Forgotten Tomorrows Crazy Todays (Ch 19)

Chapter 19

This is not how my dad would want to live. This was his worst nightmare and what he was fighting so hard against when I brought him to Texas. The nursing staff no longer even gets him out of bed on weekends and during the week, when they do, it takes four people to get him up, dressed and into a wheelchair where he slides in and out of sleep. I have to help him and put a stop to this now.

That night after my visit, I discussed my father’s condition at length with Mike and the kids. Everyone agreed that my father no longer had any quality of life. I told them that I thought it was time to talk to the doctor about stopping my father’s feeding tube feedings. Everyone agreed that it was probably past time.

Monday morning, I called Doctor Maxville from work and asked what were his thoughts on my father’s condition and when he would/should/could be placed on Hospice. His comment was basically that he didn’t understand what had kept my father hanging on so long, other than his feeding tube and in his opinion, Hospice (removing the feeding tube and making my father as comfortable as possible) was the next logical step in his care.

I totally agreed. I have never understood the mindset of those who would put a beloved pet out of their misery, but force an equally, if not more loved, human family member to linger on for years and suffer an inhuman existence. I thought that when this time came, I would be sad, but I’m not. I don’t really feel much of anything at all actually. Does this make me callous? I grieved for my dad years ago while he was in my house losing his mind while I watched. I knew then that the person hurling expletives at my children was NOT my dad and he was essentially dead and gone then. But I should feel something, shouldn’t I? Maybe I will once it’s all finally over. This entire process does strengthen my resolve to head to Oregon should I be diagnosed. It’s almost over, Dad. I promise and this time, I will keep my promise.

Doctor Maxville told me that he would set the process in motion, and have the Hospice people get in contact with me to start things moving. Thank you so much.

Several years prior, I had started chatting in a chat room for the radio show, The Pugs & Kelly Show, which I am a regular call in nuisance, and writing a comedic advice column blog on Myspace. Most of the things that I had shared up until this point had been mostly fluff, but I had written a little bit about what was going on with my life and my dad. Like with my previous online friends, everyone was very responsive and it was great to know that I was not alone.

The next day, the Hospice Chaplin called and said that he would come by my house later that evening to speak to me about the procedures and bring paper work for me to fill out. Wow, that was fast.

He was very nice and none judgmental, which I had been partially afraid of. He said that he had been through the process with many families and understood. He then told me that he would go and meet with my father and that he would have the head nurse, who would be placed on my father’s case, call me as well. I thanked him and he left. The next day, my father’s case nurse called me to say that she would be going to meet my father. She then asked if I would meet her there. I told her of course, set up a time, and then told my boss what I needed to do. The next day, I met with the nurse and after chatting about my father and her actually meeting him, she told me that she understood why I had asked for Hospice to come in and told me what a strong, good daughter I was for having the courage to make the decision. I sure don’t feel like either. I feel horrible that I let him down somehow. I originally promised him that I would NOT put him into a nursing home. I broke that promise in six months. I then promised him that I would bring him home. I only did that for ONE day and that was after several years. Not letting him suffer like this for years may be the ONLY thing that I may be able to do right.

The nurse then told me Hospice’s standard procedure is not to harm, but to lend comfort to their patient’s final hours. I explained to her that I knew all about Hospice having dealt with them with my Mama Moore. She told me that she had some paperwork that would need to be taken care of between Hospice and Doctor Maxville, but as soon as that was done, which should only take about a day, then the process would get started. Again, thank you.

I thanked her for all of her help and then stayed awhile to visit with my father.  I told him what I was doing, but I got no response. I did catch him staring at me at one point, I mean actually looking at me (which he would do from time to time) but as soon as I turned to directly look at him and speak to him, his eyes would glaze over and he would be gone again. I’m so sorry, Dad. This is almost over.

That day, for some weird reason, I decided to take a short video of my father and his condition on my cell phone. Two days later, I hadn’t heard anything from anyone, so I called Hospice to find out what was going on. I was told that my father had been admitted to the Hospice system and that his care would now be monitored regularly by a Hospice staff member, but the order to stop the feeding tube feeding had not been given by Doctor Maxville. When I asked why, I was told that I would need to ask the doctor directly. I did just that. When I asked Doctor Maxville what was going on, he told me that he was afraid that I was not “ready” for the decision, so instead of stopping the tube feedings all together, he had decided to cut back on one of my father’s feeding, “to see if that will help nature to take its course.” WHAT!?!? Cutting back his feedings takes him from four 3000-calorie G-tube feedings per day to three. This is something I have been asking you people to do ever since he became immobile a year ago!

I explained to the doctor that I was indeed fully aware of what I was asking and prepared for its outcome, having done the same thing for my grandmother several years before. It was as if I hadn’t spoken at all. He just kept talking about what a difficult decision this was and how he understood how hard it was and that he didn’t want me to do anything I wasn’t ready to do. Hello, is this thing on!?!? What the hell are you talking about!?!?!

I was flabbergasted. I didn’t understand why the doctor had suddenly changed his position and didn’t know what to do. I think I just kind of said, “Okay” and hung up the phone.

I don’t understand. How can the doctor just change HIS mind about this? I had prepared not only myself, but the kids and my dad the best I could for this to be over soon and now he has decided that I’M not ready! What the fuck!?!? This is MY dad and this is not how he would want to spend his days lingering for God knows how long, probably in pain. He could live like this for years and I promised him I wouldn’t let this happen! Now, what do I do?

I called the Hospice Chaplin, since he had seemed to understand my motivation. In talking to him, he seemed as confused as I was and said that it might be a legal issue. He told me that Doctor Maxville might be afraid of the legal ramifications of stopping my father’s nourishment in the nursing home. I asked him if he had any suggestions. He told me that he would talk to the case nurse and have her call me. I thanked him and hung up.

It was several days before I heard back from anyone. In the meantime, I walked around confused and frustrated. I felt like I had failed my father, yet again. To help sort out my feelings, I blogged about the situation on my “Myspace” page. With the help of Dan, one of my Myspace friends, I added the video of my father that I had taken with my cell phone to my blog, so that people could see the condition that they were forcing him to live in. The response was overwhelmingly positive to the position I had taken.

My father’s case nurse finally got back to me and told me that in her opinion, Doctor Maxville was indeed being motivated by a fear of repercussions by the state should he stop the feedings. She suggested that I allow them to cut back on the feedings as they suggested for a few months and see what happened. She also said that in her opinion, cutting the feeding wouldn’t do anything and my father could and probably would remain the same for a very long time, but it would probably be best to let some time pass. I agreed and went back to my regular weekend visits; biting my tongue as I watched my father’s tremors continue to get worse.

Over time, there were a myriad of different small treatments given to my father: to reduce fevers, suction mucus build up, medicate the unexplained tremors away, clear up conjunctivitis, just to name a few. All of which, I reluctantly agreed to in the hopes that someone (nurse, doctor, social worker, someone) would go in to care for my father and see what I saw when I visited him weekly: a helpless, miserable, shell of a man wasting away in his own filth.

September 4, 2006, I called Hospice to try and again plead my and my father’s case. (Let him go peacefully now, instead of wasting away more over time until something truly painful takes hold of him to kill him.) I hadn’t seen nor spoken to the head case nurse again since the first few weeks my father had been placed on Hospice. When I called, I was informed that there had been a new head case nurse put on my father’s case.  I spoke to her and low and behold, she had no idea of my wishes. No one had ever communicated to her that I was not the person asking for sustained care. WTF!?!? How could she not know? The whole point of Hospice is to help people to pass with grace and dignity.

You might think this was just a small oversight on one person’s part. A small bit of miscommunication, but I know that it was not. This nurse was not the first person over the past few months that had had the exact same reaction when I made my wishes known. It seemed that none of the people who DID know my wishes felt the need to share them with anyone else. Why? I have no idea and frankly, I don’t care. All I know is I’m pissed and I’m about to throw down the gauntlet. I am done playing these people’s games with my dad’s life!

I set up a meeting for later in the week with all the powers that be (except the state agency people, who had been an altogether different nightmare). Okay Leslie, the plan, throw a royal, NYC, Chicago, angry, black woman tantrum during said meeting. If that doesn’t work, I’m pulling out the big guns (I’m calling the media which Mike works for so I WILL get coverage), which may backfire, but I don’t know what else to do.

Before the meeting, I had a long conversation with my kids about what may or may not happen as a result of the meeting. I told them that if I did end up having to go to the media it might get ugly, not only for me but for them. I explained how some people might feel that I was trying to go against God’s wishes and that people might call me horrible names and/or say mean, nasty things about me, possibly to them. Both my kids were pillars of strength and conviction. They said that they didn’t care what people said because they knew that I was doing the right thing and they both wanted to say so on camera. I told them both, “thank you” and that I really appreciated their support, but I would not allow them to be put on camera for this, MY fight.

The nurse finally called Tuesday night at about 8:30 and I missed the call. So I called her the next day. She told me that she was getting ready to walk into a meeting with the Hospice social worker and other Hospice powers that be to discuss the meeting with the nursing home powers that be and the social worker would call me as soon as the meeting was over.  You are having a fucking meeting about scheduling a meeting!?! Are you fucking kidding me!?!?

I got no call that day from anyone.

I called Hospice the next day to speak with the Hospice social worker and….

SHE HAD NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I WAS TALKING ABOUT!!!!!!

I know that I shouldn’t have been surprised, but come on.

So I explained, AGAIN, what had been going on and what I wanted. In response, she pulls out the “God Card” on me!

SW: “Do you believe in a higher power?”

Me: “Yes, I do, but my father didn’t.”

SW: “Well, then do you believe that God will take your father in his own time?”

Ha! I was ready for this one!

Me: “Actually, I believe that God made my father unable to eat, which would, in turn, kill him. So in your line of thinking, I believe that the doctors are circumventing God’s will by force feeding him and keeping him alive.”

SW: “Oh, um. Well, don’t you think it would be cruel to stop your father’s feeding and just let him starve to death?”

Me: “Not to be rude, but if this was my dog, I would have the PETA people crawling up my back for torturing my pet by keeping him alive. I think it is cruel to keep my father going by force-feeding him. He could live like this for another 15 years, like Ronald Regan did. My father would not want this. Yes, I know when you call my father’s name he is still sort of in there, but so what. This is no life, and certainly NOT the life that he would have wanted. I’ve already been through this once with my father’s mother 3 years ago. I had to make this decision for her, because I took over guardianship for her when he got sick. I know what I’m getting into.”

SW: “Oh, well, then you need to speak to your father’s doctor.”

Who’s on first!?!

After I hung up with the social worker, I called Doctor Maxville and reiterated my wishes… total 180 BACK to agreeing with me that stopping the feeding IS the best course of action. I feel fucking crazy!

Doctor Maxville said that he would look into a Hospice facility to move my father into that does not have the legal problems that the nursing home might, if the feeding was stopped while he was there. If THAT was the issue all along, why didn’t you just say so, instead of pretending that you were concerned about my mental health, which you have not helped in the least with all this nonsense!?!

I got a call late Friday from the new D.O.N. at the nursing home. She began by telling me that she just got informed of my wishes for my father. UGH! She then said that she has been the attending nurse on several cases just like my father’s, so she does not have an issue with removing the feeding tube. Okay, what’s the catch?

Me: So I won’t have to move him to a Hospice facility after all?

Nurse: Well, I didn’t say that. That certainly could be an option.

Me: Trying to keep from screaming. So what is it that you are saying?

Nurse: Well, we need to schedule a meeting with the doctor and the Hospice people to determine if your father fits the criteria to do this.

Oh, for the love of God you have got to be kidding me!?!?

Me: What criteria?

Nurse: Well, that is something that we will have to discuss at the meeting. You do realize that nothing is going to happen immediately.

You mean like the five months it has taken to get this far is immediate!?!?! I am so glad I am not white, because I would be bright red with rage right now and that would clash with what I have on!

I went on to try and ask more questions about this meeting, but she just kept getting more and more vague if that were even possible.

We went around in circles discussing the best time for this meeting for another two or three minutes. Finally, we set it for Wednesday at 10 a.m. We hung up. I went back to work. Ten minutes later, the phone rang, it was the D.O.N. The Hospice people who had told her any day and time for the meeting was fine, told her when she called to give them the appointment date and time, that tomorrow at ten wouldn’t work. Fuck me with a rusty shovel!

We finally agreed to set the meeting for the next day (Yes, 9/11) at 10 a.m. And I still had no idea what they might be willing to do.

So, now, I have finally come full circle. This all started on 9/11/01. So, five years to the date, I will find out my father’s fate, or go public. The gods have a really fucked up sense of humor sometimes.

While the rest of the country memorializes this tragic day in our country’s history and contemplates the effects of foreign terrorists, I am again outside it all. I am again alone, wrestling with my own demons of sorts. The fiend responsible for my continued turmoil is domestic and far more insidious. My tormentor came in the guise of a loved one, began cloaked in normality, with a hint of contradiction, shrouded in denial and had now turned deadly. The enemy at my gate was again Alzheimer’s disease and it would seem that the war for me would soon be over.

I got to the nursing home a bit early to make sure that our meeting started on time. When I walked into the living area, the first person I saw was the nursing home social worker. I said hello and asked her if she would be part of today’s meeting.

She said, “No.” She then tells me that she had heard about the meeting, but hadn’t planned to be there, unless I want her to be. I tell her no, that’s okay, unless she wants to be there. I assumed that the social worker advocate for the nursing home patients would be in a meeting regarding the health, medical condition, dignity, and possible passing of one of the nursing home’s residents, but I should know better than to assume anything by now.

She then says that she will see if she can find the D.O.N. and I follow her as she walks further into the nursing home. I then see the Hospice Chaplin, sitting with a woman in the common living area. He greets me and we exchange a bit of small talk as the social worker continues on. He then introduces me to Eddy, the social worker. Eddy is incredibly bubbly, talking to me rapid fire about something I didn’t really hear. I wasn’t listening. My stomach was twisted in a hangman’s knot of anticipation. I stood there smiling and politely responding to the conversation, on autopilot; all the while engaged in my own inner dialog. Okay, Leslie this is it, the moment of truth. I feel like the Lorax from Dr. Suess. “I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees.” Well, I am the Leslie, I speak for the Wesley. And I am NOT going to lift up my tail and fly away quietly. Dad is counting on me. This gets done today, or I get ugly.

As the three of us stood together talking, a nurse walked slowly by, twice, looking at us carefully. I see her nametag, which stated that she was the D.O.N., so on her second pass I introduce myself. She stops, and after exchanging pleasantries and introductions with the three of us, she directs us to go sit in the private dining room. As we enter the dining room, the D.O.N. says that she is going to go get the nursing home’s social worker for the meeting. I point her in the direction I had last seen the social worker walking and then go and take a seat in the dining room with the other two.

I feel electric and numb, all at the same time, as we sit quietly waiting for the rest of the meeting’s participant to arrive. I’m not really sure how to begin to plead my father’s case. What the hell do I say? Every person coming to this meeting has already spoken to me about this. They know my feelings. I don’t even understand why we’re having a meeting at all. What I want to do is grab every single one of them, drag them to the head of my father’s bed and shake them as I scream, “Look at that! That twitching, groaning, husk of a human being USED to be my dad! THAT, is an abomination to the life and the spirit that he once was! Yes, he will still respond robotically with a frightened, “Yes” if you yell his first name, but that is no reason to force him to continue to exist in such a horrific condition! I know he can’t speak, but he communicates to me every time I see him! He’s in pain! He’s exhausted! He doesn’t want to exist like this! I can’t even say that he doesn’t want to live like this because he is in no way living! Why can’t any of YOU see that the way that I do!?!?!

I am brought back from these thoughts as the nursing home D.O.N. comes into the room alone and sits down. The Hospice Chaplin and social worker exchange glances. I know that they’re confused about why the D.O.N. came back alone, but they don’t ask. I don’t ask, because I know. She has never treated me the same since I brought my father back to the nursing home. Before I took my father home, she was always warm and friendly. When I brought him back, after a day, she still remained friendly, but there was no longer any warmth behind it. What a difference a day makes.

I do ask where Dr. Maxville is. The D.O.N. informs me that he will not be coming. What the hell? I thought that was half the point of this meeting, for ALL of my dad’s caregivers to get together in a room with me, to discuss the issue. This is not looking good already.

The D.O.N. then says that she has spoken to the doctor and knows his views on the situation. As she speaks, my father’s Hospice charge nurse comes in the room. She apologizes for being late as she hugs me and takes a seat. Okay, this is it. From the conversations that I have had the room is divided two and two for and against with ME as the swing vote for. Will it be enough?

Before anyone else can begin, I speak, directing my comments mainly to the D.O.N. and the Hospice social worker.

I gave background information on my father and then plead my case. Long story, short, after lots of talk from the social worker about God, and then some serious talk about how hard the process might be for me (death can get very ugly), everyone finally agreed to let my father go.

The social worker and nursing home D.O.N., neither of which had ever met me before that day, both said, after the official meeting, that they had still been leery about my conviction until they met me. Why, I have no idea.

I did tell everyone in the room, after the official meeting, that I was glad that they had agreed, because if they hadn’t, my next course of action was going to be to contact the media. No one responded, but by the looks on all of their faces, I think they knew how serious I was.

Thankfully, everyone now seemed to be on the same page and that I was doing this for the right reasons. They all finally believed that I was fully aware of what I was asking and I was prepared to see it through. The D.O.N. asked me to give her a week to prepare the staff and get them all ready. Why, I’m not exactly sure, but I conceded to keep the peace.

I asked about moving my father into a private room. She said that if and when the time came for that, we could discuss it. At the moment, she was concerned about moving Morris and all of his stuff since he was comfortable. Um, okay.

I told her that I didn’t expect Morris to move. I would have no problem moving my father. She then told me that she did not want to agitate the other residents by moving my father through the halls and possibly in front of them in a deteriorated state. Then move him now while he seems relatively fine!?!? What the hell is wrong with everyone!?!

Since it was obvious that was not what she wanted to do, I dropped it.

After the meeting, when I went in to visit my father, he was a mess; sweating profusely with no fever. No sooner would I wipe his brow with a cool washcloth then he would be drenched in sweat again. He was again having horrible spastic convulsive like tremors, worse than any he had ever had before. The Hospice nurse came in and immediately called Doctor Maxville. He told her he thought my father was having a stroke like the ones he’s had before….WTF!?!? No one ever mentioned to me that my dad has ever had a stroke in the past. No one has ever been able to tell me what the tremors have been about.

My father was also having difficulty breathing and gurgling large amounts of mucus. It was a bad day for him.

The really weird thing about all of this is that, my dad talked to me that day, more than he had in over six months. At one point he was even singing something that sounded like a hymn; something about home. He answered me when I said “Dad” twice that day as well. He hadn’t done that in over a year. He even answered me, “okay” when I told him I was going to go get some lunch and would be back soon. Strangely, when I told him that “our Chicago Bears whooped ass and shut out the Packers yesterday”, that’s when he seemed to calm down and go to sleep. Maybe that’s all he’s been waiting for. GO BEARS!

I think he knew the end was finally coming soon. Maybe…I’ll never really know.

I went back to work the next day and told my bosses what had happened and let them know that I would be taking a leave of absence starting the next Monday, until the end. And life returned to relative normalcy again.

The next day was my birthday. Mike and I enjoyed a nice dinner out at our favorite restaurant with friends, but I didn’t enjoy it long. My dad had a rough night and looked terrible when I went to visit him the next day. Its okay Dad, it will all soon be over.

Saturday, I was doing my normal cruising the TV channels for bad TV to watch while I did laundry and had a wonderful surprise…Jesus Christ Super Star was coming on. YEAH!

I hit my Tivo button and settled in to enjoy. Halfway through the movie, I was bawling. It brought up a flood of memories from my childhood along with waves of guilt about the coming week. Two songs in particular hit home hard. I don’t know the names of the songs, but I do know who sang them and the words that struck me with such force.

The first song is sung by Ted Neeley as Christ. While walking alone in the dark he sings, “My time is almost through, little left to do. After all I’ve tried for three years, seems like thirty, seems like thirty.” And later to the same tune, just before he’s crucified, “I only want to say, if there is a way. Take this cup away from me, for I don’t want to taste its poison…Feel it burn me. I have changed; I’m not as sure as when we started. Then I was inspired, now I’m sad and tired. Listen, surely I’ve exceeded…expectations, tried for three years, seems like ninety. Why then, am I scared to finish what I started? What you started, I didn’t start it.”

The second song that touched me is sung by Carl Anderson as Judas. When Judas goes to the priests to talk about turning in Christ, he sings, “Now if I help, it matters that you see. This sort of kind of thing is coming hard to me. It’s taken me some time to work out what to do. I weighed the whole thing out before I came to you. I have no thought at all about my own reward. I really didn’t come here of my own accord. Just don’t say I’m… Damned for all time.” And later, after he has betrayed Christ, he sings the same song and adds the line, “Don’t believe I was good. And I’d save him if I could.”

Now, I do NOT begin to suggest that I am in any way, shape, or form Christ-like or in anyway Biblically important. What struck me about the songs in regards to me and my situation was how much I felt the solitude, loneliness, and responsibility being portrayed by both characters.

