At the risk of bumming some people out, this blog is meant to be cathartic. I am writing this because I need to rather than want to. I’ll understand if I don’t have any hits on my blog this week.
My maternal grandfather was a vibrant man. Even in advanced age he was always busy with one project or another. His mind was sharp, and he able to convey his ideas and viewpoints –no matter how antiquated or absurd- clearly. Sometimes too much so for those who disagreed. He was always grand company regardless. Then one day he had a heart attack, but that was the least of his worries.
His wife of sixty-two years, in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s, had been institutionalized six months earlier. She passed shortly thereafter. Their relationship was one only because they happened to have a piece of paper that said so. My grandmother had become something alien to the rest of the family. While most of us summarily dismissed her senility, my grandfather held on to memories of what once was so tightly, he only put her away out of fear she may cause bodily harm to herself, or worse yet, to him. Little did he know the damage had already been done.
My first wife and I were away on vacation in Barbados. Two days after we’d left, “Pop” walked to the end of the driveway to retrieve the days mail, just like he had done for all of his retired life. He became short of breath, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He drove himself to the Immediate Medical Care Center the next town over. The doctor determined he’d be better off in a hospital where he could undergo a battery of tests to find out the precise cause, and exactly how much harm had occurred. This was the first time he’d ever been admitted to a hospital in his ninety-two years on the planet.
No one bothered to notify my soon-to-be-ex-wife or myself. No one wanted to disturb our vacation because they assumed my grandfather would be fine in a few days. We were told of the news immediately upon our return six days later. That afternoon we went to visit him not bothering to unpack.
We found him in good spirits. He was sitting up, and his demeanor was jovial. He wanted to know all the details of our trip. He was confident he’d be home in no time. Five days later we visited him again.
Doctors had found his body was riddled with several different forms of cancer. This time when we saw him he was heavily sedated and semi-conscious. This is what they commonly refer to as “making one comfortable.” He was unable to even acknowledge our prescience. He died in his sleep two days later. It’s different with my Dad.
Like many sons, when I was young I worshipped the ground my father walked on. Any time he spent with me alone was precious. Whether he was telling me his stories of sailing the world as a teenager with Standard Oil, or taking me on clandestine rides on his motorcycle (my grandparents disapproved), or on the rare occasion of going to a ballgame (football or baseball), each moment I valued as if it were gold. And then my parents divorced.
I resented both parents, but my mother more than my father for a while. My mother found it necessary to abase my Dad at every opportunity, saving the most damning denunciations for after I returned from visiting him in Ohio. Without fail I’d return from one of these bi-annual excursions in tears, inconsolable for having left him. I begged to come live with him. He said he wouldn’t be able to take proper care of me. In my adult years, I knew that was horseshit.
In 1968, he decided to remarry. I was devastated. He took on a whole new pre-made family and I became in my mind, Wade-who? I still felt the same about him, but I no longer thought it reciprocal. When I turned eighteen I was convinced this was true.
A disagreement over college funding caused a rift so severe; I didn’t speak to my father by choice for the next seven years. Occasionally, I sent off derogatory missives written while in an altered state, and I was cordial at two family funerals, but that was about as far as it went. My first wife insisted that he and the rest of my extended family be invited to our wedding against my protestations. Subconsciously, I set out to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. Regrettably, I think I succeeded. If you consider snorting cocaine off the roof of my car in front of him enough to cause an estranged parent to feel anxiety. Now that my first wife had opened the lines –no pun intended- of communication, a trip to Utah to see my father was planned.
My hair in a ratstail, sunglasses even at night, all my clothing black, including requisite leather motorcycle jacket, my ear pierced multiple times, and an earcuff for good measure, made quite a picture for him to absorb. Most graciously he kept his opinions to himself. And when a patron at a local supermarket pointed at me and declared “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT GUY!” My father came to my defense chastising the individual for being so uncouth. We shared beers at a local bar. We laughed again just like we used to. I felt sad of the seven years I could have with him, even if it was only a part of him. I was looking forward to his next trip east to visit us after the impending baby was born. My father came sooner than he expected.
