As my father succumbed to a series of one mild stroke to another more serious one, a piece, then parts of him were lost along the way.
The first sign that something was amiss was when we received a phone call from the head security officer of this mall that this man, driving this car, was lost at the parking lot.
How can someone get lost inside the parking lot? It wasn’t a case of trying to make heads or tails of a huge parking lot. He didn’t know where he was or how he got there.
It was my dad.
Driving was something that he loved. It wasn’t just a sense of freedom; it was a form of expression at being able to go wherever he wanted. He loved driving, especially on long road trips. This was now gone. At least that’s what we declared.
Not soon after the mall incident, as boredom and wanderlust set in, he took the car keys in one vain and desperate attempt to drive—“one last time” he later reasoned. Only this time, he never made it out of the garage. Disoriented, he scraped the sides of the car creating deep gashes on either side that necessitated major repairs.
My father was diagnosed with that unholy trinity of dementia, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease. And that begged the question, ‘Is this any way to live?’
That was the last time he tried driving because, soon after, a series of strokes left him half paralyzed. Then he was diagnosed with early stages of that unholy trinity of dementia as well as Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s Disease. Just as we were coming to grips that his life and ours had changed, he contracted Covid-19.
We can only surmise that he contracted the virus when he went to get vaccinated for Covid-19. Talk about irony. Except that it was no laughing matter. After looking like he had run his course, he battled back and lived.
And that begged the question, “Is this any way to live?”
A different man
My father went from the prim and proper gentleman to a child and, at times, an uncouth barbarian. From a man who was never cranky and never cussed even in anger or made rude and lewd remarks, this was not easy to get used to.
He went from someone who observed cleanliness to the point of being obsessive-compulsive about everything to one unable to know when he had soiled himself.
While we understood the effects of all these maladies, accepting it is easier said than done. No matter how many years have passed, it remains difficult to reconcile with who he was and who he is today, so much so that when family, classmates, and friends of his wish to visit, I often have to say no because I do not want that image of the man they knew replaced with this frail and hunched version.
I die a little death every time I see him suffer from depression because he is limited to his bedroom, the dining table, or the front yard. He can no longer open his email much less operate the remote control of his widescreen television.
My father went from the prim and proper gentleman to a child and, at times, an uncouth barbarian. From a man who was never cranky and never cussed even in anger or made rude and lewd remarks, this was not easy to get used to.
His home has become his own prison. The simplest of things – walking under his own power—has been taken from him. Imagine when nurses had to bathe him—this took some getting used to on his part. These are daily and constant reminders to not take anything for granted.
When Covid-19 hit, the physical and mental therapy that he underwent was canceled because of fear of getting infected. Furthermore, his other conditions worsened.
I must admit that not all of what was happening was depressing.
He thankfully still knew who we were by name. What put a smile to our lips was how he retained to a certain measure that sense of humor that he was known for. He threw those hilarious one liners and funny points of view on life that found the mark in everyone’s funny bone.
But as the years went by (we are now in the seventh year of his current state), even dad isn’t laughing anymore.
Music
Thankfully, we still have music. He loved music so much, and at one point, he had an outstanding record collection. Even as a youngster who was into rock music, I grooved to the oldies and standards—the music of the 1950s and 1960s that he grew up to—even if it was uncool to admit that you dug them.
His love for music opened me to a great many things from learning to play a variety of instruments to going to different performing venues and meeting all sorts of artists.
The saying that music is like a time machine, taking you back to places you have forgotten, has never been more true. Even with his memory gone, whenever I play songs from his day, he sings every word. Furthermore, the fog that envelopes his once brilliant mind lifts even for only a few minutes.
If you saw that YouTube video of the late Tony Bennett—who is afflicted with similar maladies minus the paralysis—suddenly remembering all the words to a song while performing a duet with Lady Gaga, that’s how my father is.
Like Lady Gaga, it drives me to tears.
Not only does my father sing along but he will tell you anecdotes lost to time, memories he perhaps has not thought of in decades. I learned to record his voice when he remembers moments, anecdotes, people, conversations, lost loves, and hijinks. Yet it is fleeting. As soon as the song ends, he is back to where he was. Forgetful. Coarse. Or merely quiet.
I wonder if all these seven years of living purgatory for my father is enough. Today, hardly a day goes by where he doesn’t scream, “I want to die.”
That isn’t something you get used to when you hear the anguish in his voice. And this is the coda to his daily litany of sorrowful mysteries.
I must admit that there are times, I wish for the Lord to take him if only to ease his suffering. When those thoughts invade me, I quickly dash them. I realize that he is living on borrowed time and that I should treasure every moment with my father more than ever no matter his condition.
Am I ready to lose him?
Seven years of paralysis, the unholy trinity, and being at death’s door is preparing me for the inevitable. The question I should ask though is, “Am I ready to lose him?”
All my life, my father was there through the great and fantastic moments to the bad ones. He was a constant presence with his strength, words of wisdom, and that all important emotional and financial support.
When I lived abroad, we spoke at least three times a week. When I finally returned, he was the person to pick me up at the airport.
He was and remains my best friend.
No matter what my father is going through, every day I tell him I love him. In the light moments and the anguished ones, tears well up in my eyes.
Who I am today is the sum of my parents and what they gave and provided me. As the years went by, I saw how they made me learn and undergo experiences that have changed my life for the better. I have to chuckle and tell myself, “What do you know – my parents were right?”
A long time ago, my grandfather, whom I loved so much, passed away. That carved a hole in my heart that never closed because I do not remember ever saying “I love you, lolo.”
Around that same time, I came across Harriet Beecher Stowe’s quote, “The bitterest tears shed over the grave are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.” When I read that in the Quotable Quotes section of Reader’s Digest, I wrote it down in this notebook that I still have. Those words have grafted themselves into my feeling brain.
No matter what my father is going through, every day I tell him I love him. In the light moments and the anguished ones, tears well up in my eyes. In the twilight time of his years, I can only be grateful. It doesn’t make it any easier, but I will not repeat the mistake I made with my grandfather.
And when my father is gone, I will take that road trip with his urn. I am sure it will put a smile on his lips.