I felt, I think, similarly small in comparison to the enormity of the fact that someone’s life and death were in my hands. A human being was going to die in several days as a result of my direct actions. My dad’s life and death was essentially in my hands. Just don’t say I’m…Damned…for… All… Time!

I went to visit my dad later that day. I asked the kids if they wanted to come with me to say goodbye but they said “no”.  And I couldn’t blame them. When I got there, my dad was again in bad shape sweating, stiff, and spastically twitching.   This is not how they should remember their granddad.

Sunday, I did not go to visit him. I stayed home to finish laundry and relax, watching the Bears beat the Lions and the Cowboys beat the Redskins. The calm before the storm.

Monday, September 18, 2006, five years to the day of the crazy phone call between my dad and I that started this whole thing, I woke up as if it were a normal day. I got the kids off to school as usual. I came home from dropping off Ian and did my normal wandering through the house with coffee and frequent trips to the garage for a cigarette. I finally got around to getting dressed around 11 a.m.

When I got to my dad’s room at the nursing home, I went to his side of the room and after settling in a chair next to the bed, looked up and noticed that the feeding tube was still in place and being used. About a minute later an orderly came in and I asked what was going on. She didn’t seem to understand what I meant. I told her that Hospice was supposed to have stopped my dad’s feeding tube feedings that day. She said that she had, “heard something about it, but didn’t know anything else.” UGH! She then asked if I wanted her to go find out. Well yeah. I told her “yes” and she left the room.

A few minutes later my dad’s Hospice nurse came in. I pointed to the tube and she said that she would find out what was going on and left the room.

As she left, Morris shouted across the curtain asking what was going on. I got up and went to his side of the room and told him what was happening. He seemed sad, but resigned. He made mention, as he often would, about how young a man my dad was and that was the end of it.

After a few minutes the nurse came back and said that Doctor Maxville hadn’t given the orders yet. It took another half hour before everyone got on the same page and they finally disconnected the feeding tube.

As had become the norm, my dad was shaking with violent tremors and grimacing, as if in pain. He was also sweating copiously. The Hospice nurse took his temperature and said that he was running a slight fever. She said that she could give him some Tylenol, but since they had stopped the feeding tube to do that they would have to use suppositories. EWW!

She also said that the Tylenol might not even work. So I said, “No” at least not for now. I’d like to avoid having him violated like that in the end (no pun intended) if at all possible.

She did decide that she would order that he be given 1-2cc of Adavan every hour to help control the seizures. She administered that, but after a half an hour my father was no less agitated. Then she ordered that my dad be given ¼ – 1cc of Roxanol (liquide Morphine) for pain, every one to two hours. That was given and then we waited for him to calm down. She and I sat talking and waiting for the tremors to stop and for my dad to seem at ease, but it didn’t seem to be working. I sat in the chair next to my dad’s bed trying to let him know that everything would be okay. I had to talk loudly and directly into my dad’s ear because as usual, Morris had his television on full blast.

The nurse and I talked about a lot of things. One of which being pain, and pain management and how pain or a person’s fight against pain, could, and in her opinion, has been known to keep someone holding on much longer than they would if they were calm and at peace. She assured me, even though I knew, that Hospice never gives enough Morphine to kill. They only give enough Morphine to relieve pain.

At one point, one of the regular day orderlies came in, to visit I guess. When she walked around the curtain to my dad’s side of the bed, she stopped short. She asked me why my dad wasn’t hooked to the feeder. I told her, “They stopped the feedings today. Didn’t anyone tell you?” She said “no” and was visibly upset when she left the room. Okay, if she didn’t know, who else in this place doesn’t know? What was that week to prepare for?

The nurse administered more Roxanol sometime later when my dad still hadn’t calmed down. Then I got an idea. I went out to my car and got out a small portable CD player that I had brought for myself to listen to later. I also brought the Arlington Jones CD I had in my car. Back in the room, I put the CD into the player and turned it to what I thought was a soothing level with Arlington’s jazz playing and slipped the headphones over my dad’s ears. My dad seemed almost immediately to calm down. The tremors stopped. He did remain ridged, with his arms and hand clenched.  But his eyes closed and his expression changed from a grimace to calm. Thank God. You really did like Arlington’s music. First hurdle over.

A few hours later my dad’s breathing started to become labored. When I touched my dad’s hands, they were ice cold almost up to the elbow. I knew this to be a sign of impending death. It was something that I had dealt with when my grandmother passed and something that the D.O.N. had discussed in our meeting the week before. I told the nurse and she touched my dad and confirmed it. We both touched his feet, they were still warm but this was still not a good sign.

The Hospice nurse was planning on leaving for other appointments, but with this change she decided that she wanted to start round the clock care for him. She called her office and placed the order, while I took a cigarette break. Wow, I wasn’t expecting a change in him this fast. I wonder what this means, if it means anything at all?

When I came back to the room, the nurse told me that they would be sending a duty nurse A.S.A.P.  She then began to warn me about the nurse they said that they were sending. “She’s well…odd. That’s all I’m going to say. You’ll see.” Great, I get to sit through this with a nutty nurse. NICE.

After a few hours, my dad’s breathing was becoming even more labored and his fever got higher, but still no duty nurse. The nurse called her office again. They said that they didn’t know what had happened to the original nurse who was supposed to be there so they would call in someone else.

The nurse and I continued talking and tending to my dad while we waited. I restarted the CD for him, mopped his brow and rubbed his arms and forehead. The nurse ordered his bed and gown to be changed at one point. When they changed his clothes, they noted that he was dry. He had not urinated or had a bowl movement since the day before. The nurse commented that that was odd and that she would have the duty nurse keep an eye on it, but that was as much as she made of it.

Around 2:30 p.m., the duty nurse showed up. She was a short, stocky, little blond girl with glasses, who looked to be about twenty-four. She looks normal enough.

After briefing the new nurse on what had been going on, I walked the regular nurse out to her car, so that I could smoke again. She told me on the way that the current duty nurse was not the one she had warned me about, so I should be fine. Out in the parking lot, we hugged and she left.

When I came back to the room, the duty nurse, LaNora, asked me some background questions about my dad. I told her the Readers Digest version of events over the past five years. As we talked, we clicked immediately. Within fifteen minutes we were laughing and joking about all kinds of things and much of the tension of the day melted away, even though I hadn’t realized at the time that I was stressed.

At some point Mike called to ask what was going on. I told him everything that had happened up until that point and then told him I would be home for dinner. A few minutes after I hung up, a disheveled older woman in nurses’ scrubs came bursting in the door, complaining loudly about getting bad directions. This must be the woman she was trying to warn me about.

LaNora and I exchanged glances and muffled giggles. When the other nurse saw LaNora, she began complaining loudly again about the double booking and not being called and wasting gas and such… She went right on complaining for at least another five minutes and then left just as abruptly as she came. LaNora and I burst into laughter as soon as she left.

My dad’s breathing and condition seemed to worsen, but only slightly and his temperature leveled out throughout the afternoon. Several Garden Care nurses and orderlies came by throughout the day to pay their respects. Around 5:30 p.m., LaNora told me that she would be staying until around 8 p.m. when the night nurse came on duty and then she would be back early the next morning. I called Mike and told him that I was going to hang out until the night nurse came on duty to meet her and give her any information she might need. We hung up and LaNora and I picked up where we left off. She continued monitoring my dad’s vitals, which did not seem to be changing. I took the head phones off my dad and talked to him off and on, while talking to LaNora and watching the Jacksonville Jaguars play the Pittsburgh Steelers on Monday Night Football with Morris.

At around 8:00, the night shift nurse came in. I knew immediately she was much stiffer than LaNora. She and LaNora exchanged medical information while I hung out talking to my dad. After LaNora left, the night nurse and I spoke briefly, but the mood in the room had changed. I told my dad goodbye and that I would be back tomorrow, said goodbye to Morris and left.

I made it home just in time to do bedtime with Ian and briefly talk to Dayton. I then spent the rest of the evening relaying the day’s events to Mike and then polished off two glasses of wine while taking a long Jacuzzi bath.

Monday must have been more stressful than I had thought because the next day, I was dragging ass. Mike had to work, but thankfully he didn’t have to go in early. He got up with the kids while I slept in until about 10 a.m. I was finally able to drag my procrastinating butt into the nursing home at around noon.

On my way to the nursing home, I stopped at a local diner called the “Windy City Grill.” I had been telling Morris about the place for some time and thought it would be nice to bring him a hometown hotdog. The owners are from Chicago and make a mean, authentic Chicago style hot dog and fries. I got a dog and an order of fries for both Morris and me and then headed to Keller Oaks. Okay, is it weird or rude to be bringing food into my dad’s room to eat when they have stopped all his feedings?

I got to my dad’s room and Morris was watching All My Children as usual. I told him I brought him a surprise and gave him his food. He was excited and appreciative and seemed to really enjoy it.

LaNora was sitting filling out paperwork when I got there. I immediately noticed a change in my dad. When I left the night before, my dad’s breathing had been labored but not badly. Now it was audibly, well, just wrong, even over the blaring television. “Death Rattle” LaNora told me. It is an awful sound, like someone struggling to breathe underwater, that unfortunately, I had heard twice before.

The first time I heard that terrible sound was when Mike’s paternal grandmother had been dying after a long battle as the result of several strokes. We had gone up to Oklahoma after being called by his parents and being told the end was near. I happened to be one of only three people in the room when she actually passed away.

The second time I heard the sound was in the exact same hospital room a year later when Mike’s grandfather was passing. We were not there when he actually passed, but I heard it in him nonetheless the day before he died.

She told me that my dad had started the rattle sometime during the night. She also said that his temperature, which had leveled off around 99 the night before, had spiked. I touched him and he was burning up. I asked about any changes in his demeanor. She told me that he had seemed rather agitated earlier in the morning, but after his Roxanol he seemed to calm down. As if on cue, my father started to twitch a little. I grabbed the headphones which I had left overnight and tried the music again. This time, it didn’t work. He seemed to be getting more agitated. I took the headphones off of him and began rubbing his arms and temple while talking to him as softly as I could where I thought he could hear me over television. That didn’t seem to work either. The more I talked, the more he jerked. Aww, dad, what is it? What’s wrong? I wish I knew what you were thinking so I knew how to help you.

LaNora left the room to get another order of Roxanol, I think. I began singing parts of songs that I remembered he liked (Redemption Song, I Shot the Sheriff, Send in the Clowns, Mr. Bojangels, Amazing Grace) anything I could think of. But nothing was working. And then I just kind of snapped. When LaNora came in, I was again trying to say words of comfort to my dad, in a loud whisper, when I turned to LaNora and said, “Okay, this is freakin ridiculous! I can’t take that TV anymore. I’m having to scream words of comfort to my dad. IT’S OKAY DAD. YOU CAN GO. GO TO THE LIGHT. NO, NOT TO THE RIGHT, THE LIGHT!” I couldn’t help but laugh now. “I was trying to sing to him when you left. AMAZING GRACE HOW SWEET THE SOUND!” LaNora laughed with me.

I asked her if there was anyway we could move my dad into a private room. She said she was wondering how long it was going to take me to get sick of the TV being so loud and that it had been driving her crazy since she got there. She then told me that earlier in the morning Morris’ daughter had come by to visit him. She said that she was very loud, assuming because she had to speak loudly so that Morris could hear her. She said that on top of the TV being up full blast, and the two of them talking at the top of their lungs, the woman had been messing with all of her father’s cell phone ring tones at top volume and that was when my dad had seemed to get really agitated. Oh my god, THAT’S what’s probably been wrong all this time! My dad’s not deaf! He’s been sitting in this room for months with a migraine from the blaring television unable to complain! I’m such an idiot, it never even occurred to me! Dad, I am so sorry!

LaNora said that she would talk to someone about putting my dad in a room by himself until the end and left the room.

While I waited for LaNora to come back, my dad’s original Hospice case nurse came in. I explained what was going on. She said that they thought all along that my dad should have been put in a private room. Then why didn’t you say that when you stood next to me and listened to me ask for JUST THAT from the DON and get nowhere? UGH!

A few minutes later LaNora came back into the room with one of the Keller Oaks’ nurses who said that they had a room that would work but they needed a few minutes to move a resident’s things out. Thank goodness.

After much shuffling, maneuvering, and fiddling with the bed, we finally moved my dad into a room in the same hall, directly across from the nurses’ station. When I went back to the room to grab the last of my dad’s things, Morris asked me what was going on. I told him that it was almost over and that we were moving him. He nodded and told me good luck as I left the room with my handful of things.

The new room was peacefully quiet. My dad seemed to immediately relax. He stopped twitching altogether as we all sat quietly for the first half hour.

At some point everyone left the room. I took the private time to audibly apologize to my dad for not realizing why he had been so agitated. “Dad, I am so sorry for being such a moron. It just never dawned on me and it should have. But I promise you, it is almost over and it’s going to be okay. You can relax and go whenever you want now. I’m here and I will be here ‘til the end. This is a promise that I plan to keep.”

When everyone came back into the room, we began to talk quietly. The air seemed somehow lighter since we switched rooms. We laughed and joked about a number of things.

After awhile my dad’s breathing got very labored on top of the rattle. The case nurse said that getting my dad some oxygen might help and asked if I wanted her to do that. I told her if she thought it would help him feel more comfortable. She called the office to arrange the oxygen.

About twenty minutes later, the Chaplin showed up with the oxygen tank. He said that he had been planning to come in anyway and it just made sense for him to bring it himself when the call came in.

The case nurse put the oxygen tube up to my dad’s nose and it did seem to help a bit after a while. My dad’s breathing seemed to be a little less labored, but the rattle did remain.

Once the oxygen was in place, we all sat and talked for about an hour. We laughed and joked about a number of things. Somehow we got on the subject of Televangelists. The Chaplin even told me about a new series of Robert Tilton Fart Tapes now playing on U-Tube. Things were much more serene.

At some point, I pulled the case nurse aside in the hall and asked her what she thought of my dad’s condition and how long he might have. I could tell she didn’t really want to answer me. She basically said that she didn’t know. She said that even though my dad did seem to be going downhill extremely quickly, she had seen others do the same and then linger for a week or more.

The Chaplin and case nurse eventually left. About a half an hour later, I touched my dad and told LaNora that he seemed extremely hot. She took his temperature and it had indeed spiked to almost 103. She asked again about the Tylenol, with the same warning that it might not work. I again said no.  As the day went on, the death rattle got continuously worse. I finally turned on the television quietly, just so there was another sound in the room.

That was pretty much the way the day went. LaNora and I chatted. I talked off and on to my dad. LaNora would shift my dad’s position in the bed. His fever would rise slightly then level off and the death rattle continued to worsen. I don’t think he’s going to make it much longer. This is going really fast.

Sometime after about 3 p.m., LaNora checked my dad’s brief, he still had not urinated or defecated. LaNora told me, even though I already knew, that that was not normal nor a good sign. My gosh. His kidneys have already shut down. He must have been in so much pain that he wasn’t able to go before. My God, how long has he really been suffering?

Around 5 p.m., the death rattle had gotten so loud and his breathing so labored, I started to think that my dad might not make it through the night. Around 6 p.m., I asked LaNora what she thought. She didn’t really answer me. I know you don’t want to predict anything, but I don’t know what to do. I feel him slipping, fast and I don’t want him to go without me being here.

I tried to hold his hands, but they were clenched too tight and were so sweaty that they actually smelled of sweat. LaNora said that we could put wash clothes in his hands to help. I said sure. When she left to get the cloths, I had the idea to rub antiperspirant in the palms of his hands to maybe help.

When LaNora came back, we rolled up the washcloths and put one in the palm of each hand.  I sat rubbing his arms and chest and humming to him for a bit.

About a half hour later, I told LaNora that I was thinking about spending the night and asked her what she thought. She took my dad’s vitals and then said, “Yeah, I would stay.” I knew it. Okay Dad, here we go. You and me, like I promised.

I called Mike and told him that things didn’t look good and that I was going to spend the night. He asked me if I wanted him to bring me dinner. I told him, “no” I would get myself something. I told LaNora I was going to go get myself dinner and that I would be back. I went across the street to the convenient store and got a big bag of Dorritos and a mini four pack of cabernet. Dinner of champions.

I came back and prepared for the evening. The orderlies had moved the Geri chair from my dad’s room. I pulled the Geri chair between the two beds and as close to my dad’s bed as I could and climbed in it with a blanket and prepared to settle in for a long night.

A little after 7 p.m., LaNora and I were watching television, laughing and joking when the door opened. It was Mike. The mood of the room instantly changed. It had been several weeks since Mike had been in to see my dad and seeing him laboring to breathe with the oxygen tube in his nose and the horrible death rattle hit him hard. He just kind of stood at the foot of the bed, looking upset. I got up and told him that he could sit on the bed. He said no he was fine. I told him what had gone on throughout the day and then introduced him to LaNora. After a few more uncomfortable minutes, LaNora said that she would leave us alone and left the room.

When she left, I told Mike that he could talk to my dad. I wasn’t sure, but I still believed that he could hear us. I turned and told my dad that Mike was there and had come to say goodbye. Mike walked to the other side of my dad’s bed leaned down and said, “Hi Wes,” and then just looked at me. I sat down on my dad’s bed and rubbed his arm and told Mike that it was okay. I don’t know how to comfort him. I know this is sad and he looks awful, but it is what it is.

Mike came around to the other side of the bed where I was and sat in the Geri chair. We talked a little about his day and the kids. It was very strained. I got up and grabbed one of my mini red wine bottles and a plastic cup off the dresser next to the bed. Mike looked behind the Geri chair at my “dinner,” shook his head and laughed. I poured myself a cup of wine, grabbed my cigarettes and told Mike to follow me to the smoking section outside the locked ward. I told my dad I was going to smoke and would be back and then got up to leave. Mike walked over to my dad again and said, “Goodbye Wes” and we headed for the door. As we left, I told LaNora where we were going. Mike and I hung out outside smoking and talking for a few, much more relaxed minutes. When we headed back toward my dad’s room, Mike turned off to leave kissing me goodbye and I went back to the room. LaNora was taking vitals when I got back.

My dad’s vitals and temperature had stabilized again. LaNora and I went back to talking, while I ate my “dinner”. At around 8 p.m., the door opened and a large black woman in a nursing shirt came in. She was the night shift nurse. While she and LaNora talked medical stuff, I went and smoked another cigarette. When I came back, the night nurse was asking LaNora to use her wrist blood pressure machine. When she was done, LaNora said she would be back the next day. I hugged her and she left.

I climbed back into the Geri chair and tried talking to the night nurse as I had originally done when I first met LaNora. I got stiff, one word answers. This is going to be a very long night.

I asked her how she liked her job. She told me that she didn’t. She said that she wanted to retire and move to another country. Okay.

I asked her what country. She told me Canada within the next year and then another country later on. Okay.

I then asked her when she retired what she wanted to do. She said, without much emotion, that she was a writer and had published several books in Canada and planned to do that when she left. You have books published in Canada? Why not here?

I asked her that and she said because it was easier to get published in Canada. Okay, note to self to check out.

I then asked her what types of books she wrote. She said different kinds. I tried to get her to elaborate but then she just started to mumble. Um, alrighty then.

I sat there for a while trying to figure out how to connect with the woman as she went about her business. As I sat watching her, she left the room several times to borrow equipment and a watch to use for blood pressure monitoring. How does this woman not have any equipment with her? Isn’t that her job?

A few hours later, I asked her if she had children. She said yes, she had a five-year-old daughter. I asked if she planned to have any more children. She said no, she was afraid to have any more children, especially in this country. I asked her what she meant. She told me this very long, odd story about her sister’s son who had almost been kidnapped by some man who lived in her apartment complex and how her sister refused to do anything about it. And then, she said that she had known that something like that was going to happen because she had dreamed about it and now she was terrified to have any more kids. Um, okay…What?

After the story, she left the room. I then noticed the bag that she had brought in with her. It was a clear plastic zipper bag, like a large make up case. Inside, I could see a lot of papers and general purse junk. I also noticed a huge canister. After looking harder at it, I could see that it was a container of powdered baby formula. What the hell?

When she came back into the room she was carrying about a dozen vending machine bags of assorted chips and things and a soda (it was either Sprite, Squirt, Slice or Mountain Dew) and a plastic cup. As I sat there pretending to watch television, (What the hell is she doing?) I watched out of the corner of my eye as she took the baby formula out of her bag, scooped some out and put it into the plastic cup and then opened the soda and pour it into the cup and then drank the mixture. Eeewww, that’s got to be gross!

She then proceeded to eat every last bag of chips. My God, I couldn’t eat that many chips in a week, let alone a half hour.

I poured another mini cup of red wine and went to smoke. When I came back, the night nurse was taking my dad’s vitals again. His breathing seemed to be getting more labored again. I rubbed his chest and could feel he was still extremely hot. The death rattle had also gotten worse.

The nurse suggested getting an actual oxygen mask to help my dad’s breathing. She said she wasn’t sure if it would help, but we could try it. I told her “sure” and she left to get it. While I waited, I rubbed my dad’s chest and hummed softly to him.

