By JAMES JEFFREY
It was a Sunday a couple of months back when my father first forgot my name. My sister rang to break the news, exhausted but still managing to muster an air of mock celebration. “Congratulations. You’re now ‘the man with two children’.”
It had been coming for a while. We’d been warned our father’s form of dementia would go from gradual descent to nosedive. He’d been staying with me only the Sunday before. The morning had found him confused and angry, but by late afternoon his old personality surfaced in the bleak murk of his brain.
We worked together in the garden, knocking off now and then for a cup of tea. As the day faded, I lit a fire and we drank beer, watching a fat, orange moon blossoming among the branches of the jacaranda. He was only too aware of his disintegration, and while we talked about happier things — mainly his grandchildren — the dementia kept drawing us back. “After all I’ve achieved in my life, this is all it boils down to,” he mused.
If anything, this was harder than seeing him in the full grip of his disease. It was the most bittersweet of nights and, as it proved, the closing of a chapter.
The following morning, as I spread jam on his toast, he looked at me with a look of genuine curiosity and asked: “What line of work are you in?” This from the man who’d been the embodiment of excessive paternal pride, cornering even the vaguest of acquaintances to show them something with my byline on it.
By evening, he was hallucinating. I found him on the street, convinced the house had been invaded by a platoon of silent strangers. The house was empty, of course. I looked at Dad — the man who’d raised me and my sister almost single-handed — and saw a small, pale man cowering from phantoms.
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James, I think I'm in the same place you are in. In just the past few years my dad has changed so much. Every time I came back from college he was a little worse. First short term memory suffered, then distant memories became distorted for him. The way he perceives the world must have changed drastically. He asks about 3 different questions about 5 times a day now that I'm home, with no recollection of ever asking them before. How do you make yourself patient? The disease, like you said, exaggerates the worst tendencies. He's even more self-centered, and on some days, he acts like a temperamental 5 year old. I don't know what to do.
Hey James. I left a msg on twitter, but thought I'd let you know about my Mum. She was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma in Sept 2011, and given 3-5 yrs. Dad died in '68, so she's rather special like your Dad. I feel your pain in some ways. Yes, they Are 2 different types of grieving, and, as an Alzheimer's Coach I also empathise with what you are going through. Be kind to yourself mate.. that's what He would want of a son who he would talk about with pride and awe I suspect.. chat soon I hope..