Remembering a Father Who Can't: Ch 6

    My father hasn’t been able to remember simple things for years.  I’m not entirely sure if he knows his own birth date, let alone anything else not horse-related. For years we’ve been searching for keys or a hat or the remote, and I have always been amazed at the places we would find them. The television remote was usually between the couch cushions or on the living room floor, but occasionally someone would happen upon it in the refrigerator. His hat could either be found on his head or on the cupboard door handle in the bathroom. And his keys, being the smallest, were not the most “fun” to find. They could be found inside shoes or coats, although I found them inside a sock once. Thankfully, they were always inside something you could shake, but searching for them always took more time and caused more grief than any of us would’ve liked.
    Winter of my fourth year of college turned my world inside out. Recovering from all the wrongs I thought had been done me in my youth was about to seem insignificant and somehow the healing process for past events accelerated.
    Mom called and we talked for about an hour on the weather and school, family and friends, and work or play. Then she told me Dad was having far more trouble remembering things than ever before. She said they were making appointments with specialist to find out what was wrong and that Alzheimer’s was not out of the question.
    Weeks of appointments went by without much discovery except that the doctor’s agreed something wasn’t right. They saw psychiatrists, motor specialists and neurologists, but a 45 year old man was far more difficult to diagnose with dementia than someone with his condition at the age of 80.
    Hundreds of miles from my family during a slow, agonizing crisis was difficult to grapple with on top of a full class load at mid-terms, but I did the only thing I could think of; I researched the disease. I read every book I could find and compared my findings with updates from the doctors and kept looking for more answers. Also, Mom and I prepared for the worst. We talked about wills and contingency plans in case I should need to rush home or help sell the horses or anything else that would need taken care of.
    After twenty years of owning horses, Dad has collected quite a large number of them and, should anything happen, Sam and William and I, knowing more on the subject than Mom, would have to orchestrate the care and sale of the animals and equipment. As the oldest, Mom was far more comfortable delegating this task to me if something happened to one or both of them.
    However, this arrangement did not set well with Sam because of my distance. She was hurt that she was not trusted with these details since she was closer and, therefore, more knowledgeable on these matters. I don’t particularly disagree with her, however, being the oldest has its responsibilities. Also, there was the matter of our 15-year old brother to consider and, when asked, he said he would prefer to live with me in Montana or our uncle in Missouri. Sam felt slighted at this, for which I can’t blame here, and so it hasn’t been brought up with her since.
    Sam wasn’t the only family member trying to influence Mom’s decisions about Dad. One of his brothers stated that he would take care of the horses if Dad was unable, and he would kindly consider it payment for anything Dad owed him. This infuriated Mom, but she simply told him that their care had already been arranged for. A few of Dad’s other family members attempted to lay claim to a few of Dad’s possessions or direct Mom’s decisions on what to do about Dad, but she gritted her teeth and stood by her choices in preparing for the worse-case scenario.
    After a slew of doctors and a laundry list of symptoms, a diagnosis was finally given; dementia. They couldn’t specify the type due to his age and several peculiarities in his symptoms, but dementia in any form is impossible to diagnose with 100% accuracy before they are able to perform an autopsy.
    As Mom told me about the doctors’ conclusions and decided course of action, I began to write. I had been familiarizing myself with all forms of dementia as well as a lay person could be expected to over a two month period. I wrote down questions and assumptions and feelings. My pages looked like my math notebook in high school, with formulas and sentences and exclamatory phrases written every direction across the paper. As I rattled off my questions for her to ask, she stopped me and chuckled as she said, “You certainly are curious. Just like a journalist.” We both laughed.
    Through scores of appointments, medications were discussed, sought, and soon prescribed to slow the disease’s dreadful progression. As medication has a unique effect upon each patient, several combinations were applied and monitored. Some upset his ulcers and others caused strange nerve-effecting changes in his limbs which he could describe only as “pinching,” “tingling,” or sometimes “flaming swords.”
    Dad soon found his work as a custodian a harder and harder task and almost an emotional impossibility. His inability to remember had long grated on his pride, but he had found fun in the young boys he befriended at the high school where he worked, however, the added stress of doctor’s, tests, and unanswered questions aided the rapid end to his daily grind. The arguments which ensued between him and coworkers or superiors soon overshadowed his small daily pleasures as he forgot them in anger.
    I cannot fault him for his anger as I’m sure I’d have done the same, but it came as no surprise that an agreement was reached on the detrimental effects of work on his health. It appeared that his anger and stress over daily episodes robbed him of more memory than it should since he frequently forgot his destination while driving, if not the way to get there, or why he had been going there in the first place. He also began to forget certain descriptive words and names, which was the most noticeable difference to me via the phone.
    So, after some investigation and planning, my father retired at the early age of 46. He then turned to his hobby horses with enthusiasm for all he could accomplish with so much extra time. However, he still had many doctor’s visits, new prescribed therapies, and old unanswered questions.
    Mom and I talked several times a week and discussed his condition, doctor’s visits, as well as our own personal struggles. A humble beginning for a greatly coveted friendship.
    Shared pain and uncertainty are strange bonds that create an unbreakable confidence between two people, regardless of age, experience or distance.