The nurse came back and disconnected the oxygen tube and covered his face with the mask.  I sat watching him and rubbing his chest and arm for about a half an hour; it wasn’t working. The death rattle continued to worsen and his breathing continued to slow, while still appearing to be labored. I finally told her to stop the oxygen. It’s no longer helping and he just looks uncomfortable.

She turned off the machine while I took the mask off. Is this it, Dad? Is this the end?

About twenty minutes after we stopped the oxygen, the death rattle started to subside, or at least quiet. My dad’s breathing was still slowing and seemed labor, but the awful sound was quieting. I asked the nurse what that meant. She said she wasn’t sure. I watched him for a little while longer humming “Send in the Clowns” then went back to watching TV while rubbing his arm.

David Letterman came on and I had a very surreal moment. It was Ventriloquists week. Jay Johnson was the night’s ventriloquist. He had this monkey puppet named Darwin as his prop. He’s doing his act, which was silly and cute. After what seemed like about 10 minutes into the act, Darwin says that he wants to sing a song in monkey language. Darwin then proceeds to oo oo aa aa to the tune of “Send in the Clowns.” Twilight Zone music anyone!?!?

I watched a bit more of Letterman until the curiosity got the better of me. I finally looked at the nurse and said, “Okay what’s with the baby formula?”  The nurse showed the first signs of emotion that I had seen from her all night. She sat up straighter in her chair and got this girlish innocent grin on her face and said, “I’m preparing my body to have babies.” What, what what!?!?!

She went on to explain how she was following a two-step regiment to prepare her body to have more babies. This regiment, that she proudly said she, “made up herself,” consisted of starting off drinking baby formula for six months, then she would start taking women’s multi-pack vitamins for another six months. She also said that she was going to start her five-year-old daughter on the women’s pack with her. What the hell are you talking about!?!? You told me not more than a few hours ago that you were NOT having any more kids. And what the hell is drinking baby formula going to do for YOUR body? And if you are preparing your body to have babies why are you eating truckloads of chips? That’s the craziest thing I have ever heard! And why would you give a five-year-old child adult woman’s vitamins?

“I see.” Was all I could muster to say out loud.

From then on, her demeanor changed. She was happy and pleasant and talkative. She told me about the books she had written, some children’s book and a comedy. And how Canada was so much better than the United States and some other stuff I can’t remember because I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby formula and the massive amounts of chips.

Finally, around 12:30 a.m., I started to crater in the chair. I set my cup down and said I was going to try and get some sleep. The nursing staff had given me bedding to use for the other bed. I grabbed a sweater that I bought my dad a while back out of the armoire and put it on because I was cold. I told my dad I was going to get some sleep and then told the nurse to wake me if she saw any significant change. As I climbed into bed, I turned the volume down on the TV and asked her if she wanted me to turn it off, since she didn’t seem to be watching it. She said no. Get hints much?

I must have been exhausted because even with the lights and the TV still on, I fell immediately to sleep. I woke up several times during the night and saw the night nurse shuffling around doing things, but forced myself back to sleep. Finally, I woke up to the voice of the night nurse. She was arguing with the television. Oh my god, you have GOT to be freakin kidding me!?!?

I laid there with my eyes closed trying to go back to sleep, but between the people talking on the TV, which had had the volume turned up, and the nurse’s arguments with the people in the TV, I knew it was a lost cause. She was watching Christina’s Court, one of those cheesy People’s Court, Judge Judy type shows. I listened to her argue with one of the complainants and realized she had no idea what she was talking about, so I sat up and said so. I explained what was going on from the little I had heard as I laid there with my eyes closed, then asked what time it was. 4:45. UGH, I need coffee.

Since my dad seemed to be the same as he had been when I went to sleep, I decided to go in search of coffee. I went out to the nurse’s station and asked if there was any. The nurse looked around and then told me that there should be some started in the dining room. I went down to the dining room and got some coffee and took it outside and had my morning cigarette. AH, breakfast of champions.

I came back to the room and said good morning to my dad, climbed back in the Geri chair and watched TV while rubbing his arm.

Around 5:45, one of the Keller Oaks nurses came in to see how things were going. After getting the run down of the evening, she asked me if I would like some breakfast. I said that I had planned to go get some later. She tells me not to worry about it and says she will bring me something. I thanked her and went back to watching TV. At about 6:15 a.m., I still had no food, so I go to get it myself. I meet the nurse in the dining room and she has a tray that she is making for me. I thank her and tell her I can take it from there. I get what I want and bring it back to the room. Worst food I have ever tasted. Dad, you weren’t missing anything not being able to eat in this place. YUCK!

I nibble a little of everything, then decide enough is enough. I take the tray back down to the dining room and put it away, grab some more coffee and go have a cigarette.

When I came back into the room, something seemed different. Although there didn’t seem to be any change in my dad, I somehow felt that there was. I asked the nurse if my dad’s vitals had changed and she said no. The death rattle was still there, but quieter, his breathing was slow and labored, but unchanged. Still, something was wrong. The nurse started talking to me about whatever was now on the television, but I’m not listening. I’m sitting in the Geri chair, rubbing my dad’s arm, looking at him hard. He’s getting ready to die.

I know that was what I was there for, but all at once, it hits me. He is right now about to die while I sit here with this crazy woman rambling on, while eating powdered donuts, (She had gotten some sometime during the night.) and drinking baby formula mixed with soda. Dad, I can’t do this. I can NOT do this with this woman. If you die now, I will have to do all of it with this woman as my only help and I can’t, I just can’t!

As I’m thinking all of this the nurse gets up and leaves the room. I blurt out, “Dad, I know you’re tired, but I can’t do this with this woman. I know you want to go, but not yet. You have to wait for LaNora. She comes in at 8 a.m., that’s only a few more hours. Please, Dad, you have to wait.”

I was seriously petrified. My dad’s breathing began changing almost immediately. It slowed way down and became very ragged and the death rattle came back with a vengeance. Oh god, please Dad, you have to wait for LaNora. Don’t make me do this with this woman!

Every time the night nurse would leave the room, I would say just that and count down the hours and/or minutes until 8 a.m.

By 7:45 a.m. when LaNora walked into the room my dad’s breathing had slowed to a crawl. He would have short periods where he almost appeared not to be breathing at all. I felt as if I had been holding my breath as well. Thank you, Dad. Thank you.

I breathed a sigh of relief as LaNora and the night nurse exchanged information from the evening. As the night nurse was getting ready to leave, I asked her if my dad made it through the night would she be the nurse coming back or would they be sending someone else. She smiled and cheerfully told me that she would definitely be the nurse coming back that night. Oh god no!

LaNora said that she needed to get something and walked out at the same time as the night nurse. Again I spoke out loud to my dad. “Okay Dad, look, LaNora is here now and I know that you’re tired so you can go at anytime, but please don’t hang on another night because that crazy woman is coming back. I can’t do another night with her or have you go when she’s here. Besides Mike has to work today which means that I HAVE to go home tonight to do homework and cook dinner and do bedtimes and stuff and I don’t know what time I can come back. So it’s a little after 8 now, I would need to be home by 3. So you have between now and 3 p.m., Dad. Please!?!”

As I finished saying this, LaNora came back into the room. I recounted what had gone on the night before and that morning before she came in, including what I had told my dad. We were cracking up laughing within five minutes. Okay, I can get through this now.

My dad seemed to stabilize again and LaNora and I went back to talking.

Somehow in our conversation, we got on the subject of home décor and how much she liked Keller Oaks compared to other places she had been. I explained to her how the place was decorated like my house and then somehow the conversation went to the difference in style between my dad and me. I told her about our first apartment in Illinois when my parents had really gotten into THEIR style in the 70’s.

Back in the day, our apartment must have been the shit. The entire apartment had wall-to-wall multi-color green shag carpet. The most memorable part of the apartment was the living room and attached dining room. Our living room had one wall that was all dark brown cork, the other wall was hot pink and it joined with the dining room, which was bright canary yellow and was over looked by our olive green kitchen. The centerpiece to this room, at least for me, was our fuzzy royal blue and white striped couch. It was the ugliest thing on the planet, but it was the most comfortable couch I still have ever sat or slept on.

LaNora and I laughed about this and so much more until about 9:30 and then my dad took another turn for the worse.

He began having periods where he would actually stop breathing altogether and then gasp back to breathing. LaNora told me that this was normal in the end and that she had seen people go as long as five minutes without breathing and then begin again. Great!

My dad’s breathing started to sound worse and I got the feeling that he was in pain again. I tried putting the headphones back on him, but they wouldn’t stay on for some reason. So I put them next to his head and turned on the CD again.  The periods which my dad stopped breathing continued to get longer. I turned the CD player off and turned the radio on to a local R&B station. Several songs came on that I knew that my dad liked, an O.J.’s song, something by Anita Baker, and then a Jill Scott song, but it just didn’t seem like it was what he wanted.

As the morning went on, besides the change in my dad’s breathing, there were other small physical changes. His body finally relaxed. His hands unclenched and we were finally able to take the washcloths away. And although he was still burning up with fever, he stopped sweating.

At one point, I got up to go to the bathroom and I had a frightening thought that he might die while I was peeing. I really don’t want to have to tell people or write down that I was sitting on the toilet when my dad passed away.

I came out and told LaNora what I had been thinking. She laughed because she had had the same thought.

The intervals of not breathing started to be up to a minute in length. It was really starting to affect me. I was having feelings of lightheadedness and knew a panic attack was trying to surface, but I refused to let it. After a little over an hour of this and a particularly long episode of not breathing that scared me half to death, when he gasped so loudly it made me jump, I got a little irritated.

“Okay, Dad you’re screwing with me!” I shouted at him.  He stopped breathing. Oh no, no, no, no!

“Dad, that can NOT be the last thing I say to you.” I shouted louder in a panic. He breathed again.

“I LOVE YOU!” I yelled at him louder than I had meant to. “Okay, Dad sorry, but I’m tired and you’re wearing me out, so I’m going to try and take a nap.”

I looked at my cell phone and saw that it was 11:13 a.m. I told LaNora that I was going to lie down and not to let me sleep past noon. I went and put my cell phone down on the table across the room, climbed up into the other bed and closed my eyes. Almost immediately, I opened my eyes. “Shit, I have to pee.”

I got back out of the bed and walked toward the bathroom. As I crossed in front of the foot of my dad’s bed, I stopped and looked at him…and I knew.

I turned back around and sat down on the side of his bed. I took my dad’s hand in both of mine and said, “Its okay Dad, you can go.”

My dad took two quick breaths in and out, and then one long breath in and stopped. I looked at LaNora. She got out her stethoscope and listened to his chest. She said that his heart was faint, but still beating. So I sat holding his hand and rubbing his arm. After several more minutes when my dad didn’t move, LaNora listened to his chest again, this time when I looked at her, she shook her head no. He was gone. Bye Dad. I love you.

I sat on the bed holding my dad’s hand, looking at him. LaNora asked me if I was alright. “Yeah…No.”  And I silently began to cry.

It had to be less than two minutes later and my cell phone rang. I have no idea what possessed me to answer the phone, but I got up and answered it. It was Dayton’s English teacher calling to talk to me because he hadn’t been turning in his homework. You have GOT to be kidding me!

“Um, my dad just died two minutes ago.” I said a bit too loudly into the phone. The poor man stammered for a few seconds and then asked me if I wanted to contact him later or have him contact me later. “Yeah, why don’t I call you later. Wait you know what, I don’t know when I’ll have time. Let me deal with this now since I have you on the phone.” Never a dull moment.

While I had been talking on the phone, LaNora went to call Hospice and inform them of my dad’s passing. When I finished talking to Dayton’s teacher, I called Mike and told him that my dad was gone. After giving him a quick run down of what happened, I hung up to call the Body Gift Registry, to let them know that my dad had passed and that they could come and pick him up.

The Body Gift Registry is an organization where you can donate your own or a loved ones body to medical science. Since I knew that my dad had no religious affiliations I thought the best thing I could do was make his life and death meaningful. By donating his body to medical science, maybe he would be able to help find a cure or an earlier diagnosis for someone in the future. If nothing else his body might help to train a next generation medical student that could be the one to cure Cancer, Alzheimer’s or any number of diseases.

While I was talking, LaNora had come back into the room. When I finished, she told me that they would be sending a nurse from Hospice to “pronounce” my dad. I told her fine and went to smoke a cigarette. On my way down the hall, I was met by several employees who enquired about my dad. I told them all that he had “gone”, accepted their condolences and kept going. On my way past the locked ward, I asked the lady at the nurse’s station if she would tell the staff of the locked unit that my dad had passed.

When I finished, I went back to my dad’s room. On my way in, I met the Chaplin as he was coming into the nursing home. We walked together down the hall. We were stopped at the nurse’s station and I was asked to fill out some paperwork, which I did. We went back into the room and the three of us began talking like the night before, laughing and joking with me telling some stories about my dad.

A few minutes later the door opened, it was one of the general residents’ nurses being followed by one of the locked ward nurses. The general ward nurse asked if it was okay that the other nurses come in to say goodbye to my dad. Huh, of course. I told her, “of course” and to tell anyone else who might want to that they were more than welcome to come by. The general nurse left and the locked ward nurse, who was the one I knew from Garden Care, came over and gave me a hug, told a short story about my dad and then left.

The Chaplin, LaNora and I went back to talking. The door abruptly opened again. When I looked up, I had to stop myself from gasping out loud. A tall, balding older white man walking with a cane came into the room. He introduced himself and then said that he would be the attending nurse to “pronounce” my dad because his actual case nurse was out sick. He said some other things, but I didn’t hear any of them. I was frozen, staring at him. He was very somber, with a Lurch from the Adams Family like quality except creepier. He actually looked just like Michael Berryman, the guy who played the bald guy from the original “The Hills Have Eyes” movie from the 70’s. Breathe, Leslie.

I snapped myself back to reality and got up and shook his hand. As we stood there talking the door opened again, it was the Hospice Social worker.  Great, I thought I had seen her for the last time.

I put on a smile and allowed her to hug me. I tried very hard not to show my true emotions when she said, “Well, your dad went pretty quickly. That must have meant God was ready for him to come home.” Would this be the God who didn’t want me to stop the feeding tube because I’m cruel?

“Yeah.” Was all I said.

The five of us stood there talking for several seconds, and then the conversation just kind of died, leaving us all standing in the dimly lit room staring at the floor. After several seconds of this, I looked around at everyone and then blurted out, “Okay, this is freakin’ creepy and its ooging me out! I’m going to sit down.”

This seemed to snap everyone back to reality and into movement. The social worker hugged me again and left with some more words of condolence, the Chaplin went and opened the blinds at the window, the nurse went to go do some official paperwork and LaNora and I went and sat back down in the chairs around my dad’s bed.

The Chaplin, LaNora and I sat visiting. As we did, I touched my dad’s arm while telling stories about him. Even though it was close to an hour later, he was still warm. I expected him to be cold. He still feels like him.

When I expressed my surprise at my dad’s warmth, LaNora and the Chaplin told me that because my dad had died with a high fever he could remain warm for several hours.

Sometime after noon, the door opened again as we all visited. A small man dressed in a black suit came into the room. He expressed his condolences and told me that he was from the funeral home contacted by the Body Gift Registry. I got up and shook his hand, while stifling a laugh. Oh my gosh, he has the worst accent that I have ever heard. It doesn’t even sound real.

His accent was a cross between Count Chocula and the Taco Bell Chihuahua.

He was very somber and stooped over in this humble manner looking confused as the three of us laughed around my dad’s bed. I know that’s terrible, but I couldn’t help it.  I couldn’t stop laughing. Maybe it was that nervous laughter of a stressful situation, or maybe it’s just I have a twisted sense of humor. Probably the last one. Thank God no one else knew why I was laughing so hard.

After a few minutes of the man standing next to my dad’s bed looking uncomfortable, the Chaplin told me that LaNora and I needed to leave the room so that they could move my dad’s body. I went back over to my dad and touched his arm again, still warm, I said, “Bye, Dad,” and left.

LaNora and I stood in the hall in front of the nurse’s station talking to each other and a few of the nurses. After a few minutes my dad’s room door opened and a gurney became visible being pushed out the door.

I had expected when the gurney came out of the room to see a body (my dad) under a white sheet or in a body bag. What actually came out was a body (my dad) tightly wrapped in a royal blue fuzzy faux fur blanket that looked just like the arms of our family’s old fuzzy blue couch. OH MY GOD, my dad looks like Cookie Monster! What the hell!?!?

The two men wheeled the gurney with my dad’s fuzzy blue form past my surprised eyes and out the door to the waiting ambulance. That’s the last time that I saw my dad.

When the Chaplin came back in, we exchanged more pleasantries and then both he and LaNora hugged me goodbye. I told the nursing staff at the desk that I was going to get my dad’s stuff and that they could distribute all of my dad’s remaining things. They thanked me and I went back into the room to pack up and go.

I grabbed my purse and CD player, the two photos that had been in my dad’s room, one of my dad and me at my wedding, the other a family photo of Mike, the kids, and me. I also grabbed the rest of my “dinner” from the night before, my Doritos, my two left over mini wines, the sweater of my dad’s that I had worn, and that was it. This is all that I have left. Just like Mama Moore, his life was in the end, reduced to nothingness. That’s not true, Leslie. You have your memories.

As I walked down the hall headed for home, I came face to face with Morris wheeling down the hall in his wheelchair. We both stopped. Morris looked at the things in my arms and then nodded and wheeled away silently. Bye, Morris.

I stopped in the business office to inform the staff that my dad had gone and fill out any paperwork that was needed. That done I left. I got home at 1:45pm. Thanks for the alone time, Dad.

I called, Robert, François, Carla, my mother, Rose, Sam and Jerry, and left messages for all of them regarding my dad. I also called work and left them a message that my dad had passed and that I would be in sometime later the next week. I then took a long bath and got a snack. When Dayton got home, I told him that it was over. He hugged me and told me he was sorry.

We drove together to pick up Ian at school. I stayed in the car while Dayton got out to go get his brother. When Ian got in the car, he told me he was sorry granddad was dead. Dayton had told him when he went to get him.

I expected to have conversations with the kids about the death, but they had already processed everything, I guess. When we got home, it was as if it were just another normal day. The two of them began fighting about nothing as usual, Ian didn’t want to do his homework, dinner was loud and crazy; business as usual. I did kind of snap at one point when the kids were fighting after dinner, but I apologized and told them that I was just a little sad.

Mike came home and we talked a little bit about all that had happened. That was it. I had a glass of wine and went to bed.

Thursday was pretty uneventful. I did speak to Carla, my mother, and Rose.

Friday, we went out and met some of the people in our community wine tasting group for dinner and drinks. I didn’t eat though; I had a full-blown panic attack. I was able to maintain with great difficulty and never had to take my Xanax.

The rest of the weekend was better and things seemed to settle back down to normal.

Saturday night, I did have some rather strained conversations with Robert, Francois, Sam and Jerry. But all and all, things seemed to calm down.

Monday, after getting the kids off to school and having my normal coffee, cigarettes and news, I went into my office, which is the room which was supposed to be my dad’s, to finish writing the last chapter of this book.

I took a break from writing the book to smoke a cigarette at around 10:30 a.m. Just as I sat down, my cell phone rang. I looked at the read out; it was a 212 number, someone from New York. Maybe Rose’s phone is messing up again. I answered the phone. I knew the voice of the “Hello” on the other end immediately, even after three years. It was Frankie.

Frankie expressed her condolences and asked questions regarding my dad’s recent condition. I knew that Robert, Francois, and Carla had been keeping her somewhat updated, but I briefly gave her a run down of my dad’s situation over the past three years. There was an awkward silence in the conversation.

Frankie broke it by saying, “I just wanted to let you know that I love you. I know that it might not seem that way, but I’ve known and loved you since you were a baby and I still do.”

“Uh huh.” I responded dully.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that.” She added.

“Okay.” I said flatly.

Okay, Leslie could you be more of a bitch!?!

I changed the subject by asking about the family members who I had tried to call and could not get in touch with since my grandmother’s death. Frankie informed me that Joe, was in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimer’s, but May was still at home. We talked a bit about the boys and other family members; me searching my memory banks trying to figure out if I knew some of the people Frankie was talking about, with not much luck.

The call ended clumsily. We both said quick goodbyes. Frankie then finished by saying “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay,” was all that I said and we both hung up.

I immediately called Rose and told her about the phone call. She was so happy. She asked me if I was nice to Frankie. I told her that I was polite. She then gushed about how glad she was that Frankie had swallowed her pride and called me and that I had forgiven her.  Have I forgiven her?

Rose and I talked for about an hour about a variety of things. After I hung up, I came back to my computer to write it all down.

I sat in front of my computer for several hours after I hung up with Rose. I thought that my dad’s passing would put an end to the saga. Instead, I have a million and one unanswered questions swirling in my head. Now that I am no longer tied to the state with a weekly date at the nursing home, can I think about trying to get the family to move back to Illinois? With two family members officially, and one unofficially, diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, what does that mean for my and my boys’ future health? Can I and/or should I take one last plunge into the unpredictable seas of my family members and risk any more attacks to my psyche? Will I ever have answers to any of these questions?

