When my father first started talking gibberish and peeing on the floor – part of the joy of being in the final stage of Alzheimer’s Disease – I made a decision to start to mourn him. Although his body remained, the man who had raised me and given me some of the most important gifts of my life (including, of course, my life itself) was gone.
Having put him into a home made accepting that my father was dead easier. If I had to see his body every day, it would have been much more difficult. In fact, just visiting the home once a week is hard enough. Usually, I can handle it, but once in a while I’m reminded of the smart, funny, generous man he once was, and my heart breaks to see what the disease has reduced him to.
Seeing him is also difficult because Alzheimer’s has a hereditary component; given that both he and my grandfather on my mother’s side had the disease, I likely have a genetic predisposition to having it. To be sure, I’ve made a lot of lifestyle changes which will hopefully help me stave it off. But seeing him, I can’t help but be reminded of something that may happen to me in my life.
I thought that was as bad as it got, but today he found a new way to break my heart. He didn’t want me to leave. I had been at the home for about an hour and made to leave. He kept telling me to take my coat off and even went so far as to pull the strap of my backpack off my shoulder a couple of times. I stayed a half hour more, which was not enough for him, but the afternoon was waning and I wanted to be home for dinner.
I doubt he knows who I am. And I have no idea why it was so important to him for me to stay. It was disturbing, nonetheless.
Sigh.