I had had my now infamous motorcycle accident that I’ve mentioned before in previous blogs. When I came out of my coma, my father’s face was the first one I saw. I thought to myself: Didn’t I just visit him? I must be in some serious shit if my Dad is here. My ex tells me she couldn’t have gotten through that period without all his help and comfort. He was a bigger man than I for sure.
After I got divorced, my son Cory and I made another trip to Utah followed by several subsequent trips to Ohio once my Dad relocated there again Cory more frequently than I). He didn’t chide me when he observed my drinking had become a serious issue. Ten more points for him on the better man side of the chalkboard. When it came time for my father to have part of a lung removed, I stepped up to the plate like he did for me.
I flew to Ohio, spending my days at the hospital watching the NCAA Basketball Tournament at his bedside. In my heart I loved my Dad all over again. In my mind, I was mending my side of the fence.
In 2001, I again traveled to Ohio. I noticed changes in my father. He smelled of the funk. I cane to find out he developed an aversion to bathing regularly. In addition, he wore the same clothes for consecutive days. He was smoking again. He drank a little more. During this visit, we spent our days with my childhood friend Tom Rowlands, watching his daughter play in a high school softball tournament. Tom didn’t notice anything different about my Dad and he hadn’t seen him in at least ten years. Funny disease Alzheimer’s.
When my father and stepmother came to Florida for Cory’s high school graduation, I saw he had changed again and not for the better. He became disoriented now and then. He was a tad forgetful. He couldn’t remember details of stories he had told a hundred times. He repeated himself in short spans of time. I was worried.
In 2004, my wife Helen, Cory, and I spent Christmas in Ohio. It was the first Christmas I’d spent with my father in thirty years. Alzheimer’s was sinking it’s mentally debilitating claws into him. Instead of worried, I was now sad. A return visit the following year saw more signs of this dreadful disease. I’d gotten my father back before it was too late, and now he was leaving me again.
In 2005, he made his last unaccompanied trip anywhere. He came to Florida to see his former derelict son graduate from college Magna Cum Laude. He was in attendance to hear the President of the University and former ex-Lieutenant Governor of Florida, hail the son’s accomplishments to a crowd of four thousand. My Dad didn’t recall anyone I’d introduced him to. When it came time for him to leave; he had trouble navigating through the Airport. I had to wait until I knew he got on the plane okay.
Cory, Helen, and I made plans to spend another Christmas in Ohio before the ravages of Alzheimer’s completely took any memory of us, or ours of the Dad we knew. My stepmother, and my father’s wife of forty-two years Charlene, told us if we were going to come at all, we’d better do it before the holiday season arrived; my Dad was that far gone.
We only had the means for Cory and I to make the trip. When we arrived my father was suspect about letting us in the house; a preview of things to come. That first night while smoking cigarettes in the garage, my father made his confession; “I know I have a son “Wade” and a grandson “Cory” but you and the young man in the living room aren’t them as I know them.” Tears were shed by all parties involved. When it came time for Cory and I to leave, we wondered if this would be the last time we’d see him alive.
Last week I received an emotional call from Charlene. The time had come where she could no longer take care of my father at home. She was nearly disconsolate. Her guilt overwhelmed her. I tried my best to assure her she was doing the right thing. She had held on eighteen months longer than anyone should have. She had done all she could and then some. Like my grandmother, my father was sucking out the lifeforce of their caregiver. In the next week or two, my father is going to be institutionalized.
He sometimes kinda-sorta recognizes my voice when I call. He sleeps most of the day. He can’t remember anything immediately after you say it. Everything frustrates him, sometimes to the point of violence. We will be making another trip to Ohio soon; the next to last one. I don’t anticipate my father dying anytime soon, but I am sure he won’t know who any of us are if we wait too long. After that, who knows? All I know is I’m finally at peace with my Dad.
Thanks for letting me do this. I’m not in the financial position to take up space on a psychiatrist’s coach for the amount of time it took me to write this. So please, don’t anyone who reads this send me a bill.
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