I had every intention of ending this book with some spectacularly witty comment that would tie up all the loose ends of the past five years. Because I’m just that good. As I sat at my computer, contemplating everything that had transpired, I found myself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. And then my arrogance hit me like the Rock of Gibraltar. Although my dad’s life and story has ended, I realize that life cannot and will not be easily tied up with a neat little bow. It will continue to have moments of sad and happy, crazy and sane, good and bad, exciting and boring. I will never be able to write the closing joke because the universe ALWAYS has the last laugh.

Tuesday morning, I got up to run some errands and my car wouldn’t start; dead battery. Man I really, really hate Tuesdays. Mike jump-started the car and I went about my day. I came home and several hours later when I got in my car to go pick Ian up from school my car wouldn’t start, again. Mike picked up Ian instead and then went and bought a new battery to put in my car.

Later that evening, Mike was out in the garage putting the new battery in my car and talking to our next-door neighbor. At about 6:30 p.m., I walked out of the house to tell him that dinner was ready. As I came out onto the driveway, I heard galloping hooves. I looked up and saw an animal running south down the street next to my house. At first, I thought it was a cow calf, but as I said “Hey there’s a cow running down the street.” I realized that it was no cow. Once my brain kicked back in to normal, unfreakout mode, I realize and say, “That’s not a cow, that’s a baby moose. No, that’s a baby elk. No, that’s a baby reindeer.”

Mike, my neighbor and I walked to the corner and watched as the baby reindeer galloped down the street followed by a line of cars and trucks trying to get home for the night. As the reindeer crossed over the greenbelt across from my house and disappeared into the neighborhood, I looked up at the sky and smiled. Ha! Ha! Ha! Very funny dad.

Thanks.

I turned around and walked back into the house to put dinner on the table.

The Universe ALWAYS has the best closer.

Forgotten Tomorrows Crazy Today (Ch 17 – 18)

Chapter 17

When I got home from the nursing home the day of my dad’s fall, Mike and I had a long talk about what to do. We agreed that my dad needed out of Garden Care after all the things we had seen in the years that he had been there. We decided that my dad seemed to be in a place mentally where bringing him home again would not cause any kid of threat to the kids, me, or the house. The only real issue we had was remembering how cramped it had been with five people living in our 1500 sq. ft. home. I figured it would take some time, the way most government processes do, to actually get him home, so we decided to start looking for a bigger house.

The next day I called the CBA office to begin the process of bringing my dad home. It actually took several days of calling the office and leaving messages before I spoke to someone. When I finally did get a call back, the woman on the phone explained what the CBA program was all about, what services they could provide and how to go about applying.

First, she told me to be able to qualify for the CBA program, my dad needed to reside in a nursing home. Apparently, the program used to be offered to people in need who were still residing in a private residence, but the waiting list had gotten so long that the application process was closed for those people. The program was now only offered to try and take people out of the nursing care system and back into private residences.

Secondly, she told me that CBA would provide home healthcare and/or home non-medical attendant care depending on what the program facilitator and the patient’s physician determined was best. They would also determine what medical and household equipment that the program, through Medicaid, would pay for. She then told me that usually twenty-four hour care was not allotted. The program facilitator would determine a specific amount of time for each of the patient’s needs (i.e. feeding, bathing, dressing, clean up, etc…). Once the amount of care was determined, I, as his guardian, could determine whether I needed or wanted to have an outside source to be that paid caretaker or I could apply as the primary care giver myself.

The last thing she told me was that it took about two to three weeks to get the application process started. And once the application was approved, I would have twenty-nine days to bring my dad home. If I did not bring him home in that time, I would have to start the process all over again. She then asked me if I wanted to start the process right then. I didn’t think we were ready to bring my dad home in a month, so I told her that when I was ready, I would call back.

Between the kids, Mike’s work, the panic attacks, life in general and trying to find the right house, it would be almost two years before I would be ready.

Around the time when things started to heat up with my uncle’s lawyer, I made a call to Rita Sanchez, my dad’s Medicaid case worker and told her that I was planning to bring my dad home and why. She said that she thought that it was a great idea. During the discussion, I told her about the inheritance that he was getting ready to receive and asked if it would be possible to use some of the money to help us buy or build a bigger house to bring him home. I figured that way the money would be used for his care and could be kept under two-thousand dollars, if it were more than that, and keep him in the Medicaid program. She said that she could see no reason why I couldn’t and asked me to keep her informed.

While all of this was going on, Mike and I continued the process to find a bigger home to bring my dad home. Around the middle of April 2003, we hooked up with a company called HMS (Home Marketing Services) who specialize in helping people with bad credit, no credit or no clue get into new homes. Through them, even without the help of my dad’s money, we were pre-qualified for a home loan and found the perfect house to bring my dad home. We put our house on the market and got ready for the move.

We would have to build from the ground up to get the price and the options that we would need to make living with someone with failing health easier, but we didn’t mind. We figured during the six months it would take to get the house built, the inheritance issue should get resolved and we would be more than ready to bring my dad home. Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.

Mike and I had picked a home to be built by a company called Buescher. The house was actually bigger than what we needed, but had all the amenities that would make my dad’s failing health easier to deal with. First, it had two master bedrooms. The one downstairs would be for my dad. My dad wouldn’t have to try and maneuver stairs, it had its own bathroom; it would be perfect. The other four bedrooms were located upstairs, which meant that the kids would have their own rooms, Mike would have his office and it would all be out of my dad’s reach. Plus, it had a huge game room upstairs for the kids and their friends. We picked a lot in a really cute neighborhood in the town of Mansfield, which was about ten miles south of our house in Arlington. We signed the contract to start construction of the house. Everything was going great. The night that we signed the contract, I happened to look at one of the pamphlets that our sales agent had given us. It was from the same home builder, but it was located in a different area, Keller, that we had not looked in. I went online and saw that the same house that we were planning to build in Mansfield was thirty thousand dollars cheaper base price to build. So, of course, the next day I went and looked at the other community. The area wasn’t as cute, but it’s hard to walk away from thirty thousand dollars right off the top. When Mike came home we both went back and looked at the area and then talked. We agreed that even though the community in Keller didn’t have the same amenities as the one in Mansfield, Keller would be a better fit. With the extra money off the top, we would be able to get a bigger lot, put more of the upgrades into the house that we wanted and Keller, being further north was actually closer to the homes of most of the people we knew. So we called our sale agent and told her of our decision and signed a new contract in the Keller community the next day.

After we signed the contract in Keller, I called the salesperson Mike, from the Mansfield community and thanked him for all of his help and expressed our regret at our change of heart. Apparently, this set Mike off. He called me later that night and tried to talk me out of changing my mind, but I explained why we had done it, I apologized again and hung up. The next day Mike began calling me every half hour leaving messages on my cell phone trying to get me to change my mind. Luckily, I had put his name and number into my cell phone, so I saw it was him each time he called and let it roll over to voice mail. Thank God for caller ID.

Several days later, on Mother’s Day, I was laying in bed with a migraine talking on my home phone to Sara. Ian came walking in with my cell phone, which he had answered and said I had a call, it was Mike from Buescher. I put the other phone to my head and said, “Hello” Mike immediately went into a rant trying to talk me out of the community change. Again, I explained to him why we had done it. In the middle of my explanation, he started yelling that I was “stupid for making the move,” and that I would “live to regret it” and he kept saying he didn’t understand, “what my problem was.” You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s freakin’ Mother’s day!

As I tried to defend myself against this verbal assault, Sara was yelling in my other ear verbal barbs for me to say back. It was all a bit nutty. After about five minutes, I finally hung up on him. I called HMS and the other Buescher community the next day and told them what had happened. Mike was fired soon afterward. I don’t know if it had anything to do with that call, but one can hope.

Once “Bad Mike”, which became his name because our new Buescher salesperson’s name was also Mike, was out of the picture, we settled down to build our new home. Everything was great. Mike was really helpful, and not crazy. It was nice. During the process, I voiced a concern over the game room’s powder room. The way the upstairs of the house was designed, the two bedrooms that would be the boys’, had a shared Jack and Jill bathroom that could only be gotten to through the bedrooms. The upstairs master had its own bathroom, which again could only be gotten to through the master bedroom. The only bathroom for the office/guest room was a small powder room located off the game room. This powder room had a sink and a toilet and that was it. It seemed strange to me and I asked if there was anyway to be able to put a shower inside so that guests would not have to share a bathroom with the boys or use the upstairs master bath. Mike agreed that the lay out was strange and figured out a way to lessen one of the bedroom closets to put in a shower. He said that it shouldn’t be a problem and sent the design change to corporate. The change came back approved and we were on our way.  We picked our lot, went to the design center and picked out all of our colors and they broke ground to begin building.

The week after they broke ground, we got a call from Mike. He told us that they had gotten a new head of sales for the company and she would not allow the floor plan change. We told Mike that we would pay an extra deposit if they were afraid of us bailing on the deal. He said that he would submit it to corporate and get back to us. The next day he came back with corporate’s answer. They said that they would put in the shower with an extra three thousand dollar deposit. What, are they high!?!? That’s more than the entire bathroom costs to build, let alone stick a stupid stand alone shower in a room that’s already there!

We told Mike no and how ridiculous we thought that was. He agreed, but his hands were tied. We eventually called Bob Lavelle, the owner of HMS, the company that had helped us to find the house. He agreed that this was ridiculous and agreed to talk to the builder on our behalf. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but Bob was scheduled for a meeting with the owner of Buescher, but the meeting got rescheduled twice and then when it finally happened; the owner didn’t show. When this happened, we asked for and received a refund of our deposit and went back to the drawing board.

Finally, after looking for months we found our dream home to be built by First Texas Homes in an area of Keller much like the first lot we had chosen in Mansfield, called Heritage. First Texas is a semi-custom homebuilder without the custom home price. All in all, everything really worked out for the best; at least in building the house.

In July, I registered the kids in Keller schools so that they would not have to start at new schools in the middle of a school year. So when school started in August, I drove them the twenty-five miles, each way, everyday to their new schools. It was a pain in the ass and tiring for all of us, but the kids loved their new schools and were looking forward to the new house.

After I fired Ms. Accipiter as my lawyer July 2004, I hired a man by the name of Donald Nix, another lawyer I got from the referral service. Before hiring him, I made sure to ask him directly if he could handle the case. He assured me that he could.

When Mr. Nix and I met, I explained what had been happening so far. I also explained to him the Medicaid two-thousand dollar problem. Ms. Van Leesten would not tell me exactly how much the inheritance was, why I’m not sure. She did tell me that it was somewhere a little over ten-thousand dollars. This posed the problem of being too much for my dad to stay on Medicaid, but not enough to do my father any good for very long. I also explained to him my plan to bring my dad back home and what Ms. Sanchez had said regarding the issue. I also relayed what I had been told I would need to be appointed guardian of my dad’s estate to be able to appropriate the funds on my dad’s behalf. Mr. Nix said that he would look over the case, call David Taylor, Ms. Van Leesten and the guardianship offices and figure out what our best recourse would be.

When Mr. Nix got back to me a few weeks later, he said that the judge had requested more information from my uncle’s lawyer. He said that he would be submitting the request and would get back to me.

The next time that I spoke to Mr. Nix, he told me that the guardianship judge said that the money had to be put in to a trust fund and held by the state. If I wanted to use any of it, I would have to submit an itemized list of what I wanted to purchase beforehand, complete with prices. Can this get to be anymore of a pain in the ass!?!?

The judge did say that I could be reimbursed for expenses that I had incurred during the time since my dad had arrived in Texas.

I called Rita Sanchez and told her what the judge said. She said that technically from the time the money was available to my dad it should have been given to him and counted against his Medicaid. She asked when the judge would release the money. I told her that I didn’t know. She then told me that she would not do anything regarding my dad’s Medicaid until she heard back from me. Thank you!

After I spoke to Rita, I called David Taylor to possibly elicit his help. I told him my plans to bring my dad home again and what the judge had ordered. He said that he thought it a good idea for me to bring my dad home as well and said that he would do what he could to help with the judge.

I put together all of the receipts that I could find since bringing my dad home that might relate, tallied them up and brought them to Mr. Nix’s office. I told him that on one of Mike’s off days he and I would go shopping and pick out furniture and things for my dad and then bring him that list to submit to the judge.

For some reason, it took Ms. Van Leesten until early September to actually cut the check and send it to the court. In the meantime, I had gathered my list of items to purchase for my dad at the new house and delivered it to Mr. Nix to submit to the judge.

On September 22, 2004, Mr. Nix submitted a request to the court for $2916.65 in reimbursement fees to me, $1710.00 legal fees to David Taylor, $2390.00 legal fees to himself, and $6346.00 in furnishings for the move.

The request came back several weeks later with the reimbursement and legal fees approved, but all monies for furnishing denied. When I asked why, Mr. Nix told me that the judge had said that, “Because my dad was old and would not be around for long. He said that the furnishings that I had planned to buy were too extravagant and when my dad died they would revert to me as his sole heir, so he would not allow it.” What the hell!?!?! He’s old and going to die soon so he can’t have nice stuff cause when he dies I’ll get it!?!? He’s only 65 years old! That’s not that old! And why can’t he have nice stuff because he may die soon!?!? So I’m supposed to buy him crap cause he’s old so that I only inherit crap and not nice stuff when he dies!?!? The man is a fucking moron!

I asked Mr. Nix if there was anyway that I might go to court and speak to the judge myself on my dad’s behalf. He said that he would check and get back to me. Of course, the answer came back several days later as a resounding “NO.”

Mr. Nix and I were both at a loss. Technically, the money was in my dad’s possession, even though it was being held by the courts and should count against his standing with Medicaid. Neither one of us knew what to do next. Mr. Nix said that he would call me if he thought of anything.

In the mean time, I called Rita Sanchez and told her what the judge had said. She was as incensed as I was. She asked me what judge it was and I told her I wasn’t sure. As we talked, I looked through my paper work and found the name of the Judge Pat Ferchill. When I told her, she gave a knowing grunt and said that the judge was in the wrong. She asked me what I was going to do next. I told her I wasn’t sure. We had just started building the new house and didn’t think it was a good idea to bring my dad home yet. If we did, that would mean we would have to move him twice, which we both agreed was probably not a good idea. She told me that again, she wouldn’t do anything to my dad’s Medicaid until I told her what I planned to do or the judge released the money.

During this time, I received a phone call from a woman by the name of Denise from the guardianship office. She said that she was calling because she had heard that I was planning on moving my dad back home. I told her yes and explained why. She told me that she was concerned and wasn’t sure that it was the best idea. What!?!? Did you not hear what I told you!

I explained again my reasoning for the plan to bring my dad home and the fact that I had spoken to his lawyer, the Medicaid people and had been given the advice from the social worker at the hospital. I told her all of the information that I had been given and that I planned to go through the CBA program, which was designed for just such cases. Again, she said that she was concerned. She then told me that I would need to call her before I actually brought my dad home. You have got to be kidding!?!?! I can’t bring my father home if I want to!?!? What gives you the right!?!?! This is ridiculous.

But I agreed and hung up.

I spent the next several weeks racking my brain over all that had happened and what to do next without much luck. The universe actually gave me a push.

Throughout this time, I had still been visiting my dad on a regular basis. Several of the residents that lived at the home when my dad first arrived had passed on and new patients had been brought in. Sometime in the beginning of 2004, there seemed to be a rash of not so old male patients brought in to the center. The locked unit had never been a calm or quiet place, but after these men moved in it was like “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Everytime I went back there, there was some male resident half naked running around. There had always been the occasional resident peeing on the floor, but now it was a guarantee. I also had a really creepy moment standing at the nurse’s station when I looked over at the lounge area and one of the new younger residents was sitting in a chair masturbating. If it had been one of the older patients, I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but the thing about this guy was he was staring straight at me while he did it. And the look on his face sent shivers down my spine. It was a mixture of hunger, anger and glee. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I didn’t stand around long enough to find out.

By now, I had finally gotten to speak with my dad’s doctor after many phone calls and then writing him a formal letter in March 2004 threatening legal action. In mid October, Dr. Zadeh finally decided that he would have my dad tested to see exactly what was going on with him neurologically. I had stupidly always assumed that this had been done at some point during the time that my dad had been in the nursing home. Why, I’m not sure. Anyway, my dad was set up for several neurological tests to be done with a Dr. Husam Alkhersa at Harris H.E.B. Hospital. Usually, when patients have an outside doctors appointment someone from the nursing home staff takes them to the appointment. If a family member is needed, they meet them at the appointment. On this occasion for some reason, the nursing home told me that they didn’t have anyone to take my dad to the appointment, so I would have to take him myself. Taking my dad anywhere at this point was no easy tasks. He had become increasingly non-responsive and his stiffening had continued. Trying to get him in and out of a vehicle was backbreaking work. But I wanted to find out what was going on inside my dad’s head so I agreed to take him myself, with Mike’s help.

The day of the first appointment came and we went to pick my dad up at the nursing home. When we got there, I went into my dad’s room to get him. He had a huge bleeding open wound on his chin. I went back out to the nurse’s station and asked about it. The orderly had chuckled about him being squirmy and how someone had cut him shaving. I was pissed. I asked for a band-aid and went back to his room. When I reached out to put the band-aid on my dad’s face he flinched and shouted, “Go ahead and hit me!” Oh my god, has someone been hitting him?!?! I’ve got to get him out of here.

Mike and I were able to maneuver him together through that appointment, but it was difficult. The doctor said that he wanted him to come back for an MRI because the EKG and light test had been inconclusive. When I brought my dad back, I told them that the doctor wanted to see him again in a few days. I also told them that they would need to find a way to transport him because Mike was going out of town and there was no way I could handle him by myself.

The day of that appointment, I met my dad and one of the staff at the hospital. Everything went fine and I followed the pair back to the nursing home to visit with my dad as I always did after appointments. When I went to leave, there was a gaggle of residents milling about near the doorway, as usual. One of the patients was the new young guy. I smiled as I normally did as I got closer to him. When I got parallel to him, he reached out and grabbed my left breast with his right hand, hard.

By this time, I had been groped by many of the male patients and had learned to just step aside and be done with it. Even in the beginning, when it used to startle me, whenever I said anything to any of the staff, their response was always a chuckled, “OH, (insert name) he’s harmless.” This time was different. As this guy reached out and grabbed me, I let out a small shocked yelp. Immediately, two orderlies came out of the dining room and I could see a nurse come from around the desk of the nurses’ station. The orderlies snatched his hand back and pulled him away quickly with apologies. As they pulled him away to lead him in the other direction, he turned around and I saw that same look in his eyes from the day he was touching himself in the chair. I don’t like that guy or this place. I’m getting my dad out of here now!

Chapter 18

I decided that whether I was able to bring my dad home or not, I was going to get him out of Garden Care.

The next day I looked in the book that the social worker from JPS had given me and started calling nursing homes. I called several around the Keller area and explained my dad’s situation and my plan to try and bring him home soon. I then made appointments to view the homes. I personally viewed three nursing homes. Two appeared and smelled just as bad as the first time I walked into Garden Care. The staff seemed bored, the patients ignored and the overall feeling of the place was a holding cell for the nearly dead. Are all nursing homes around here like this? I can’t take my father from one hellhole just to put him into another.

The last nursing home I went to was actually close in décor and style to the house we were building. Keller Oaks was a brand new facility. It had only been open since June and it showed. As soon as I entered the place, it reminded me of Mariner. It was open, light and airy. As the woman from the registration office took me on a tour, I noticed and commented on the fact that the furnishings looked just like mine at home. The color scheme of olive green, paprika and muted beige was just like mine. The place had a small separate chapel, a small but well stocked library, several common areas, a nice outdoor garden area for the general residents and even had a separate outdoor area for the patients of the locked ward. The locked ward itself was smaller than the one at Garden Care. It consisted of one long hallway with rooms on either side, cut in half by a large common dining room area with a television, a few couches along with plush chairs around the tables. I was told that there was only one other male patient in the ward and from my description, they thought my dad would be a perfect fit. The admissions lady said that there was one problem. They would have a Medicaid bed open in the unit, but it would not be available for a month. Bingo!

I explained what had been going on with the money from my uncle and then told her that this might solve the problem. If I moved my dad immediately and had him kicked off of Medicaid, then the judge would be forced to release the money to the nursing home for care. I told her that I would need to make sure that Medicaid would kick back in as soon as the money ran out. She agreed to admit my dad and arranged to have him transported over the next day. She gave me the paper work to admit my dad and I left.

As soon as I got home, I called Rita and told her my plan. She said that she hated to see the money go like that but agreed it would probably be the only way to get the judge to release the money. I called Garden Care and told them that I would be transferring my dad the next day and that I would be there in the morning to fill out any paperwork and get my dad’s things. I then called Mr. Nix and told him the plan and asked him to inform the judge that the money would need to be released to the nursing home A.S.A.P. I also called and left a message for Denise at the guardianship office, informing her of what I was doing.

