On the Slow Disappearance of Dad
Yesterday I got to spend several hours with my dad, one on one. That was not the original plan. My parents and I were supposed to attend an orchestra concert. But several days prior, my dad, who will be 87 in July had a “bad spell,” where he collapsed and my mom did not feel comfortable bringing him. So we turned two of the tickets back in and I dropped my mom off at the concert and Dad and I returned to my house.
I figured he would just want to sleep. As he said in the car on the way to my house, “it seems I could just sleep all day.”
But when we arrived, he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to sit on the back porch and visit. He was delighted to be out there. We talked about what a great investment the screen porch was. We talked about the work that I have put into my house and how it will hopefully pay off when I sell it. We went through pictures of the gardens through the years. We talked about baseball. We talked about running speaker wire through the house to get speakers hooked up on the back porch. I told him I was pretty sure I got my jerry rigging abilities from him.
At one point he said, “it’s hard to be old.” And my heart broke for him yet again.
In late 2004, my dad went into the hospital for some sort of kidney stone issue which then developed into a very serious staph infection that nearly killed him. He was sent home after a week in the hospital with a picc line for antibiotics. It seems that was a catalyst for what was to come.
Sometime in 2005, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. For a long time, he and my mom lived in denial. The tremor and weakness was left over from the staph infection. Or at least that was what they wanted to believe.
Being the proactive person I am, I got several books on the condition, including one that had exercises in it. I accompanied my parents to my dad’s neurologist appointments. I distinctly remember driving them to one such appointment and talking with my dad about how he was feeling. I remember him saying that he felt like he didn’t have much energy and that he didn’t feel motivated. My parents were always at odds with the neurologist. I’m not sure why, there was nothing about her that I found lacking, but she certainly wasn’t a warm, fuzzy presence. When my dad described how he was feeling, she suggested that he was likely suffering from depression. She went so far as to write him a prescription and give him a free 28 day supply of the drug to get him started. They (in reality, my mom) decided that they did not want to try them. The reasons given were not compelling, but there was no changing their (her) minds.
It has been 10 years since that diagnosis and in that 10 years, I have watched my dad slowly fade away. My mom has always been the dominant one in their marriage. I unfortunately have more than a few memories of her throwing huge, volatile tantrums at him. There would always be the sound of her yelling and then his response, which was always hard to pick up. My mom has a permanent list of the ways my dad has disappointed her. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I do know he developed a habit of not always telling her the truth about things for fear of the outbursts. I can’t say I blame him, but it has left scars on both of them.
And so now, my mom gets angry at my dad if he doesn’t stand up straight, or speak clearly, or if he starts coughing in the middle of a meal. As if he intends all of those things. She has been so conditioned to feeling betrayed by him, that she now views his current shortcomings as just another example of intentional failures on his part.
Last year, my dad experienced drops in blood pressure that necessitated hospitalization. He also ended up clogging a toilet which resulted in an overflow and heavy damage to the floor of the bathroom and the ceiling of the room directly below it. All this, while their tri-level townhome was on the market. My mother sobbed that this was not how she expected her life to turn out. Her narcissism has exposed itself in many ugly ways.
She monopolizes conversations in an almost manic fashion when the three of us are together. That is, unless she forces my dad to talk on the phone. She does it in an obvious way, like one would prod a child to tell Grandma about a school project. She complains how lonely she is and how she has nobody to talk to. She talks about him and his condition as if he wasn’t there.
I struggle to remember my dad as a vivacious person. I know he has always been silly. I know he has always been kind. He was an actor when he was young and a college level theatre professor when I was a child. His last job was as a trainer to people selling insurance for a big bank. He would travel for business and I remember him coming to Minneapolis when I was going to law school. He took me to dinner on my 25th birthday and we shared a number of laughs.
I have a cassette tape he made for me when I moved to Washington DC in search of a job after college. It was, as he was, motivational. Where my mother’s anxiety would not allow her to see me in a life that did not revolve around her, my dad recognized and encouraged my desire to spread my wings. He bought me the 1988 edition of “What Color is your Parachute?” – a book that was designed for college grads, or anyone contemplating a career change. The sky was the limit as far as he was concerned.
Several years ago, I converted old videos to DVDs. I want to look at them, but fear I will fall apart when I see my dad before his diagnosis. I know I repress my feelings now because I don’t want to succumb to the sadness.
I know he won’t be here for much longer. His mind is still pretty much intact, which is almost the worst case scenario, because he is aware of all of his limitations. The depression is palpable.
I view my job now as to be the entertainer and the peacemaker. It is not an easy one and he recognizes that. Over the holidays, he commented as I was leaving after trying to get my mom back on track after a meltdown of sorts: “it’s so nice to have you here as the voice of reason…..” I want to bring him peace and a small bit of happiness in this last phase of his life. I have no idea if he looks back on his life, and if he does, how he assesses it. I have no idea if he thinks about anything at all when he is alone. I know he loves me and I love him dearly. And in the end, that will be all that matters.