I just lost my dad. One minute, he was talking, walking, and shopping with me; the next day he was someone I didn’t know. Overnight, his dementia had taken hold and he was lost to us. I’ll never know if it was a new prescription that pushed him over the edge, or someone stealing his wallet at his assisted living center (which held his lucky $20 bill from his Navy days in the 1950s). I’ll never know the answer and I’ll never gather enough facts to know. This doesn’t exactly bring me peace.
Was it part of God’s plan to take this wonderful, kind man that everyone loved so quickly? Had God heard my prayers for mercy as I saw him headed down the slippery slope of decline? For days in the hospital, I sat talking to dad. Even though he was unresponsive and incapable of our usual communication, I could see that parts of “dad” were still there. The doctors were not forthcoming with information and it was a constant struggle to get the facts and the truth — two things my tenacity was going to attain. I watched for days as the prognosis grew worse, until finally I lifted a prayer begging for answers … any kind of answers.
The neurologist came into dad’s room and he was, quite literally, heaven-sent. He answered all of my questions to the best of his ability. He told me dad was not coming back and I needed to make a decision as dad’s healthcare power of attorney. An infection had started to brew and they wanted to know if we should treat it or not. Fortunately, one of the greatest blessings in all of this is that mom and dad left detailed living wills/advanced directives, spelling out what they wanted and what they didn’t.
There was no way dad wanted to live like this, and his living will guided us to the final decision that allowed him to die a natural death as he requested. As my sibling said, “It was the hardest, easiest decision to make, because dad had told us what he wanted.” We honored his wishes, as hard as it was. Imagine the level of guilt we would have to bear the remainder of our lives, had dad not gone to the trouble to have this for us, guiding us through a very dark and sorrowful time.
Moving him to Hospice House was the best decision. Dad was so peaceful there. I am convinced the nurses and CNAs had angel’s wings under their scrubs; yet another blessing during this time of crisis. I stayed with dad in hospice for two days. I talked non-stop (aided greatly by the constant flow of caffeine), I sang to him “Amazing Grace” and other songs he loved. I asked for forgiveness for the times I wasn’t the best kid or short on patience, and I reminded him of all the great family memories. I thanked him for instilling in us kids the morals and values that have carried us so far. I asked him to watch over my family, give mom a big hug, and touch the stars for me. It is hard to carry on a solo conversation.
A couple of hours before he passed, he gave me a great gift. He opened his eyes and locked onto mine. He hadn’t done that in a week. Giving dad the biggest smile that I could through the tears, I told him that I was right there with him and that I was okay (he always worried about me). I was sad but okay and was going to be okay. I told him “I love you” as I had at least 100 times that day. For a man whose brain could no longer function and who lost his powers of speech, what he did next was a very special gift. Eyes locked on mine, his lips mouthed the words, “I love you” right back. In human terms, that was impossible, but not to me. That was a parting miracle and one I will never forget.
Thanks for letting me get this off my chest. It is a sorrowful time for me and my family, but dad always said, “Life is for the living,” and mom always said, “This too shall pass.” I think they were both right, as always.
© 2012 Julie Hall
When our children were babies and they were crying inconsolably, we would sometimes put them in their crib and walk away, so we could keep our wits about us. When our kids were teenagers, we had to walk away to prevent us from whopping them upside the head when they pushed our buttons. Our loved ones with Alzheimer’s are no different. Sometimes you just have to walk away for your own sanity. And it’s okay to walk away.
When the family’s phone calls bombard you because “dad doesn’t sound right,” or when dad is taking apart his electric razors repeatedly and leaving all the little pieces everywhere, after you spend a lot of time putting them back together, it’s time to walk away for a little while. When the telephone becomes the remote and the alarm clock is the phone, it’s okay to go somewhere and attempt to clear your head. When he answers the closet instead of the knock at the door, find a way to deal with it.
When he roams around and you are at the end of your rope running after him, or it takes 30 minutes to explain why he can’t wear blue jeans and a leather belt to bed, or when he asks, “Where are you?” and you are standing right beside him, it’s OKAY to walk away.
It’s necessary and allowed. Don’t feel guilty. Guilt stinks, and it wins every time. Instead, go out in your garden, or on your patio with a cold glass of iced tea. Cry a little. Cry a lot. Take a walk or call a friend. Pray for your family, for your afflicted one, and for yourself. God already knows what’s going on so let it all hang out.
Don’t wrestle with your mind or think too much. Just treat yourself to some silence and find a slice of peace. A little time – even a few minutes – can make a huge difference during the course of a long day or week. Make yourself a promise to do something for yourself, even if it means walking away.
© 2012 Julie Hall
I fell to pieces last night … literally an unrecognizable, weepy being frozen in my bathroom. My husband heard my sobs over his ever-increasing TV volume and shoot ‘em up Army movie, so I must have really let it all hang out. To his credit and excellent nature, he came to comfort me without saying a word, understanding the pain inflicted on this lovely family.
I always thought I was incredibly strong, but when the realization hits that you are helpless against a loved one’s disease, there is no pain quite like it.
My dad is battling Alzheimer’s and he is losing. I can see it now and the heartbreak is almost more than I can bear. He answers the door when the telephone rings, pushes buttons on the telephone to lower the volume on the TV, and just fell last week and broke his nose. There’s more, but I won’t bore you. Dad is still exceptionally conversational and cares for himself very well. He’ll talk on virtually any topic, but politics and gardening seem to be his favorites.
Recently, for what seemed like an eternity but only took a few seconds in reality, he forgot that I was his daughter. Then a moment later, he caught himself. That is the first time that ever happened. I somehow managed to keep a poker face only through the grace of God, I’m sure, then managed to walk out to my car where I promptly called my brother and let it all hang out again.
I am not complaining. I am hurting. I hurt for dad who never deserved this horrid affliction. I hurt for him because he is in the stage where he knows something is amiss; it seems like a hellish limbo to me. Truth be known, I hurt for all the people out there that have this disease, and for all of us that are dealing with it on a daily basis. “It must be the work of the devil,” I told my husband. “He must be in such a lonely place.”
On the one hand, I praise the doctors for knowing as much as they do and helping as much as they can. On the other hand, I curse them because they don’t know enough. My mom made her exit from life rapidly, and I am seeing what a blessing that was.
As with anything negative, it is the wise who will turn it into something positive. Because of this life experience, I can now add another dimension to my work as The Estate Lady: assisting my clients who are also dealing with this same issue. I can most definitely relate, and now I can comfort them too. It has long been said that in comforting others, you also will be comforted. I certainly hope so. I feel another book coming on. I’m open to title suggestions ….
© 2012 Julie Hall
Julie Hall
In The Trenches 