The next day, I went to Garden Care to pick up my dad’s things. Now, I had been telling anyone that would listen at Garden Care since my dad’s fall that I planned to bring him home as soon as I could. So I was more than a little stunned when I was confronted by the D.O.N. as I was packing my dad’s clothing. She came into my dad’s room and told me, “You cannot just take your dad out of the home. You need to put in a formal request….” She started to say more but I cut her off.

“Look, the people from the other nursing home are coming to pick him up this afternoon. I will fill out any paperwork that you would like but my dad is leaving here today. I’ve been nice for two years and kept my mouth shut, a lot of the time when I shouldn’t have. I’ve done everything when you’ve asked, the way that you’ve asked. I’m not doing that anymore. I expect you all to have him showered, dressed and ready to go when they get here. I am not asking you, I am telling you.” I went back to packing.

Once I got the last load of my dad’s things into my car, I stopped by the business office and asked if they had anything that I needed to sign. They gave me a release form to sign and that was it. I went back inside and kissed my dad and told him he was moving and I’d see him later. He said, “Okay,” pleasantly and I left.

On my way out to my car for the last time, I stopped just outside the door in the parking lot to light a cigarette. Two of the orderlies, a man and a woman, who had been at the center through most of my dad’s stay, were sitting outside the laundry room smoking cigarettes. As I walked by they flagged me over.

The woman spoke, “It’s a good thing you’re getting your dad out of here when you are.” The male orderly nodded in agreement. I feel the same way but why do YOU think so?

“Why?” I asked. “Because all those new guys in back there, those aren’t Alzheimer’s patients those are psychiatric prisoners. They put them in here instead of sending them to jail or the psych ward.” What the hell!?!?! Psychiatric prisoners!?!?! Can that be legal!?!? Shouldn’t they have to tell the residents’ families!?!? I’ve been left alone with those people more than once! Shit, I’ve been left alone with those people when I’ve brought the kids!

I asked all of this. The female orderly just shrugged and said she didn’t know how legal it was, but she did know it was “fucked up.” She then said that she wouldn’t even go back there anymore. She said the young black guy back there had cornered her in a room one day and threw her on a bed and beat the shit out of her. She said that it had taken several people to get him off of her. She then said, “You know that new little old white guy back there? The one with the stitches across his nose and face, with the busted lip? That convict did it to him. The poor old guy bumped into him one day and the guy just started beating on him, tore his nose and his face up.”

“The way your dad wanders around, I’ve been afraid that might happen to him.” The male orderly chimed in. My god, what has been going on in there!?!? Is that who’s been hitting my dad!?!?!  If you guys were so afraid, why didn’t you say something!?!?

I asked them why they didn’t tell the families. They both shrugged and said that they were afraid of losing their jobs. I nodded, said good-bye and left. I never went back to Garden Care again.

My dad settled into Keller Oaks as if nothing had changed. When I came in to visit him the next day, my dad was pacing the halls as usual. I guess one thing did change. As my dad wandered the halls, he was now talking out loud to himself and anyone who would listen.

Once I got my dad settled in, I decided that it might be a help to us getting into the new house if I went back to work. I decided I really liked the program at HMS so I called Bob, the owner and told him that I wanted a job. (Cause it’s just that easy.)

Bob said that they were actually looking for people and told me to come in for an interview. The interview portion of the meeting lasted all of about five minutes. I spent the rest of the fifteen minutes that I was there talking comedy and listening to Bob’s bad jokes. I got the job, which required me to get my Real Estate License, which I did. I found a babysitter to take the boys to and from school and went to work.

I loved the job. Helping to put people, who thought that they would never own a home into not only homes, but new homes, was an awesome feeling. The hours were horrendous though. It could take me as long as two hours to get to the HMS office during rush hour traffic. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, the office stayed open until 9 p.m. for people who were unable to get off work. Plus, on days where I showed houses, usually Saturdays and Sundays, I could end up going all over the Metroplex. There were days that I left my house at 7:30 in the morning and might not make it back home until Midnight. I loved the job, but it left little time for anything else, especially visiting my dad. We were supposed to have Fridays off, but newbies tended to work 7 days a week to get a jump-start on selling and I was no different.

As much as I loved doing the work, the job was by no means perfect. Besides the horrible hours, Bob turned out NOT to be the nice guy I thought he was. Megalomaniac is the word I would actually use.

Bob loved to show off to anyone who had eyes how much money he had. He drove a powder blue Rolls Royce convertible, loved to show off his gold jewelry and would regularly pull out the wad of hundreds he always carried in his pocket. Even with all of this, Bob could be incredibly generous. I had seen him hand over a wad of cash to several employees who were in financial need. And I have to say, our Christmas party rocked, even without all the cash Bob handed out. He even offered to pay for hotel rooms for everyone so that no one had to drive home drunk.

It was like working for the Three Faces of Bob. On the one hand, Bob was great and on the other, he could be horrible. He was a huge sexist and could be terribly sexually inappropriate. Thankfully, he never directed it at or in regards to me, that I know of, but I did witness it on more than a few occasions with others. The most memorable incident involved the head of our mortgage department, Rayann. Shortly after I started working there, I was told that Rayann had recently had a breast augmentation. One day close to Christmas, I stood in shocked horror as Bob introduced Rayann’s new breasts to a client, then informed them that he had paid for them.

Bob also thought himself the master manipulator and prided himself on proving it whenever he got the chance. He would regularly show all the employees word “tricks” he would use to get people to do whatever he wanted them to do. The thing about this was, every time he tried to use me as an example, it always backfired. (If 4 out of 5 doctors said blue, I would be the one doctor who said red. I can’t help it). And it was no different with Bob’s examples. I didn’t do it on purpose, I’m just not typical. It drove Bob nuts. It got to the point that he eventually started saying that he had “made” me choose the different answer just to cover himself and then he stopped using me in his demonstrations all together.

Bob took so much pride in manipulating the “sheep” of the world that he let us in on an inside joke, that he used to put his customers at ease, and show his sensitivity and compassion. Bob loved to talk to all the clients who came in personally, to show what a great down to earth guy he was even as the owner. Whenever clients came to the office and told Bob their personal tales of woe, Bob would sit back in his chair, smoking his cigarette and tell the people, “well bless your heart” as sincerely as he could. The secret Bob imparted to us in one of our meetings was that whenever he did something to hurt himself, like hit his thumb with a hammer for example, his wife would always say to him, “well bless your heart” which he had come to realize actually meant, “you dumb fuck.” So it became known in our office if anyone said, “bless your heart” it meant you were an idiot.

When I was still under the delusion that Bob was just a generous guy who had made a lot of money for himself and wanted to share the wealth, he set up the first sales meeting for the newbies. Part of the meeting involved watching the movie Glengary Glen Ross, a movie about a sleazy, hard run real estate sales office. When the movie was finished, we all laughed about how horrible the sales staff were treated (“Coffee is for closers.”) and how none of us would ever want to work at a place like that (In the movie’s sales contest, first prize was an Eldorado, second prize a set of steak knives and third prize was to get the sack.) I had no idea that was exactly where I was.

Once we actually started selling, the meetings became more like public, verbal beatings.  Even though I did well, the weekly meetings would have my stomach in knots. You generally never knew who Bob was going to go after and/or how hard. I say generally, because there were times when you definitely knew who Bob’s victim was going to be for the day…The person who hadn’t sold anything for the week.

One particularly bad meeting was actually named the Danny-Is-A-Loser meeting. Meetings like that were humiliating, not only for the person on the chopping block, but for everyone who was made to either watch and/or participate.  Even when you did well, Bob would use you to make others feel bad. It was nuts, but somehow I loved the job, despite it all.

During this time, I got repeated calls from Larry, the business manager from Keller Oaks. The judge was refusing to release the money and the nursing home was beginning to worry. I called Mr. Nix to ask what was going on. He got back to me several days later saying that the judge was requesting a letter, in writing, from the nursing home detailing why they wanted the money. Um because they haven’t been paid!?!? What the hell is wrong with this man!?!?

I called Larry and told him the judge’s request. Larry agreed to put the request in writing.  I went and picked it up on one of my days off and brought it to Mr. Nix’s office for him to deliver it to the judge. The judge finally released the money in January 2005; four months after my dad was actually admitted to Keller Oaks. Once that was over with and the monies were used up, my dad’s Medicaid was reinstated and things went back to normal.

One morning in early February when I got to work, I could tell Bob was in a mood. Oh god! Who did or didn’t do what now!?!

When we got into our weekly meeting, Bob began berating everyone for not following procedure on a particular portion of our credit repair sales. As we all sat wide-eyed looking from Bob to each other, I knew what I and the other three newbies were thinking. No one ever told us HOW to do the procedure.

I was sitting at my usual place during these meetings, at the head of the table right next to Bob. Yeah I’m a glutton for punishment. I gathered my courage, turned and faced everyone else in the room and said, “Okay guys, you owe me because I’m about to take the hit on this one.” I turned back to Bob and said, “Bob, I don’t know about everyone else, but I do know that I have never been shown how to do that procedure. What exactly are we supposed to do?” DUCK AND COVER!!!!

Bob began to grin an evil grin, not unlike the one my father would get when he was feeling triumphantly wicked.

To answer me, Bob began to speak as if he were mentally retarded, saying things like, “For the slow people like Leslie, we have to hold their hands.” But he did not answer my question. So I asked it again in a different way. This time he put his fingers up to his head in the “L” sign for loser and made a few more wisecracks but still did not answer my question. This went on and on for I couldn’t say how long. I would ask the question and Bob would make some reference to my intelligence or lack thereof, but would not answer the question. I would not give up. Even when Bob pretended to be digging a grave while laughing at me, I simply said, “That’s fine Bob. I might be digging my own grave, but you WILL answer my question.” Bob’s next move was to put his one hand over his throat and his other hand to his temple in the shape of a gun, like in the movie Blazing Saddles when the black sheriff does the same thing to save himself from being lynched by the white towns people. And then Bob used the exact same line from the movie on me, “Freeze or I’ll shoot the nigger!”

I’m sure your reaction was the exact same reaction as that of everyone else in the room who had been silently watching this exchange between the two of us. I could feel every person in the room eyes widen, as they gasped and then looked at me. I didn’t budge. I just sat there, stock still, staring into Bob’s eyes calmly. Bob tried to laugh, I think, but it got caught in his throat and ended up being a kind of a choked cough. I sat there staring at Bob neither speaking nor moving for what seemed like an eternity until he finally diverted his eyes from mine. When he did, I softly said, “Now are you going to answer my question?” He finally did.

That was it; the straw that broke the camel’s back. I knew I could no longer work there no matter how much I loved my co-workers and/or the work; even if I got screwed on my home loan, which HMS was still handling.

The next morning, my babysitter didn’t show up on me before work. When I finally got in touch with her, she said that she had overslept. No biggie, but it gave me my out. The universe sooooo rocks!

I called in and told them that my sitter had bailed on me and that I would be in as soon as I took my kids to school. When I got to work, I acted as if the day before had never happened. I was laughing and joking with everyone like I normally did. Sometime around lunchtime, I caught Bob in his office and told him that my sitter had quit and that I did not know of another one who would work the long hours. With no sitter, it meant that I could no longer work. Bob was upset but gracious. He even blessed my babysitters heart; “bless his heart”.

I thought about taking legal action regarding the issue, but then talked myself out of it. As angry as I was, I knew Bob would never learn anything and if his business suffered in any way, it would affect the livelihoods of all the people who worked there who I still very much cared for. So I just quietly left.

I did notice a few months after I left HMS, Bob’s new television and radio commercials started including the “bless your heart” comment with its explanation.

We ended up doing a dual closing on our old house in Arlington and the new house in Keller on February 11, 2005. A couple of days after we moved in, I went to Keller Oaks to visit my dad. When I entered the locked ward, my dad was pacing the hall as usual. I walked over and said my usual, “Hi Dad,” but got no response. I tried several more times, nothing. Finally, I said, “Wesley.”

My father immediately responded, “Yes.”

The long hours and lack of time to visit my dad, working at HMS, had taken their toll. My father didn’t seem to know me anymore.

I’m not exactly sure why, but I decided to look for another job, instead of trying to bring my father back home again. I had really enjoyed the actual work at HMS, so I decided to try to get a job as a sales agent with an actual homebuilder. I spent an entire weekend researching all the new homebuilders in the area. I then wrote letters to each and every one of them and faxed them all out the next day. I got several calls for interviews. I was eventually hired at Woodhaven Homes and was placed in a model home community around the corner from my house. It was perfect. I sold well, I was close to home, made decent money, and had plenty of time off to visit my father.

My father seemed to be doing well at Keller Oaks. He wasn’t being cared for necessarily the way I would have taken care of him at home, but the staff was nice and seemed happy, he was always clean, his stuff didn’t disappear all the time, and the place was clean and nice. I had serious thoughts about leaving things the way that they were.

Then just after Mother’s Day, which I’m beginning to hate as much as Tuesday’s, I got called into corporate at Woodhaven. Once I got there, I was told that they were doing a restructure and that they didn’t have a place for me.

Out of a job again, I decided that it was time to do what I had planned when we originally built the house and start the process to bring my father home. I called the CBA offices and left a message.

I ended up being put in touch with a Linda Maxville, who strangely turned out to be the long separated wife of my father’s current doctor. She would be my father’s CBA caseworker. We met at the nursing home so that she could access my father’s condition and needs. She agreed that my father would need the maximum allotted hours for care, even though he was still mobile. She and I discussed how this would be handled and I told her that I would like to be considered his primary care giver. She said that she didn’t see any reason that that couldn’t happen. I would need to be trained on my father’s G-tube feeding, but other than that, it shouldn’t be a problem.

Soon after my father switched nursing homes, the staff became concerned with my father’s ability, or lack there of, to swallow. After some tests, they switched him from a partial G-tube, partial pureed diet to a strictly G-tube diet.

Linda said once I was trained on the G-tube and administering his medications that I should be fine. I then told her about my conversation with Denise from the guardianship office. She said that she saw no reason why I couldn’t be my father’s paid primary care giver with training. Linda had me pick a care providing service, Integra Care and said that someone from there would be calling me in the next few days.

A few days later, I got a call from Jim Clayton, an RN for Integra Care. He made an appointment to meet with me and my father the next week to set up exactly what equipment my father would need. We met a few days later. Jim spoke to the nursing home staff and then me. When he was done, he decided that my father would be allotted: A hospital type bed with jell pad, a sit down shower seat, a wheel chair, his liquid nourishment and feeding syringes and adult diapers. Once that was done, he left while I stayed to visit with my father for a while.

On my way out, I stopped at the nurse’s station and set up a time to come and be trained with the nurse to give my father his G-tube feedings. As I left, the nursing home social worker stopped me to tell me that she had heard about my plan to take my father home. She said if there was anything that she could do to help, she would. I asked her if she would talk to Denise at the guardianship office and try to convince her that taking my father home would be a good thing. She said she would and I left.

Over the next couple of weeks, I went in and actually did my father’s G-tube feedings myself, usually during a lunch hour. It wasn’t that difficult. After a few times, the nurses showed me how they crushed his medication and gave them through the tube and then let me do that as well. That done, I sat back and waited for approval from CBA.

Denise from the guardianship office called during this time and again voiced her concern at my being appointed my father’s primary care giver. At one point, she asked me, “Why do you want to bring your father home?” Huh? What kind of a question is that?

“Because he’s my father,” I answered honestly.

“Yes, I know he’s your father, but why specifically do you want to bring him home?” Huh!?! I didn’t understand the question. After a moments pause I just laid it on the table, “Look, when my father got sick and I got him to agree to come to Texas with me, I promised him that I would not put him in a nursing home. I wasn’t able to keep that promise and I have felt bad about it from day one. When my father fell and ended up in the hospital, I promised him then that I would bring him home and he actually responded. I can’t go back on that promise.”

“Yes, but do you realize what a burden that will be on you and your family. You have children, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well I am concerned that this would be too much for you to handle.”

“My father lived with us, my family, for six months during his most violent, paranoid stage. If I could manage that, I can manage him now. Besides, my kids actually ask when granddad is coming home. They love and miss their grandfather, but they don’t like going to the nursing home. The other patients scare them. They’re not afraid of their granddad because they know what’s wrong with him and he’s family. They want to see him, but I try not to force them to go there. I want to bring him home because it’s where he belongs. I don’t work, so me being home twenty-four seven is not an issue. My husband works freelance, so he is often home more than most husbands. When I decided to do this, I thought about it in the terms of, ‘If I can’t get any help and it is just me taking care of him, can I do this and do I still want to?’ The answer to that was and still is yes. My father did it for his mother, now it’s my turn. Please help me keep my promise to my father.” I didn’t know what else to say. Denise said that she still had concerns and that she would prefer that I appoint someone else, through the agency, as his primary care giver. I relented and agreed. She then told me to call her once I got my father home so that she could do a home visit. I agreed to that as well and hung up.

I called Linda Maxville and told her what Denise had said. She said that she would have one of the home health care providers call me once I was approved. I kept in regular contact with Linda while I waited for approval.

During the months of waiting for approval, my father got less and less steady on his feet. He had several incidents of falling and/or being found on the floor after a fall. I’m not sure if it was out of fear or inability, but my father stopped his constant pacing. Every time I went to visit him, he was sitting in a chair in his room staring out into space. After several weeks of this, the staff had a television mounted on the wall of his room so he at least had something to look at while he sat. With my father’s new immobility, he began to gain weight quickly. I asked about cutting back his caloric intake on several occasions but was always told that it was up to the dietician. I left several messages for her/him but never received a call back. You know what, fuck it. I’m taking him home soon. I’ll deal with it then.

CBA approval finally came in sometime around the beginning of September. I spoke to Ms. Maxville and told her that I would need to have the equipment for my father sent before I brought him home. She informed me that no equipment or supplies could be sent before the patient went home. I asked how long after a patient came home did the equipment usually come. She told me between two and three weeks. How the hell can I bring him home without the equipment there!?!? This is crazy!

I expressed this dilemma and she told me that her hands were tied. She told me that I could call the Integra Care people myself to try and work something out. I thanked her, hung up and called. I explained the problem and got the same standard answer. The woman on the phone and I went around in circles for a while until she finally told me that I might try calling their supplier directly. She said that she had heard cases where they had bent the rules to send equipment before hand. I thanked her, got the number and called. I explained the situation to the woman at the supplier’s office. She told me that if I had a move in date, she could send me my father’s food, syringes, wheel chair, and bed the day before. I picked a random day out of the air, the following Wednesday. She agreed and said that someone would call to set up a time to deliver the items. I thanked her, hung up and called Keller Oaks to let them know the day I would be bringing my father home and arrange transport. I did it. I’m actually bringing him home.

That afternoon when the kids got home from school I told them. They were really excited and helped me clean out the front room that was to be my father’s. All was well and good until later that evening. As I sat alone watching Katrina coverage, it hit me… Mike was in New Orleans covering the hurricane for ABC National News and we didn’t know when he would be back. I was truly going to have to do this alone.

On Tuesday of the next week, my father’s bed and other supplies were delivered. I went up to the nursing home and moved most of my father’s clothing, room decorations, and his stereo. I filled out the release forms and talked to the DON to make sure there wasn’t anything I was forgetting. She and I talked extensively about how ridiculous we both thought it was that the guardianship office would not allow me to be my father’s primary care giver. Finally, I hugged her goodbye after setting up the transport time and left.

My father was brought home the next afternoon, just after 4 p.m. My father seemed like he was happy to be there. The kids came down from playing video games and said hello. My father responded by waving slightly. I had put him in the wheel chair to bring him in and then moved him to the lounge chair in the living room. It was a struggle, but I did manage. Damn he’s gained A LOT of weight. I knew that he normally went to bed just after dinner. So after the kids and I ate, I got my father back into his wheel chair and planned to take him to his room, feed him, change him and put him to bed. I brought him into his room, crushed up his meds and fed him, no problem. Then I went to get him changed. That’s when the problem arose. I had been told that my father had an issue with modesty, even in his present state. I didn’t realize how big of an issue this would be. As I stood him up and tried to undress him, he continually pulled at his clothing to keep them on. Okay, you know what Dad, the oog factor of having to deal with my naked father is not high on my list of things to do but work with me here would you please!

I was finally able to get him changed and into his pajamas, but then I couldn’t get him in the bed. I sat him down on the edge of the bed like I had on numerous occasions but when I tried to pull him further into the middle of the bed he wouldn’t budge. It was like trying to move one of the boulders of Stonehenge. I pulled, and pulled and pulled but try as I might, I couldn’t move him. My god, how much weight have you gained? I’ve never had this kind of trouble getting you moved.

Finally, I called Dayton in to help me. What I ended up doing was standing on the bed with my father underneath me and between my legs and pulling him from the armpits while Dayton swung his legs up into the bed. This is crazy. We cannot do this every night.

The next morning, I got the kids up and off to school and then went to tend to my father. It was worse than the night before.

