Dementia. The word has an ominous sound to it. And
well it might for it has taken my father. No, he is not
dead in the medical sense, but his mind is gone. Even
though I recognize his body he is no longer my father.
Some people say that although the body is mortal the
soul lives forever. But if the soul and the mind are one
and the same, then where is the soul of my father? For it
is not in his body. Has it already departed an 85-year-old
body that still functions, however feebly? Is it now part
of the eternal cosmos?
My father still recognizes my mother and a few other
people, but not many. He still remembers some things that happened a long time ago, but he gets his facts confused. Sometimes he becomes unstuck in time and is in another year. He will say he has to talk to the head of the Chemistry department at the university where he used to be a professor, about his job. He will bring up the subject repeatedly for several days.
On a day-to-day basis he remembers almost nothing. If my mother tells him something she will probably have to repeat it again and again. He cannot do much for himself. He can walk with the aid of a cane or walker, but he doesn't know the way around his own house where he has lived for 42 years.
My father's mental problems have gradually gotten
worse, but they have been evident for years. The first
symptom was his confusion in certain situations. Five years ago my parents came to California to spend Christmas with my family and me for the last time. My father couldn't find his way around my house, a foreshadowing of problems to come.
My mother waits on my father hand and foot. She gets
him up in the morning, dresses him, feeds him and takes him for short walks if the weather is good. She tries to keep him entertained, but about the only activities that interest him are listening to music on the radio and having her read to him. She does, although he listens with his eyes closed, not understanding much of what she says. She puts him to bed at night and then tries to grab a few minutes for herself. And all the while she remains amazingly cheerful.
He has forgotten how to use a bathroom. Although he
will use it properly if given step-by-step instructions by
my mother, she often has to clean up after him. He
constantly argues with her because he doesn't understand what she is telling him. She repeats her instructions, uncomplainingly, with infinite patience, taking care of her husband of 57 years who is not her husband. She says she will do it until he no longer recognizes her.
Once my father had a mind. A fine mind. He has a PhD in Chemistry. He worked in industry and as a college professor for many years, a normal working-life span. He could explain almost all scientific phenomena to my brothers and me.
My parents raised four boys successfully. They
traveled extensively and lived in Paraguay for two years.
They bought a small farm in western New York in 1950, and it is still their home. Although they didn't farm it
themselves, they maintained and improved it. My father
could fix many things. He laid concrete sidewalks. Once he built a brick bicycle shed. He played the piano and cello and sang in the church choir. He hiked the mountain trails of New York and New England with his family.
He was not always patient. Sometimes he lost his
temper with us, but we often deserved it. Now his
impatience is brought on by fear--fear that my mother will
desert him, fear that he will be disposed of. The man who
was always so independent can no longer fend for himself.
As my sister-in-law, who is a psychologist, pointed
out, this fear is not paranoia. People really are plotting
behind his back. We talk about putting him in a nursing
home. What else could we do with him if something happened o my mother?
Another question is, could he survive without her? He
becomes very agitated if she is gone for just a few hours.
She is his whole life, although he can offer her no more
than a low-level kind of companionship. Perhaps more than their dog and cats, but he is also a lot harder to take care of. He is as hard to take care of as a two-year-old, but two-year-olds can learn.
He is pleasant to be around much of the time. He can
converse, within limits. He tells certain stories over and
over. He can also be nasty when he is frustrated. He
recently called three of his grandchildren, who were
visiting my mother and him, "rotten people" because they
were trying to help him and he couldn't communicate his
needs to them.
It is sad. It is also frightening to me because maybe
I am seeing my own future in my father. I say, only half
joking, that if I become like him to leave me in the woods
with a blanket and some food. I don't want to be a burden
to anybody. And I don't want to lose my mind.
Why did it happen? He is not diagnosed as having
Alzheimer's Disease, but the effect is similar. He had
several strokes many years ago. Maybe they started a
progressive deterioration of his brain.
Does it matter what the exact diagnosis is? The facts
are that my father has dementia and his mind is gone. This is hard on all of us, but hardest on my mother. My brothers and I visit my parents, but then we leave. My mother is there 24 hours a day, taking care of him. And she will continue to take care of him--exhibiting amazing cheerfulness--until he no longer recognizes her.
