallmarks of dementia. Dad motioned at the others, shaking his head with disgust, and informed us that he wasn't sure "what was up" with these women.
"What do you mean Dad," I inquired.
"They come here every morning at 6 am and just sit around all day doing nothing. I'm surprised they haven't been fired yet. I'd fire them if they were my employees," he informed us.
My mother and I looked at each other, startled, and quickly attempted to conceal our laughter.
In the beginning, dementia didn't prevent him from wanting to leave. Dad was unsure of where he was but knew it wasn't home. Occasionally, he'd ask us to bring the car around so we could go. But, then, we'd have to say that he needed more therapy and couldn't leave just yet.
Those were the most challenging moments, knowing he wasn't ever going home. It was hard to believe that Dad would never sit in his brown leather chair again, watching his favorite TV shows. He wouldn't plant tomatoes and onions in the spring or make his daily rounds at the local grocery stores.
I wanted desperately to bring him home for the holidays, but we worried that he might refuse to go back. No longer able to care for him at home, it was a risk we simply couldn't take. And it made me feel like absolute shit. I never wanted to be a millionaire more than right then. I'd have hired around-the-clock private nursing care for both my parents.
In the beginning, dementia didn't steal his appetite. He continued to eat the food that came to him on a tray three times a day. They weren't like the meals mom cooked, and towards the end, everything had to be pureed. His ability to swallow was diminishing.
We would bring him home-cooked dishes and baked goods, which he ate with enthusiasm. I'd also get McDonald's french fries and chocolate milkshakes, and other take-out items that he used to love. It was incredibly satisfying watching him enjoy his old favorites.
In the beginning, dementia didn't steal his sense of humor. I recall an incident involving one of the other patients that showed how Dad still had his sense of humor.
Dick was one of my favorite people in the Alzheimer's unit. He was good-natured and smiling most of the time. One day Dick stood up from his chair and gave a "reach for the sky" kind of a stretch. As he stretched, he began to pass gas loud enough for everyone to hear. It was a long, slow puttering sound that lasted about five seconds, having no impact on him or the other residents sitting nearby.
Once again, my mom and I almost lost it, but we managed to control our giggles. At least until my Dad looked at us with a pronounced WTF expression and proceeded to roll his eyes and shake his head.
On another occasion, Dick came out of his room completely naked and walked to a window facing the road out in front of the building. He raised his arm, looking back and forth from his wrist to the window. I suspect he was waiting for a bus.
There were a few funny situations during the mostly somber months Dad spent in the nursing home, and we'll never forget them. Dad's clarity at those times allowed us to see a glimpse of the man we had always known and loved. But, they got fewer and farther between. We knew they would eventually disappear like a balloon that rises slowly into the sky.
Sadly, dementia did finally steal every part of my Dad, including his life. The placement in the nursing home only lasted nine months, but I had no idea of the full extent of my depression and pain until the day he passed away. I had a love/hate relationship with that facility. We couldn’t handle Dad on our own at home. But, they couldn’t handle him with the same love and care that we could provide.
I was with him at the end. The moment the hospice nurse announced that he was gone, I felt my spirit soar along with his. With a smile and tears on my face, I kissed his cheek and whispered:
"Hey, Dad, guess what? The therapy is finished. You're finally going home."
Author’s Note:
Based on his first symptoms, I never guessed that my Dad was ill with dementia. It started with a fall in the yard. Then, a few months later, another fall in the basement. He seemed to be shuffling his feet, and I wondered if it were Parkinson’s disease, although there was no visible shaking.
There were other minor signs that we missed or dismissed as “senior moments.” He seemed distracted and quiet. I found him in the TV room on his last Christmas Eve at home, staring blankly at the screen. The rest of the family was gathered in the living room. This was so out of character for my Dad, who always loved a good party. I asked if he was feeling okay. He said he was feeling fine.
But, as the issues progressed, he was eventually diagnosed with vascular dementia. I didn’t know much about the disease except that it was related to Alzheimer’s. I had no clue what was coming.
My dad’s been gone seven years now, and I miss him terribly. My regrets consist of not knowing enough ahead of time. Had I understood dementia better and the timeframe it might take, I could have been better prepared. Looking back, I feel like we flew by the seat of our pants. We were trying desperately to keep him safe from injuries through falling, wandering out the front door, and trying to drive the car after his license was canceled by the doctor.
If you know an older person whose behavior has changed, there’s a reason. Don’t be quick to dismiss forgetfulness as growing older. Encourage them to see the doctor and discuss any changes in their physical/mental/emotional states. Regardless of the condition, early diagnosis provides an opportunity to learn and prepare.
Trust me; you’ll be glad you did.
And if you know of someone that could benefit from this information, please share the post.
For more information on the various types of dementias, see the links below.
Resources:
How My Dad's Journey With Dementia Made Me Appreciate His Life