Since having the issues with swallowing, my father had to sleep in a vertical position. I tried to pull my father to a more upright sitting position to take off his pajama shirt and put on a regular shirt. He wouldn’t budge. He was as rigid as concrete. I then tried to get his pants off to change him and them. As I tried to pull them off, he started tugging them back up and yelling, “I’m gonna tell on you! I’m gonna tell on you!” clear as day. Oh my god, you have got to be kidding me!

I was finally able to get his things off, but when I tried to get a clean brief on him, he urinated all over me. Oh, come on now!

I was finally able to get the brief on him by sliding my entire body underneath him and pulling him up while he kind of sat on my back. Now that I think about it, I’m not exactly sure how I managed it. I then went to put pants on him, but couldn’t. Finally, frustrated I swung his legs back into the bed and called Integra Care to find out when the home health aid would be coming to help. I asked when someone would be sent and asked if it would be possible to get someone or a couple someones for mornings to help get him up and evenings to help put him to bed. I was informed that it usually took several weeks before the in-home care actually started. What!?!?! I told the woman that my father was already at home and explained the difficulties that I was currently having and that no one had told me it would take two weeks before someone came in. She then told me that even if they did get someone immediately, they usually didn’t do split shifts. She said that she would see what she could do and call me back.

I went back and tried to get my father’s pants on him again with the same result. Not knowing what else to do I decided to call one of my neighbors Catherine, who I knew was a nurse and ask her for help. Thankfully, she was home and agreed to come right over. She helped me get my father’s pants and shirt on and then helped me get him out of bed and into his wheel chair. I felt horrible having to ask a neighbor to help me, having to have her deal with my half-naked father. Catherine stayed and visited for about an hour and then left.

Once it was my father and I alone again, I sat trying to talk to him for a while, but he wasn’t responding again. At lunchtime, I checked his blood pressure, which thankfully was fine and then got his medication and food ready for the feeding tube. When I went to feed my father his lunch, he began spitting up. This led to coughing, which shot fluid back at and on me out of his feeding tube. A few weeks before I brought my father home, apparently, he had had a bout of spitting and throwing up, but the nursing staff had assured me that this had stopped and it had been nothing to worry about. If he craps on me my day and my wardrobe will be complete!

I was able to get most of his food in him, but I started to panic. I called the nursing home and talked to Laurie, the regular nurse on duty. She assured me that this was something that happened every once in awhile and that my father would be fine. I called Integra Care again and asked what they had found out. The woman on the phone asked me my address again. I told her. She then asked me where it was near. I told her that it was up near Texas Motor Speedway. Her response was, “Oh, that’s far I don’t have anyone who will drive out that far.” What!?!? What the hell are you talking about!?!? He’s here now and you knew my address before hand! She again said that she would see what she could do and call me back. This happened several more times throughout the day until I finally snapped. Okay, you know what, I can’t do this. He must have gained 50 lbs since I started this whole process because I can’t lift him anymore. If I can’t lift him, I can’t change him and if I can’t change him alone, I can’t do this.

Come to find out later my father had only gained 30 lbs but those 30 lbs made the difference. I called the nursing home and told them what was happening. I apologized and told them that he would need to come back, I couldn’t do it. I was told not to feel bad because I wasn’t the first person to do this. I was put on hold while they tried to arrange transport. I was so stressed out at this point I don’t even remember who I spoke to. I do know it was a man. I’m not sure if it was Larry or who it was. When whomever came back to the phone they told me that they had other transports to do that day so if I needed transport from the home it wouldn’t be until after 7 p.m. I told them to set me up for transport but in the meantime, I would try and figure out how to get him back myself. I hung up the phone and racked my brain. Dayton came home from school while I was trying to decide what to do. I told him to watch granddad and then drove down the street to pick up Ian. When I came back, I had an idea. I asked Dayton to continue watching granddad and ran up the street to the model homes.

My neighbor Ron worked at the First Texas model home on the next block over from my house. Ron is an ex cop and a big guy at about 6’3 or so. I ran up to the model home hoping he was working. When I rounded the corner, I saw his Suburban in the parking lot and thanked my lucky stars. I went in and explained my day to Ron and asked if he would mind coming back to my house and helping me get my father into my car so that I could take him back to the nursing home. He graciously agreed and we drove back to my house in his Suburban. I went inside while Ron waited outside in the driveway. I wheeled my father out to the walkway and then pulled my car out into the driveway. Ron and I tried to get my father into my car, but couldn’t. We could not get him to bend enough to duck his head into the car. I remembered that the few times Mike and I had had to take my father places since becoming so stiff, we always took the Explorer. Thankfully, I had driven Mike to the airport when he left for New Orleans, so the Explorer was still in the driveway. We put my father back into the wheel chair, I pulled my car back into the garage, got out and unlocked the Explorer. As Ron and I tried to maneuver my father into the Explorer, my neighbor Catherine drove up. She got out and asked if we needed some help. We both said yes. While Ron and Catherine stood outside the passenger door bending and pushing, I squatted in the driver’s seat and pulled my father up and in. After a few tense moments, we finally had him in the SUV. I thanked Ron and he went back to work. Catherine then offered to watch the boys while I took my father to the nursing home. I thanked her and got the kids and handed them off to her. I then grabbed a handful of my father’s clothing and left.

I apologized over and over to my father the entire ride. I felt horrible taking him back, but with the added weight, I just couldn’t do it. I called the nursing home on my way to let them know that I was coming. I was met at the door by one of the secured unit orderlies and a wheelchair. Once we got my father out of the car, they wheeled him back while I got his clothing. When I brought my father’s clothing back to his room, he was sitting in the wheelchair smiling and talking happily, nonsensically, but happily. Son of a bitch! That was the last time I saw my father smile, strangely enough.

I felt like such a fool. I fought so hard to bring him home and be able to care for him myself, only to freak out and bring him back in less than a day. Everyone at the nursing home was very polite about it and told me not to feel bad, but I still couldn’t help myself. I felt like a traitor.

Over the next few weeks, Linda Maxville called several times to ask if I planned to try and bring my father home again. I didn’t answer the phone or return her phone calls. I was spent and embarrassed. Part of me wanted to continue to at least try and honor the promise I had made, but a bigger part of me could no longer go down that road.

The kids still asked, “When is granddad coming home?”

I would just answer, “I don’t know.” My father pretty much stopped walking from that day on. He would get moved daily from his bed to a Geri Chair, which looked like a kind of hydraulic lawn chair and then back again. After that day, I was hard pressed to get more than one or two one-word responses from him when I visited.

About a month after I brought my father back, he started shaking violently at times, having some sort of fit, which I was told were not seizures. No one has ever explained exactly what the problem was. All I can say is my father looked like he was in pain and I felt helpless.

A few moths later, the nursing staff and Dr. Maxville decided since my father was no longer mobile, he did not need to be in the locked ward. They called and asked if it would be okay for them to move him to a room in the regular residential unit. I told them that was fine and they did.

They moved my father in a room with a man by the name of Morris. Morris seemed a bit apprehensive the first time I came to visit my father in his new room, but that quickly went away when we realized after a short conversation that we had both lived in Chicago.

Since my father had become non-responsive for the most part whenever I came to visit, I would spend much of my time talking Chicago landmarks and sports with Morris. I would pull back the curtain between their two areas, climb up in the bed with my father and then Morris and I would visit. Sometimes, I would watch part of a movie with him. Morris had a pretty sweet set up in the room. His daughter had gotten him Direct TV hooked up in the room, plus she had bought him a DVD player and a subscription to Netficks, so Morris always had the latest movies. He would sit in his plush recliner and tell me about the latest movies he had just seen or what was going on with the ABC soap operas, which happen to be the ones I used to watch as a kid, so I could kind of follow along. It was sometimes a bit difficult though, because Morris was a bit hard of hearing, so his television was always on full blast. Whenever I visited and Morris left the room or was not in the room when I arrived, I would turn the sound down on the TV. My God, how loud does All My Children need to be? I hope Netficks doesn’t rent porn cause that could be really embarrassing. Or interesting, depending on your point of view.

You could almost say that my visits were pleasant, almost. Except for the fact that my father’s shaking fits seemed to continue to worsen. And with the shaking, my father’s facial expressions seemed to be that of extreme pain. On one visit, my father began shaking so violently he bounced me completely off the bed. I would call nurses and orderlies in, but there didn’t seem to be anything that they could do.

I continued to do my regular weekly visits until I had a brief run in with the law and got a D.U.I. on my way back from dodgeball one night. (Don’t ask; THAT subject is a book in itself. Let’s just say, dodgeball, four glasses of wine and the Keller DUI task force officer Craig Berry.) Because of all the court costs involved, among other things, I decided I needed to go back to work. I got a full time job and changed my visiting days to weekends.

I knew that my father had been given the bed that Morris’ wife had occupied before she passed away several months prior. On Saturday May 13, 2006 while visiting, Morris began to tell me the story of how he and his wife came to be at the nursing home. In relaying the story of how his wife died, he explained how after an illness she had refused to eat and was in need of a feeding tube. When they asked him what he wanted to do, he had told the staff not to put in the tube and to let her go. That, for me, was a “light bulb moment,” to quote Oprah. As I sat in my father’s shaking bed listening to Morris, seeing my father grimacing out of the corner of my eye, I knew what I had to do.

Foregotten Tomorrows Crazy Todays (Ch 15 & 16)

Chapter 15

Once back in Texas, I tried to settle my life back into some sort of routine. I went back to school. Got an A+ on my Psychology test and ended up with a B in the class overall. I tried to visit my father as much as I could. Sometimes it was difficult. There were times when I could visit him two or three times a week without a problem. There were other times that my visits caused him to become extremely agitated afterwards which made things difficult for the nursing home staff.

Things stayed relatively calm until around May or June.

One day, I got a call from a woman, Rita Sanchez, who said that she was my father’s case worker for Medicaid. She informed me that I needed to make my guardianship permanent. She then told me that there would be an official hearing to make me my father’s legal guardian. She told me that she would be sending me the application paperwork which I would need to fill out and send back before the hearing. She also said that they would be appointing my father a lawyer and that he would be calling me before he went to speak to my father in person. Oh, that won’t cause a problem.

She then told me that I would need to apply for SSI through Social Security, pension and Aid and Attendance payments through the VA, which would be used to fund any and all of my father’s personal needs. I questioned why I needed to do this. Since being in the nursing home, my father didn’t have any personal needs. I was having a hard time as it was buying items for my father to make sure that his account did not go above the allotted two-thousand dollars that would kick him off Medicaid. She informed me that if I did not apply for any and all monies from other agencies, that my father might be entitled to, that his Medicaid would be revoked all together. That doesn’t make any sense. Why am I asking for money from agencies that he doesn’t need? All that does is make it more of a hassle for me to try and spend money on crap he doesn’t need.

It didn’t make sense to me, but I did as I was told. I received the guardianship request paperwork and in filling it out, I read that I needed two references willing to sign the paper stating that they thought that I would uphold my duties as guardian. That would not have been such a big deal except for the fact that the fine print stated that should I not uphold my duties as guardian, these two references would owe the state one hundred dollars each. What the hell. How can they ask people to put their money on the line like that!?!? I mean, I don’t plan on bailing, but still how do I ask people to sign this. I ended up asking my neighbor from across the street and the owners of Deep Woods, my local apothecary.

A few days later, I got a call from David Taylor, the lawyer that would be representing my father. He began by asking me why I was asking for guardianship. I gave him the abbreviated version of what had happened since my original phone call which brought my father to Texas. When I finished, he asked if I thought my father would want me as his legal guardian. I explained again why my father ended up in the nursing home and the fact that there was no one else. I then told him that he needed to be careful when he saw my father as conversations about me sometimes made my father aggressive. He thanked me and hung up. The next day Mr. Taylor called to say that he had gone to see my father the day before, after speaking to me. He said that my father did indeed express that he did not want me as his guardian. He said that my father talked about me trying to kill him and having him locked up and said that he could take care of himself. Mr. Taylor then said my father was very confused and could not answer basic questions including, what my name was. All of these things had led him to the conclusion that my father, did indeed, need a legal guardian and since I was family and willing to be said guardian, he would recommend to the court that my request be granted. Yeah! Insert sarcastic tone here.

The official court date was set for July 19^th. I went into court that day for the hearing, which lasted all of about five minutes. After the hearing, I was met in the hall outside the court room by one of the guardianship clerks. She gave me a copy of my guardianship papers, and some other pertinent papers, and then she gave me instructions on my duties. Everything was pretty basic. My role was advocate for my father and liaison between the nursing home, Medicaid and any other agencies that might have dealings with my father. I would be required to visit my father in person at least once per month and would have to reapply for guardianship every year with detailed statements of his finances since I was his Social Security payee. I’m REQUIRED to visit once a month. There are times when my visits make him agitated and I don’t feel like I should go. What do I do then? What if I go back on the road and I’m not around? What if I didn’t live in town? What if I want to move?

The guardianship woman finished telling me my duties. Then she asked me what nursing home my father was in. I told her and then recognition set in on her face. She asked me if people said that I resembled my father. I told her yes. She then told me that she had actually been to Garden Care and knew exactly who my father was. She said she had heard about his barricading himself in the dining room and throwing the chair through the window. I asked her why she knew all that. She told me that she had been called into Garden Care to deal with one of her charges who the state acted as guardian for. She said that she had met and spoken to my father because my father had beaten this man up soon after entering the nursing home. Oh god! My father is the nursing home bully.

Again, things went back to a relative normality. I continued being wife and mother while going to school over the summer. I say relatively normal, because I did lose the ability to tell time on an analog clock for the entire semester I was taking pre-algebra. But other than that, things were normal. I visited my father several times a week when he was having good days and backed it down to once a week or every other week when his days were bad. I received word from the VA that my father was approved for a ninety dollar per month pension. Wow, serve your country during war time and they give you a whopping ninety bucks a month in your old age. The VA approved the pension, but denied Aid & Attendance for lack of disability need. Huh, what the hell does that mean? It’s a good thing he really doesn’t need anything. If he did, he’d be screwed. Rita Sanchez asked me the same question. All I could do was read her the letter that the VA sent me. I also received word from Social Security that my father was denied SSI for the same reason. The money issues out of the way, there was nothing much more to do than visit my father regularly and try to continue my normal life.

During the fall semester of school, life had really fallen into a rather calm routine. I was enrolled in chemistry and horticulture classes and doing well. I was even hired by the school to work as a note taker for a special needs person in my horticulture class. There had been no major blow ups with my father in a while. Home life was calm. I should have known that meant something bad was coming.

While sitting in my horticulture class one day, watching a film about microscopic organisms, I started having trouble breathing. I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. I told myself that everything was fine and all I needed to do was focus on my breathing, but the more I tried to do that, the more I felt like I couldn’t breathe. After several minutes, I started to hyperventilate and broke out in a cold sweat. I finally got up and made my way to the back of the room where my teacher was sitting and told him that I couldn’t breathe just as my legs started to go out from under me. My professor caught me by the arm and walked me down to the nurse’s office, which luckily, was located in the same hallway as my classroom. Once in the nurse’s office, I began to feel sharp pains in my chest. I was really scared. I had never had pain like that before in my life. It felt as if my chest was being crushed and no matter what I did to try and calm my breathing, I just couldn’t catch my breath. Since this was not the first time I had had chest pains, I was really afraid that I was having a heart attack. I knew that I was young for something like that, but I knew that my mother had had a small heart attack at work in her thirties, and her mother had had many heart problems throughout her life, so I knew it was not out of the realm of possibility. I told the nurse all of this, the best that I could in my current condition. The nurse called Mike for me and then called the paramedics. Once they arrived, they took me in an ambulance to the hospital closest to my house, which was a good half hour drive.

On the drive to the hospital, the EMT working on me said that for all of my vital signs, he did not think that I was having a heart attack. He said, in his opinion, I was having a panic attack. As we pulled into the hospital, I asked him if he was sure that was what the problem was. He said that I could go in and be seen, but he was relatively sure that’s what was going on. When they opened the ambulance doors, I could see Mike in the parking lot and waved him over to me. I thanked the EMTs for their help and told Mike to take me home and call my doctor.

My doctor’s advice was that I try and make myself sleep with the Clozapan that he had prescribed last year when I had chest pains. So I took a pill and got in bed, but try as I might I could not sleep. I was having a little better luck regulating my breathing, but I was still in a lot of pain and the hyperventilating would hit me in waves which would scare me and make the pain sharper. I tried taking another pill a few hours later, but with no effect. I finally told Mike to call my doctor back and tell him everything that I had taken and ask if he thought I could have a glass of wine to try and make myself sleep. My doctor said it should not be a problem. So I had Mike pour me a Big Gulp sized glass of wine and after drinking about half, I thankfully passed out. Yes, I realize that a 32 oz glass of wine was probably not what the doctor meant when he said a glass of wine, but I was scared and in pain and just wanted it to stop.

I stayed home for a few days without any more incidents, so I figured that was the end of it. Boy, was I wrong. Several days later while I was driving my kids to school, I had another full on panic attack in the car; hyperventilating, cold sweats, chest pains, the works. I was able to maintain and get myself home, but after several hours of this I had to take another Clozapan and take a nap. It happened again on my way to pick the kids up. Mike was working, so I couldn’t anesthetize myself for the evening, so I had to function through it. The next week I tried to go back to school, but I got about a block away from the house and had another panic attack and turned around and came home. I eventually dropped out because I was too afraid to get too far away from the house alone. I had to have Mike drive me to school to do the actual withdrawal. I couldn’t make the trip by myself. The panic attacks became less intense after a few days, but still continued to come on a daily basis. After a few days, I was able to function enough through them to be able to make it to and from the kids’ schools and to and from the nursing home to visit my father, but that was about it. I never went back to school.

During the time I was having my panic attacks, I got a call from the nursing home saying that they had discovered that my father had come down with another UTI (Urinary Tract Infection).  When I finally went to see him, it was as if he had slid another notch further in his downward mental spiral. He was very disoriented, but pleasant. The only really weird thing was he didn’t seem to know who I was at all.

When I greeted him, he smiled at me congenially as if he recognized me. I went to hug him hello, but as I walked toward him, he did that male step back, look me up and down move and then said, “You’re a very nice looking lady.” EEEEWWWW! Uh, yeah Dad thanks, but I look like you! No hug for you today! If I wasn’t having panic attacks before, this surely would have sent me over the edge with an oog factor of 100.

Those visits happened off and on for years; strangely always precipitated by an onset of a UTI.

I had many such creepy incidents not only with my father, but with other residents of the locked Alzheimer’s ward. In the first days of my father being at the nursing home, I was standing at the nurse’s station talking to the nurse on duty. Mid-sentence, I jumped with a yelp; someone had grabbed my ass, hard. I turned around to see one of the patients, who I came to know as Henry, slinking away from me with his head down. Alright, that’s not even fair. I can’t smack an Alzheimer’s patient for grabbing my ass. If guys only knew, this is a whole new way to cop a feel without repercussions. It was not the last time I would be manhandled while on the ward. On one occasion or another, I have been groped, propositioned, and proposed to by patients.

I have also seen more elderly penises than I dare to mention. You would think someone other than me might take notice to the elderly man pulling out his member to urinate in the middle of the hallway or against the wall, but you would be wrong. On the many occasions that I witnessed this and made mention of it to the nursing staff, my comments were always greeted by a nonchalant, “Oh, hell someone’s going to have to clean that up.” And that’s it.

The most memorable encounter I ever had on the ward was actually something done by one of the female patients.

Again, I was standing at the nurse’s station talking to the nurse on duty, when one of the female patients, Miss Ruby, came up and started talking to me. I always tried to be polite and tried to understand what was being said to me. On this occasion, Miss Ruby was trying to ask me where something was. I wasn’t able to understand exactly what it was she was asking me. Trying to seem interested, I threw out an offhanded, “What are you looking for, honey?” In response, she held out something in her hand to me. I looked and at first I thought she was holding a large pinecone. At second glance, I realized she was actually holding the single largest intact bowl movement I have ever seen. OH MY GOD! The really scary thing is, that it might not even be hers!

Thankfully, my outburst did elicit a prompt physical response from the nurse and orderlies.

I usually liked to go visit my father at lunch time because my father and other patients tended to get very antsy sitting waiting for lunch to be served. I would hang out and keep people occupied talking and in their seats the best I could, while the staff did what they needed to do. On one visit, Mike and I were in the dining room waiting with my father as the staff got lunch ready. Miss Jessie, one of the feistier female patients, motioned for me to come over to her table. I walked up and said, “Yes, Miss Jessie what do you need?” She reached up from her chair and put her arms around my waist and said very forcefully, “I need a man and you ain’t no man!” Mike and I laughed a long time at that.

Although Mike didn’t go to the nursing home often, he was not immune to being accosted by patients on the ward. The one incident that stands out in my mind the most, happened a few months after my father entered the nursing home. It was the first time Mike came with me to the nursing home, so he was uncomfortable from the onset. As I sat on the edge of a chair talking to my father, Mike was standing, leaning up against a wall just kind of hanging out. As he stood there, this little woman, whose name I don’t remember came walking down the hall directly toward the spot where Mike was standing. As the woman approached, Mike tried to move out of her way, but she moved in the same direction he did. Mike tried moving the other way, but again the woman moved the same way he did, all the while still walking slowly toward him. The two of them continued doing this strange slow motion dance until the woman was right in front of  Mike, actually touching him. Before he could move again, the woman put her head down on Mike’s chest, put her arms around his waist and closed her eyes with a peaceful look of bliss. In contrast, Mike had a look of complete horror on his face. I wish I had had a camera because the picture would have been perfect comedic sadness. Once Mike was finally able to peel the woman off of him with the help of one of the orderlies, we were told that he looked a lot like the woman’s son who had not been in to visit her in a very long time. There were a lot of sad stories like that.

