This day last year I was saying goodbye to my sweet doggie, just one month short of her 14th birthday. I hadn’t slept for two nights and had barely eaten in three days. I spent the night on the floor with her, humming Amazing Grace whenever she stirred. We were waiting for the vet to come and administer euthanasia. Two friends came over to be with us when she died. I wonder if they’ll remember this day. Since then I have framed many photos of her and smile when I see her furry face all over my house. I’m sad she’s gone, but I’m at peace. Being at peace is not easy and requires a lot of emotional work. It’s hard to do emotional work alone.
I have my Alzheimer’s support group today. So many updates to tell. So many updates to hear. When I hear stories of adult absorbent underwear, or husbands following their wives around the house like puppies, or belligerent men who insist they can still drive, or catatonic mothers, I realize Dad’s cognitive decline is fairly mild. Still, he lost hundreds of thousands of dollars before my brother and I could intervene. Money equals choice. More money, more choices. Dad has little of both.
My brother called yesterday. He’d spoken with one of those senior living brokers and they were willing to meet and “assess” Dad as soon as we got there with the intention of moving Dad into an assisted living facility ASAP. I took a deep breath (paused) and explained to my brother the importance of trust in navigating decisions with Dad. I reminded him that his expectations and Dad’s expectations were on opposite ends, that Dad is expecting to live independently. Getting to the middle ground will require patience and trust from both of them. Making decisions now, before Dad gets there, would not be aligned with either. I didn’t tell him what to do, but I did suggest that both he and Dad slow down and spend some time with each other. I told him how, at the lawyer’s that day, Dad was willing to let me direct him where to sign. I explained this was due to the last month of patient work, of not flaming Dad’s anxiety about the future. I think I got through to my brother, but only time will tell. We are all on our own paths.
I look forward to the day when I can openly speak about this experience of caring for an aging parent with cognitive decline. There’s so much stigma and secrecy around dementia and Alzheimer’s. I don’t want sympathy (I can find it in the dictionary) or admiration. I don’t want to “protect” Dad from what everyone is thinking or saying about him. He never did. I would like honesty, even curiosity. Maybe some compassion. At some point, I imagine everyone will be touched by cognitive decline, whether it be a loved one, or themselves. The more we talk about it, the closer we get to acceptance, and the better we all will be.
Epilog 