Page 37 - FDCC_AgingParents

PATIENCE, PLANNING AND SUPPORT: REFLECTIONS ON DEALING WITH AGING FAMILY MEMBERS
leaves/needles as one would a young child. It seemed innocent enough.
But Dad had other ideas. I got a call. Dad decided to escape. He rolled out of the door he and I usually used for our walks and kept on going. He was already several blocks from the home when his progress slowed on a hill. The home’s personnel caught him there. Without a word spoken, Dad unintentionally convinced the facility to install a lock- down security system for residents throughout all the exit doors of the building.
Things grew worse. Dad forgot who his grandchildren
were despite their photos in his room. Then, he forgot who his children were. At first, we would correct him, but that would agitate him more. “Dad, how are you doing?” I asked on arriving for a visit. “Why did you call me ‘Dad’?” he growled back. “Who are you?” he demanded. I responded, “I’m Craig.”
“No, you’re not. You’re too old.”
“How old do you think your son is, Dad?” “He’s five,” came the response. “Then who do you think I am, Dad?” I asked. “I don’t know. You look like one of my uncles, but you’re not Craig.”
Yet he could hold a conversation on the phone with his older brother (sharp as a tack), where he and Dad would bust chops over where his tee shot landed on Westchester Country Club’s par-three fifth hole when they golfed together in New York on Saturday, May 17, 1952. We learned his memory was like a wave receding from a beach. Some of our family took these changes better than others, but it was never easy.
Soon, he spoke only of his childhood as if he was there himself. Later, he lay on his back like an infant for hours, just looking at his hands from all angles as he moved them. Then, one morning, I got a call. Dad passed the night before.
My brother was masterful in securing Dad’s grave and full military honors service at a National Cemetery nearby. Weeks later, his headstone was installed. It had the wrong date carved into it. Dave was weary by so much of what he’d done for Dad. Suzy and I felt the headstone error
would not sit well with Dad (even though he was gone) – he was so precise. Anticipating a long haul slog with the U.S. Department of Veteran’s Affairs, I winced as I initiated the inquiry to get the headstone fixed. To our shock, all we
had to do was submit a photo of the stone, both sides and a certified death certificate. Within a month, Veteran’s Affairs replaced the old stone with one with the correct date.
Ten years later, my mother-in-law, Lorrie, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and entered into a spiral similar to Dad’s. In the intervening years, courses on dealing with dementia in loved ones sprang up. My wife, Paula, took some, learning in advance much of what my siblings and I learned from experience. Today, Paula deals with her mom’s condition like a seasoned vet.
Lorrie went through the gruff temper stage. She resisted moving to Ohio to be near us instead of her hometown, Kansas City. Paula was able to involve Kansas health authorities so that Lorrie did not resent Paula for making her move. Then, during the COVID-19 shutdowns, Lorrie suffered a stroke of some sort, immediately developing aphasia, which left her unable to speak in any meaningful way. She speaks a “word salad.” We listen to her cadence and other patterns as she speaks, and while rarely knowing what she says, we see she is calmed, knowing we agree with her most of the time.
While dementia is a classic example of how “it isn’t about you,” the concept arises in other situations. My Mom, fighting the insidiousness of diabetes in her last year, underwent an amputation of her leg above the knee. Mom became extraordinarily depressed in the rehab facility following the surgery. She was always proud of her appearance, and her mind remained sharp with no doubts or misconceptions about her condition.
One evening, she spoke of how hopeless she felt, having lost her leg. She turned to me and seemed to look right through me, saying, “Touch my leg.” I turned paler than my normal beluga complexion. I got a clammy sweat that cold January night. Cool as a cucumber trial attorney, and I suddenly could not move. Did I want to touch my Mom’s leg, which was but a still healing, scarred red stump? Could I?
Looking into her eyes, I froze for an instant. Suddenly, I
34