Another thing I had to deal with regarding the nursing home on a regular basis was trying to keep my father’s stuff around. Over the years, I probably purchased several dozen complete wardrobes for my father. Every time I purchased something new, it disappeared within months. And it wasn’t just clothing. Since my father went into the nursing home, I bought him numerous pairs of shoes, hats, bedding, and two televisions. All were mysteriously lost, stolen, or broken. I was only ever able to recover one of his lost items, the winter coat that I bought him when he first came to live with me.

When my father went into the nursing home, he was still working the same M.O. from my house of wearing his coat all the time. After a few weeks of this, the nursing staff said that they had finally made him stop doing it and kept his coat hung in the closet in his room. One day, about a year into his stay, while hanging up the current new wardrobe, I had just purchased, I noticed that the coat was gone. When I finished hanging the clothes, I went and asked the nurse where the coat went. She said that she didn’t know and maybe it had been taken to the laundry. During my next few visits, I checked his closet and still the coat was gone. Each time I asked where the coat was, I was always told that no one knew. I’m not sure why, but I never gave up on that coat; even through all the staff changes in the ward, every so often, I would ask about the coat with the same result. Eventually, my dogged persistence paid off. It took almost three years, but one day after a consistent pestering, the coat miraculously showed back up in my father’s closet. It was a bit worse for wear, but it was back. Sometimes it pays to be a pain in the ass.

I also had to deal with the issue of the lack of hygiene and quality of care while my father was at Garden Care. Just like no one seemed to notice when patients urinated on the ward floors, no one seemed to do anything more than they absolutely had to regarding the patients’ personal care. I can’t even count how many times in the beginning that I had to forcefully tell someone that my father was soiled or wet and needed to be changed.

Try as I might, I could never get the staff to put lotion on my father. If you don’t know anything about black skin, it’s prone to dryness and will look grey and ashy before it eventually begins to crack and in worst cases, bleed. Most of the nursing and orderly staff that I saw was black, so I know that they understand this issue. I got tired of asking, telling, and begging them to do it. So, I finally began doing it myself whenever I came to visit. I would get the bottle of lotion I bought him, roll up his sleeves and put lotion on his arms. Then I would sit on the floor in front of my father. Yes, I sat on that disgusting floor! I would take off his shoes and socks and put lotion on his legs and feet.

One day, when I sat down on the floor to put the lotion on my father. I took off his socks and was disgusted and horrified. Crusted all around his toes were dried feces. His toes and toe nails were so crusted over and dried that there were areas that were cracking. As I sat there, looking at his feet in horror, I looked up at the nurse’s station and loudly commented on what I had just found. No one said a word, the nurse and orderly on the other side of the desk just looked at me. I said it again and got the same lack of response. Finally, I stood up and said, “Well if none of you are going to do anything about it would someone at least give me a wet wash cloth so that I can clean his feet myself!?!” Finally, the orderly moved from behind the counter, went and got me what I asked for and then went back to talking behind the desk. Holy shit, I have got to get my father out of this place. This is disgusting!

I got back down on the floor and cleaned my father’s feet with my bare hands and the washcloth. That was the beginning spark that led me to try and get my father out of Garden Care.

Yes, the place had saved my household and my sanity by taking my father when no one else would, but I began to realize that the place would take anyone just to get federal money and to hell with the actual patients. There had been signs for a long time and would be many more to come. I should have seen it during the countless occasions when I was asked, “Watch them for a minute,” by many a lone staff member as they left me alone in the ward with the patients.

One of the scariest of these occasions was Thanksgiving 2002. Although my father had only been in the nursing home less than a year, I had been going to visit long enough to know many of the residents and their ailments. During holidays, family members are always invited to the center to celebrate functions with the patients. On Thanksgiving, the home actually went all out for the night. They had a number of large round table clothed tables set up in and around the dining room. They even hired a wait staff to serve for the evening. The table set up for the residents of the locked dementia unit was located in the alcove entry way to the dining room, just before the doors to the locked ward. This kind of put the table in a room all to itself where it could not be seen by much of the dining room. When I got to the nursing home, the staff was in the process of getting all the locked ward residents seated at their table. They had gotten everyone dressed up and once seated, all the units’ residents seemed to be enjoying the festivities. As I sat down next to my father and waited to be served with him and the rest of the residents, the two staff members from the locked ward pulled a, “Hey can you watch them for a minute?” and then disappeared. When the wait staff came to serve the food, I ended up helping get everyone set up to eat and helping a few patients to try and feed themselves. When dessert came around, I had to tell the wait staff not to give any cake to several patients that I knew were diabetic.  The locked ward staff only came back when dinner was over and the patients from the rest of the dining room began to be moved back to their rooms. Needless to say, it was a rather stressful dinner for me. I never went back to another holiday event.

Although my father’s moods and aggression became less and less problematic as time went on, his physical health began to become an issue.

First, my father seemed to come down with a UTI every six months or so. No one could ever explain why. I suspected it was a hygiene issue, but I had no way of proving my suspicions. The problem with my father’s many UTIs, besides the obvious, was with every UTI episode my father’s overall health, demeanor, and mental faculties would decline dramatically. With each occurrence, my father would slip further and further away from himself and reality. He would become more confused, he would lose dexterity and balance. It was horrible to watch and very confusing. No one has ever explained why a Urinary Tract Infection would be tied to my father’s mental decline. I tried asking the nurse’s but they could not explain it. I was always told to ask my father’s doctor. The problem was I couldn’t get in touch with him.

About a year and a half into my father’s nursing home stay, my father had taken to walking the corridors almost obsessively, nonstop. Back and forth, up and down each hall. When I would visit, I would have to follow him back and forth through the hall. The only time he stopped the compulsive walking was to eat, to be changed, to be bathed, and to sleep. And even then, you were hard pressed to get my father to stop moving for long.

One day, Mike and I went to visit him. While we followed my father up and down the corridor trying to talk to him, Mike pulled me aside. He pointed out that when my father walked his arm remained rigid, bent at his sides and did not swing like normal. I pointed this out to the nursing staff and said that I knew that to be a sign of Parkinson’s disease. The nurses told me that they would mention it to his doctor and have him call me. I never got a call.

As weeks turned into months, not only did my father’s arm not swing when he walked, he began to stiffen up physically from the neck down. First, my father stopped turning his head when he was spoken to. He still responded to his name and simple commands. The only difference was when called, instead of turning his neck in the direction of the person speaking; he would either turn his body from the waist or turn his whole body. I mentioned this change to the nurse on duty and got the same response. “She’d let the doctor know and have him call me.” I did watch her put a note for my father’s doctor in his chart. I still never got a call.

A few months later, my father’s condition got even worse. He was having difficulty feeding himself because of his stiffness and began having trouble swallowing. Because of his eating difficulties, my father began to lose weight. He lost a lot of weight quickly. He also all but stopped talking. When he did speak, he was almost incoherent. He then started having stability issues and episodes of falling, or at least being found on the floor as if he had fallen, or so I was told.

Finally, the nurses became concerned. I got a call one day saying that I needed to come in to speak to the DON (Director of Nursing) and the new social worker to discuss their concerns. I went in and met with the two women. They said that my father’s health was deteriorating rapidly and that they recommended that I agree to have my father be fitted with a feeding tube. I told them again, that I really wanted to speak to the doctor about my father’s condition to get his recommendation. Again, I was told that they would have him call me, but in the meantime they asked me to sign off on having the G-tube (gastric tube) put in so they could schedule the surgery. I agreed, and signed the papers and went home to wait on a surgery date and a call from the doctor. I got a surgery date; called in by one of the nurses, but no call from the doctor.

My father went in for surgery a few days later. It was a very quick procedure. I think it lasted all of about twenty minutes. We spent more time sitting in the hospital room waiting for him to go into surgery than it took to do the actual surgery. As a matter of fact, when they wheeled him away to have the tube inserted, I went outside to smoke a cigarette. My father was back in the room and finished by the time I got back. Easy as pie, no complications.

One strange thing did happen. When the doctor came in to verify my father’s medical history he looked at the chart and said, “So your father is taking medications for Dementia?”

“Yes.”

“Hypertension?”

“Yes.”

“Anxiety and depression?”

“Um, I guess so.”

“And Parkinson’s?”

”Um, is he? No one ever told me that they had actually diagnosed him with it. My husband and I have been mentioning to the nursing staff that his arms don’t move when he walks and that we knew that that was a sign of Parkinson’s.”

“Well it says here that he has Parkinson’s and is being treated for it.”

“Okay, then I guess he is.” From that day on, Parkinson’s was a part of my father’s official diagnosis. I asked about it at the nursing home but got the standard ask Dr. Zahdeh, but without ever hearing back from the doctor.

Once the feeding tube was put in and my father was put on a pureed diet, his health came back quite a bit. He gained weight and went back to his incessant hall walking. His stiffness remained. His communication skills did come back somewhat. He would answer in short sentences when spoken to, but he was never completely the same. It became hit or miss whether or not he responded to “Dad” anymore so most of the time I had to call him by his first name. I continued my regular visits several times per week. I continually made inquiries about talking to the doctor. I left message after message with no result. I finally asked for the doctor’s phone number and began trying to contact him by phone myself. Each time I called, I got his answering service.

Weeks turned into months, months turned into a year. Finally in the early spring of 2003, I got a call one morning. It was the weekend nurse. An orderly had found my father on the floor in his bedroom. When I asked if he was okay, I was told that he seemed fine, but he had cut his head and they were planning on sending him up the street to JPS Hospital. I told the nurse I would be right there, but she told me to wait and she would call me back once they transported him and they could tell me more. I said okay, hung up and waited.

After not hearing anything for over an hour, I called back. I was told by an orderly that the EMT’s had just left and taken my father to the hospital. What the hell, the hospital is down the street!?!? Why did it take over an hour? I hung up and headed to the hospital. Once at JPS, I went to the emergency room to look for my father. A nurse told me where he was waiting for observation and I went back to the area to sit with him. When I went in, my father was laying semi-propped up on a hospital bed. He looked at me and smiled as I entered the room.

“Hey there you are, where you been?” he said, which completely shocked me. He hadn’t spoken to me unprompted for months.

“Um, I’ve been home, Dad. How are you?” I said, without much hope of a response.

“Oh, I’m good. How you been?” he replied smiling.”

I was stunned. My dad and I continued having a conversation for about a minute or two. His responses got sketchy and nonsensical but at least he was talking. As we spoke, a doctor came into the room and asked me who I was. I told him that I was Mr. Martin’s daughter. His reaction was shock. He said that my dad had come into the hospital with no information. There was no information on family, medical condition, medications, nothing. What the hell? Why would they send him with no information? I need to get him out of that place. Their incompetence is going to end up killing him.

The doctor then asked if I knew if my dad was a diabetic. Huh? Diabetic? When my dad was brought in, besides the gash to the back of the head that had required seventeen stitches, his blood sugar indicated that he was close to diabetic shock. He then said that they had been trying to get in touch with someone from the nursing home to find out if my dad’s non-responsiveness was a result of his accident or if he was always that way. He said that they had tried asking my dad questions but obviously he didn’t speak. I gave the doctor a brief history of my dad’s condition and then told him that actually my dad does speak and proved it by speaking to him. “Dad, you doing okay?” I said.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” My dad answered, to the shock of the doctor.

The doctor took up my lead and began asking my dad questions. My dad just sat there staring off into space without speaking. I then asked my dad if he needed anything. My dad responded, “No, I’m good.” The doctor and I exchanged glances and I shrugged. The doctor tried several more times with the same result. Finally, he turned to me and asked if I would stay since my dad seemed comfortable with me and they wanted to run some more test as well as start an IV of fluids because he was a bit dehydrated. I told him of course and the doctor left.

Dad, I am so sorry that I had to put you in that place. I know it’s horrible. I swear I will find a better place for you to live once this is all over. I was thinking all of this when a woman came around the curtain into my dad’s “room.” She introduced herself as the hospital’s social worker. She said that she had been alerted when my dad was brought in without proper information. She asked me about me and my dad’s experiences at the nursing home. I told her the stories I have conveyed here in this book along with others that I have left out for liability reasons. I ended by briefly explaining how my dad had ended up in the nursing home in the first place. When I finished, she asked me the name of the nursing home that my dad was in. I told her. Her response was, “I knew it and you need to get your dad out of there as soon as possible.” Lady, you read my mind! She said that she had some information that could help me. She then told me that if I wanted, there was a program that would even allow me to bring my dad back home. She got up saying that she would bring it back to me and left. While I sat waiting, I turned to my dad who seemed to have dozed off, and spoke softly.

“Dad, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to end up in such a horrible place. I never meant for you to have to go to a nursing home at all. I had no choice. I promise you, I will work from today on to bring you back home.”

My dad opened his eyes and looked at me for a moment and then said, “You would do that?”

“Of course I would.” I answered shocked and saddened.

“I don’t want to be any trouble.” he replied.

“It’s no trouble. You’re my dad.” I answered; even more shocked at this exchange.

“Thank you.” He finished and then closed his eyes and went back to sleep. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing bone straight. I began to shake and cry silently. Oh my god, he’s still in there! I don’t know how much he understands, but part of him is still in there somewhere. My gosh, what the hell has he seen and experienced in that place and understood, but been unable to do anything about? My God what have I done!?!

It was like a scene from a movie. If someone had told me the story, I would never have believed it. But I was there. I lived it. It was real. And I was devastated.

When the social worker came back she brought with her a book which she explained would give me all the information that I needed. It had information on every nursing home and home health care agency in the area. She also gave me the name and number for CBA (Community Based Alternatives) which is the agency she said could help me to bring my dad back home, if that’s what I wanted. I thanked her for all of her help and she turned to leave. As she walked away, she stopped and told me that I should report the nursing home for neglect among other things from what I had told her. I told her that I had thought about it numerous times, but I was afraid of the repercussions that my dad might face in the nursing home. She said that she understood, but urged me to think about it and then left. I sat with my dad for a few more hours until the doctor came in and said that they would be taking him back to the nursing home. I followed the ambulance back to the nursing home and sat with my dad for another hour or so once there.

When I got up to leave, my dad was laying in the bed with his eyes open staring at the ceiling. I touched his arm and said, “Dad, I’m going, but I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

My dad turned and looked at me and said, “Thank you” and then went back to staring at the ceiling.

Despite my trepidation, I did call Adult Protective Services the day after my dad’s “fall” about my concerns at the nursing home. I was told by the woman that I spoke to that I needn’t worry, “The call was completely confidential.”

About two weeks after I made the call, I was sitting on the floor putting lotion on my dad’s legs when one of the orderlies came up to me and said, “Nobody pushed your father down. He fell, ya know.”

“Yeah I know.” I replied stunned.

“Well, I don’t know why you need to have people come here and talk to us. No one did anything to your father.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.  From then on, I was really afraid for my dad. I knew I needed to get him out of there.

Chapter 16

Before I can write about trying to bring my dad back home again, I feel I need to go back and talk about a few things that happened on the fringes simultaneously during the years this story took place.

Sometime during the summer of 2002, I got another phone call from Andrea Van Leestan, the lawyer representing my Uncle Wheeler’s estate. She said that they were on the verge of finalizing the estate sale and would have the exact amount of the assets that were owed to my grandmother. I informed her that my grandmother had died in April. She asked me who my grandmother’s Will listed as my grandmother’s heir(s). I told her that as far as I knew my grandmother did not have a will. I then told her that as far as heirs, all I knew was my father, my cousin Carla, and that my grandmother had a sister who was still living in Georgia named Eunice. She asked me for contact information on everyone, which I gave her. I then explained the situation with my father. She told me that I would need to call a lawyer to represent my father in the matter. She then took my contact information, gave me her contact information, said that she would be sending me more information in the mail and hung up.

Since I didn’t have a lawyer, I contacted the guardianship office and asked what to do. I was given a number for a legal referral service. I called a few of the lawyers on the list that were located close to me. None of the lawyers were in, so I left messages at each of their offices asking that they call me back. The only one to return my phone call was a Robin Accipiter, who had an office about five miles from my house. She said that she would be glad to take the case and told me to forward any and all information to her office. She also told me to refer my uncle’s lawyer to her whenever I spoke to her again and she would handle things.

A few months later when Ms.Van Leesten called back, I referred her to Ms. Accipiter and waited to be told what to do next. I didn’t hear directly from either Ms. Van Leesten or Ms. Accipiter for months. I received a few letters from Ms. Accipiter’s office stating dates for court hearings, but I always received letters of postponement several days or weeks before the actual court dates.  The letters always said that the hearings were postponed by my father’s lawyer, David Taylor.

Sometime in 2003, I got a call from Ms. Van Leesten’s office asking what was happening with the case. She was growing impatient because she wanted to close out my uncle’s estate case. I told her that I didn’t know. I told her about the postponement letters that I had received and that I hadn’t heard anything else directly from my lawyer since the last time we had spoken. I told her that I would call Ms. Accipiter and get back with her as soon as I knew something. I called Ms. Accipiter’s office and got her legal assistant, Cinnamon. I explained to her what was happening and that either I needed to speak to Ms. Accipiter or she needed to call Ms. Van Leesten directly. She told me that she would give the message to Robin and I left it at that. I didn’t hear from either lawyer for a long time.

The next time I heard about the case was another phone call from Ms. Van Leesten asking what was happening. Again, I told her that I hadn’t heard anything and would call my lawyer and get back with her. This time when I called and spoke to Cinnamon, I told her that I wanted to speak to Ms. Accipiter myself. She said that she would leave her a message and have her call me back. After several days of no phone calls, I called the office back. Cinnamon apologized for the lack of a return phone call and said that Robin was out of town but there was a hearing set for two weeks from then. I thanked her for the information hung up and left a message telling Ms. Van Leesten what I had been told. Several days before the hearing, I got another letter saying that it had been postponed. This time I called Ms. Accipter’s office and asked what the deal was. Cinnamon said that she would talk to Robin and call me back. Cinnamon actually did call me back this time and said that my father’s lawyer had asked for further documentation from my uncle’s lawyer. I told her that I would call Ms. Van Leesten and have the information sent. I did just that and then waited for something to happen.

This legal dance went on for months. I’d get a call from Ms. Van Leesten, I’d call Ms. Accipiter, get Cinnamon who would tell me that she would have Robin call me back, so I’d wait. Cinnamon would call me back tell me a court date then I’d get a letter of postponement. It was nuts. During all of this, I asked several times if I should call David Taylor and speak to him myself to see if I could speed things along. I was repeatedly told that I was not allowed; since he was representing my father, it would constitute a conflict of interest.

Finally, in the beginning of July 2004, I got another call from Ms. Van Leesten and she was pissed. She had made payments to all the rest of my uncle’s heirs and wanted to close the file. Again, I told her what had been happening, but I told her that this time I would make sure that I got results. So again, I called Ms. Accipiter’s office and got Cinnamon. We played the same phone game as usual, with me leaving a message and waiting for a result. The difference this time was I decided to call David Taylor myself, regardless of what I had been told. I still had the number from our dealings with the guardianship case.

I called Mr. Taylor’s cell phone number and got his voice mail. I left a long, pleading message explaining the situation. I ended by asking that he please help me to get the matter resolved, left my cell number and hung up. The next day my cell phone rang, it was Mr. Taylor. He sounded really confused. He said that he hadn’t spoken to or heard anything from my lawyer Robin Accipiter since mid 2002. He apologized for not following up, but he had assumed that the matter had resolved itself. WHAT!?!?! He hasn’t heard from my lawyer since 2002!?!?! What the hell is going on? This woman has been stringing me along for two fucking years!?!? Damn it, how could I be so stupid!?!?

I thanked him for his help and told him I would get to the bottom of things and contact him as soon as I had any news. When I hung up, I wasn’t sure what to do. I went back to the papers where I had written the lawyers I had been referred to and called the other two who had not called me back before. I left detailed messages with both and asked them to call me back. Robert Browning was the first to get back to me. He told me that it sounded like Ms. Accipiter said that she would take the case and then realizing that it was not her area of expertise, she had put it on the back burner. If she couldn’t handle it, then why the hell hadn’t she just said so!

I asked him what my recourse was. He asked me if she had collected any money from me, which I told him no. He said then what I needed to do was write her a letter stating that I wanted a complete copy of my entire file and that I would no longer be needing her services and have it sent certified mail. I asked if he could help me, but he said that he felt it was a conflict of interest since he actually knew Robin. I thanked him and hung up.

I wrote and sent the letter as soon as I hung up. I got a call about a week later from Cinnamon saying that they would send me my file. I told her “no” I didn’t trust them to send it and went and picked it up myself later that afternoon.

In the fall of 2002, while sitting at home one weekend, I decided to make my rounds of family phone calls. I called my mother, my cousins Danielle and Robert, my aunt Rose and my mother’s father, Grandpa Robert. I got no answer on the first four calls, so I left messages. I did get through to my grandfather. Part of me wished that I hadn’t.

My Grandpa Robert lived alone in the Bronx, in the brownstone that he shared with my grandmother until she passed away a few years back. I tried to make sure to call and check in with him every so often. When my grandfather answered the phone and I said, “Hello,” I got the usual moment of confusion from him as he tried to figure out whether it was me or my cousin Danielle. Nothing out of the ordinary. The problem came midway through the conversation. We talked like we always did about the weather, distant relatives, Mike and the kids. Everything still normal. Then my grandfather started to repeat himself. He asked who I was again. He asked IF I had children and IF I was married, even though we had just talked about both Mike and the kids. Then he asked me where I lived. My neck hairs started to tingle AGAIN. Oh shit, my grandfather has Alzheimer’s.

I knew it even more surely than I knew my own name. My grandfather and I continued to talk for a while longer. In that portion of the conversation, my grandfather seemed to come back. He asked me about my father and we talked about what was going on with him for a while. Then he said that, Rose was talking about selling his house and moving him down to New Mexico with her. He chuckled and said that he wasn’t moving to New Mexico. He then started talking about property that he had in Virginia. Then, out of the blue, he says, “I wouldn’t mind staying with you in Texas.” Holy crap, no! I can’t do this again. I can’t take THREE in two years. I can’t. I love you Grandpa, but I just can’t do it.

I ignored the statement and went back to small talk for a while. After I hung up, I immediately called and left messages on both my mother and my Aunt Rose’s answering machines. Later that evening when both my mother and Rose called, I told them what I thought. They both told me that my grandfather was fine and that I was overreacting. Just like my father was fine and I was supposed to sit back and wait to see what happened.

I knew that my instincts were correct, so I made it a point to call my grandfather more often to check on him. Over the next few months which turned into years, his calls got stranger and stranger, to the point that Rose began to worry. Over time, my grandfather’s finances and general health began to suffer. Finally, Rose flew to New York to stay with him for a while in August of 2004, to help get his home and health back in order. My grandfather was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, type dementia in December of that same year. Rose is still there to this day.

A few months after my dad’s hospital visit from his fall, I went to visit him during a musical program they were having for the residents. The musical entertainment was a local man and woman who played guitar and sang folk and blue grass songs. It was terrible.

After the couple butchered “The Man of Constant Sorrow” which I normally love, I decided to see if I could actually get some entertainment in the place that the residents would like. I called my now former neighbor Arlington Jones and asked if he might be willing to come play for the residents. Thankfully, he agreed. On my next visit to the nursing home, I told the social director. I suggested that it could possibly be a special concert event that family members could be invited to. She seemed really excited and we set a date.

The day of the concert came and I went to the nursing home early to help with any preparations and set up. When I got there, nothing was being done. I went and asked how many family members they would be expecting and was told, “None.” They hadn’t invited any family members, hadn’t done anything to promote Arlington coming, nothing. So when Arlington got there, I told him that it would just be a handful of residents and that was it. He was very gracious. They brought in a few residents from the locked ward and about a dozen more from the rest of the center and Arlington began.

Although Arlington had to play on the old worn out, slightly out of tune piano in the dining room, he was brilliant as always and a huge hit. He played all kinds of things, hymns, jazz numbers, pop numbers, he even took requests. The residents loved it. I watched people who I had been seeing for years without any expression light up like Christmas trees. My dad even tapped his feet a few times and attempted to clap his hands and snap his fingers. This was during a time when my dad’s mobility from the stiffness was very evident and communication almost non-existent. During a particularly mellow number, I looked up at my dad; he was crying.

When Arlington finished playing, I got my dad up and brought him with me to thank him for coming. Arlington came over and stuck out his hand to my father to shake. Before I could explain that my father wouldn’t respond, my dad unbent his arm and shook Arlington’s hand and said hello. Arlington asked my dad how he was, and my dad answered, “Fine.” Arlington actually talked to my dad for a good two or three minutes; my dad responding in one or two word answers the entire time. After Arlington left and I got my dad back into the locked unit, he was really talkative. He talked to me nonstop for a good thirty minutes. Most of it didn’t make sense, but it was good to hear him talk anyway.

Also, during the time after my dad’s fall, my panic attacks came back with a vengeance. While driving with Mike to the local CBS News offices in Las Collinas, a panic attack hit me hard driving across an overpass. I’ve been afraid of heights, high overpasses and bridges since I was a kid, but I had learned over the years to cope. I’m not sure what, if anything, triggered the panic attack. The overpass in question is one I had driven over on a regular basis without any problem. Whatever the reason, as soon as we got to the highest portion of the loop, I started to have trouble breathing. I tried singing out loud, which I had learned since the attacks started, sometimes worked to get me through them. Not this time. I tried taking a drink of my soda; no help. I tried smoking a cigarette. A lot of times, if I was having an attack, the act of smoking helped because I can feel the smoke going in and see the smoke coming out of my mouth, which lets me know that YES, I am still breathing. But not this time, this panic attack was going to happen no matter what I did. I was able to hold it together all the way to the CBS office. But as soon as I got out of the car, I broke into a shaking cold sweat. Mike asked me if I was okay when I stopped and braced myself on the side of the car. I told him I was having a panic attack, but I thought I would be fine. I followed Mike inside and we were immediately greeted by Alvis, the long time receptionist there. Mike brought me over to introduce me and it was all that I could do not to break down in tears; I was in so much mental and physical pain. The poor woman must have thought I was a complete lunatic. She came around the desk to shake my hand. I shook it quickly then recoiled as if I had touched something scolding hot. I mumbled a feeble, “hello” all the while shaking and sweating profusely and then plopped myself down in one of the office chairs. I can still remember the look of confusion masked behind the “Be Polite” smile she gave me. I felt so bad, but there was nothing I could do. I was freaking out inside my head.

On our way home, I could see a hospital ahead in the distance. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and asked Mike to stop there. As soon as I sat down in the waiting room, I felt a little better. I knew it was because in my head I knew if something happened to me I was in a place where I could get immediate help. I told Mike all of this and we decided before actually having me see someone, we would try and wait out the attack. As I sat there, the calm that had come over began to fade and the panic attack started to hit me again in waves. I finally told Mike that it wasn’t working and I needed to see someone.

Mike went and registered me and I was called in about ten minutes later. Thankfully, the hospital waiting room was nearly empty. A male nurse came in and began taking my vitals and then asked what the problem was. I breathlessly told him that I was in the middle of a panic attack. He took a step back and looked at me and said, “Really, you’d never guess, you look great.” Um okay. He finished taking my vitals, said a doctor would be in in a minute and left. The doctor finally came in; by this time my head was beginning to swim from hyperventilating.

I still can’t figure out how I learned to hyperventilate without appearing to do so. I think it might be a product of controlling my stage fright. From the day I started doing stand up ‘til the day I stopped, I had stage fright. Before every set, I would go to the bathroom about ten times, then as my name was announced my legs would begin to shake and I would start to sweat and hyperventilate. It did get better over the years, but it did continue to some degree through my entire comedy “career.” The thing about it is, I would tell people who watched me perform that this was going on but everyone said that they couldn’t tell. I didn’t believe them at first, but after I started taping my sets, I would watch and look for any of the signs of what I knew was going on with me and never saw it either.

The doctor looked me over and did some stuff, I’m not sure what. By that time I was kind of out of my head. She left and when she came back, she handed me a prescription for Xanax and then gave me two Xanax to take right then and a glass of water. I took the pills and thanked her. Mike handled checking me out, I think. The only thing I remember after that was getting into the car and saying I was hungry and then pulling into a Wendy’s drive-thru. The next thing I knew, I was in bed in my clothes and it was the next morning.

When I got up the next day, I felt good. But by about lunchtime, I was having another full-blown panic attack. I realized after the previous day that two Xanax was way too much for me and knowing I tend to be hypersensitive to medication, I tried taking one. Still, way too much. I woke up several hours later not remembering much after taking the pill. I had another attack as I tried to go to sleep. This time I took a half a pill, which did make me feel loopy, but I was able to function somewhat. How the hell do people take this stuff and walk around? I guess I’d make a terrible Stepford Wife.

Then the next day, after having to take four Xanax in two days and knowing that they are very addictive, I decided to call my doctor to see if I could get something a little less narcotic to take. My doctor wasn’t in that day, but I was told I could make an appointment with one of the other office doctors. I agreed and went in that afternoon. After asking me what was going on and doing the routine poke, prod, and listening; the doctor told me that she thought I was suffering from a form of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and gave me a prescription for Paxil.

Paxil is an anti-depressant, anti-anxiety medication which affects the serotonin levels of the brain. According to the doctor and the website, the affects are gradual and wouldn’t be felt for about two weeks.

It was a Thursday when I went to the drug store and got my prescription filled. When I got home, I popped my Paxil in my mouth and expected things to slowly get better. The next morning I got up and knew immediately something was wrong. Thankfully, Mike was home so I didn’t have to take Dayton to school, so I wandered around the house like I normally do. I got my coffee, had my morning cigarette just like normal, but what was going on inside my head was anything but normal. It was like I was having a full-blown panic attack inside my head, plus some. I know that doesn’t really make sense, but that’s what I felt. I felt like I was trapped inside my head. There was a voice talking to me, inside my head telling me that I was having a panic attack. The voice was telling me that I couldn’t breathe and there was nothing I could do about it. I remember thinking I should take a Xanax, but the voice told me that it was useless and not to bother. I remember then arguing with the voice, inside my head and becoming angrier and angrier. It was awful. Mike tried talking to me at some point, but I could hardly respond. The voice in my head was fighting with me not to. Every word that came out of my mouth was a breathless forced effort. Then the electric shocks started. I later learned that this is a phenomenon sometimes associated with Paxil, but at the time, it scared the hell out of me. It literally feels like someone is trying to jump start a car battery in your head or like spark plugs are firing inside your brain and it’s painful as hell. I spent the entire day trapped inside my head in pain and arguing with myself. By the end of the day, I was trying to tell the voice in my head that I really didn’t want to die and killing myself was NOT the good idea that the voice was telling me that it was.

By Saturday, I was a basket case. I was depressed, angry, in physical and mental pain and more scared than during the initial panic attacks. I decided to go to Albertsons to talk to the pharmacist, who had always been great when I’d had questions about medications before. Problem was, the voice in my head didn’t want me to get in the car. It took every ounce of energy and strength I had to make the three mile drive to the store. By the time I pulled into the store parking lot, I was shaking, sweating, hyperventilating and crying, but I made myself go inside. When I walked up to the pharmacist counter and tried to talk I began to stutter horribly. I also could not remember basic words. The voice in my head was screaming so loud I could hardly think. I couldn’t even finish a sentence.  In broken speech, I was able to say something to the effect of, “On Paxil… panic attacks…. Big one now… Paxil hurting my head… what do I do?” The pharmacist told me he wasn’t real familiar with Paxil and I might want to check the internet. Great! I went back home and spent the rest of the day tying to tell myself I didn’t want to die. But dumbass that I am, I took my pill. Sunday was more or less the same; except I couldn’t even go outside, I was so agoraphobic. Sometime that evening, I got on the internet and was able to have an instant message conversation with Sara. She told me that she had heard horrible things about Paxil and directed me to a website. On the website, I read about people feeling just like I did. They talked about the sudden depression and rage, the suicidal thoughts and even the electric shock feeling. A few of the people had written that they had been able to make some of the side affects subside or lessen by taking Sudafed. I have plenty of that! I went straight to the kitchen and took two and laid down. I had a hard time getting to sleep, but after about an hour the electric shocks seemed to lessen. (Or maybe it was just in my head.) I did not take anymore Paxil. Before bed, I opened the bottle over the toilet and flushed the lot.

On Monday, I called the doctor who had prescribed the Paxil. Usually when you call my doctor’s office with a problem, you speak to either a nurse or a receptionist who always says they’ll ask the doctor and have his or her nurse call back. When I called, I was still having a great deal of difficultly speaking. My speech was now slurred; I was still stuttering and having difficulty remembering basic words. The nurse, receptionist, whatever, who answered the phone tried to understand what I wanted, but finally gave up and actually put the doctor on the phone. When she said hello, I pushed out as much speech as I could as quickly as I could. “Lesssssllllllie TTTTThomassssson. Pppppaxil bbbbbbaaaaaad. Ccccccan hhhhhhaaaaarrrrdddddly tttttt… SSSSSStoppppppped ttttttttaking… Wwwwwwhat ttttto ddddddddo? Cccccaaaannnnt fffffiiiiiinish ssssen….ssssen…ssssen…. Ssssseee!”

She told me that I should not be feeling the effects yet, okay but I AM so what the hell do I do!?!?! All I could do was laugh, and not a funny laugh. Finally, she told me that if I had already stopped taking the medication I could come in and she could prescribe something else. I told her no, I would figure something out, or at least that’s what I was trying to say. What actually came out of my mouth, I’m not sure.

I decided to try some holistic method for controlling what was happening and the panic attacks in general. I got back on the internet and after talking to Sara, I decided to start by trying to get my sleep pattern back on track, which might help me to relax. Sara suggested that I look into Valerian Root. I looked on-line and read that Valerian might be the answer. Later that day, I went to the closest health food store to my house. The voice in my head wouldn’t let me drive the extra mile to Deep Woods. When I went inside, it was the episode at Albertson’s all over again. I was shaking, and sweating, my speech was slurred plus now when I talked, I was foaming slightly at the mouth. God, all I need is a limp and a hump and I’d be all set.

The poor guy at the health food store looked horrified, but was very patient with me. He stood there listening as I stuttered, slurred, and foamed my problem. He finally directed me to the Valerian Root liquid.

The panic attacks continued daily, but with a mixture of Valerian and Sudafed my speech went back to normal and the voice in my head left. After several days, I was able to go to Deep Woods. After talking to the owner, Mindy, and looking through a few of the herb books, I made myself a tea with a mixture of dried herbs that pacified the panic attacks to a manageable level.

In the summer of 2003, with the panic attacks at a manageable level, life had again gone back to a form of normalcy. So, of course, I had to do something to shake things up.

I was in my car one Saturday on my way home from Albertson’s when I had a thought, I need a motorcycle. I don’t know where the thought came from. There were no bikes on the road. There was no reason for the thought that I can put my finger on at all. So I pulled into the garage, got out of the car and walked over to Mike, who was sitting outside on the bench on our front walkway watching the kids play and said, “I need a motorcycle.”

Mike lit up like the sun, “Really!?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you serious!?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay!”

As soon as I finished putting away the groceries, Mike drove up to our local convenience store and bought a Cycle Trader and started looking for bikes.

Mike had been trying to talk me into getting a motorcycle off and on since we’d been together. I always gave the standard chick answer, “They’re dangerous. Not until the kids move out.” I have never been afraid of motorcycles. I would always jump on the back when I met someone that had one, but somehow in my head, owning one was different. I think watching my dad slip away so young and then my recent issues with panic attacks brought me to a place where I wanted to live life to its fullest.

I took the motorcycle riding safety course in June and got my motorcycle license in July. Mike took his riding course in July and got his license later that month. I bought myself a little 86 Honda Rebel 250 and Mike got an ‘84 Honda Magna V65. Actually the Magna was supposed to be mine, but after I dumped it in the garage the very first day we got it (DOH!) and had to get a neighbor to help me pick it up, I decided I had bitten off a bit more than I could chew and got myself the smaller more manageable Rebel.

When one of my female neighbors expressed her shock at my riding and asked me why I had gotten a bike, I answered her with what I still today consider my mantra: “I want to live everyday as if it were my last because even if it isn’t, I might not remember it.”

Thanksgiving of that year, I actually had one of the best days of my life. Mike was scheduled to work the annual Thanksgiving Day Dallas Cowboys football game. This year the game happened to be against the Chicago Bears. Mike, with the help of his work connections, was able to get me an on the field pass as a video tape runner for ESPN. What I was supposed to do as a tape runner was run full video tapes from the camera on the field, up to the satellite truck in the parking lot. I did do that once. But, since this was my first and only NFL Football game in person and my Bears, what I actually ended up doing mostly was standing behind the Bears bench trying not to look like I was teenager watching the very first Beatles’ show in 1964. I was so excited, I thought my head was going to explode. I was able to keep my cool, though. I was even able to walk up and give punter Brad Maynard a pep talk, when I saw him come out and stand in the tunnel to watch Destiny’s Child perform during half time.

My two prize possessions, besides my sons, came from that day: A picture of me with the now deceased Cowboy’s unofficial mascot Crazy Ray and a picture of me standing with Brad Maynard and then place kicker Jay Feely.

The only way that day could have been ANY better would have been if a.) WE (The Bears) would have won the game; which we didn’t. b.) Brian Urlacher had not been injured and had actually been in the stadium, so I could have seen him in person. Although, it’s probably good that he WASN’T there because I don’t think I could have held it together with him in the STATE, let alone close enough to possibly touch. But, most of all, the one thing that would have made that day better and or PERFECT, would have been c.) If I would have been able to REALLY share the experience with my dad.

I did tell him about it on my next visit, but all I got in response was a blank stare.

Forgotten Tomorrows Crazy Todays (Ch 13 & 14)

Chapter 13

The understanding between me and my dad which had led to the calm in the house began to break down again at the beginning of February.

My father had started to have “I want to go home” days again. The trips to the “store” became longer and longer. He also started wandering into my bedroom at night again. I woke up several times with him coming out of the master bathroom in the middle of the night again. One night, after a particularly intense day, I woke up to a small “beep” from the alarm system, which indicated that someone had opened a door or a window in the house. I knew immediately that it must be my father. I heard rummaging at the front door, which was connected directly to the same wall as my bedroom door. I sat bolt upright and screamed, “Dad, don’t open that door! You’ll set off the alarm!” Luckily, all the doors were equipped with the thick metal safety latches. My father wasn’t able to figure out the lock. This gave me time to turn off the alarm with the panic button before the sirens went off and jump out of bed. When I got to the front door, my father was standing in the foyer desperately pulling at the door. All he was wearing were pajama bottoms, slippers and a black felt fedora. Always stylish my dad is.

As soon as he saw me he said, “I’m getting out of here! You can’t keep me here! I’m going home!” I tried reasoning with him. I explained to him that his house in Florida had been sold and that he now lived in Texas with me and my family and that we loved him very much. That sent him into a tirade of insults and accusations about me and my family stealing his money, and my children (3 and 8) who wanted to kill him. He continued to pull on the door, as I tried to reassure him. As a last ditch effort, I explained to him that he could not leave the house at that moment because it was 2 a.m. and all he was wearing was pajamas and that it was cold outside. At this, my father seemed to come to his senses, at least a bit. He let go of the door and allowed me to walk him back to his bedroom. Crisis averted. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

After getting my father settled back into his room, I went and reset the alarm system and went back to my room. I recounted what happened to a now awake Mike, who had heard the commotion but had been unable to hear exactly what had been said. After Mike and I talked and my father’s bedroom light went out, I drifted uneasily back to sleep. About thirty minutes later, I was awakened again to the “beep” of the alarm system and fumbling at the front door. This time I didn’t scream, I just hit the off alarm button on the panic alarm and jumped out of bed. When I got to the front door, my father had changed clothes. He was now fully dressed in dress pants and a dress shirt, but he still had his slippers on. Again, when he saw me, he went into a rant about not being locked up and wanting to go home. Once again, I tried to explain to him why that wasn’t possible, but to no avail. He then demanded to speak to the police. I tried to explain to him what time it was and his living situation, but he was adamant.

By now, I was so exhausted I could feel my own rationale slipping. Fed up, I went and got the house phone. Mike was now awake too and sitting up in bed watching our exchange in the foyer through the doorway. When I tried to hand my father the phone, he wouldn’t take it. He just kept trying to get the latch on the front door open while telling me that I needed to call the police. I’m not sure if it was the late hour or the broken sleep or the absurdity of the situation or what, but when he said that, I started to laugh hysterically. My father wants me to call the police on myself for, in his mind, trying to hold him hostage and my kids wanting to kill him. I told him no, I wasn’t calling the police and that if he wanted to speak to the police then he needed to call them himself. I set the phone down on a nearby end table and went and sat down on the loveseat in the living room. My hope was that the phone would distract him away from the door. And it worked, if only for a moment.

My father walked away from the door and picked up the phone and then just stared at it. He didn’t know how to call the police. Instead of hitting buttons and trying to call himself, my father turned to me and asked me how to call the police. I told him that if he wanted the police, then he was going to have to figure out how to call them on his own; again hoping that he would get discouraged and just give up and go to bed. In hindsight, that was probably not the best idea, but I was tired and grumpy and had to get up at 6 a.m. to get Dayton off to school. My father continued to insist that I call the police for him and I continued to refuse. We were at a stalemate.

The standoff was broken when my father looked at me with an evil grin and said, “Well maybe I’ll go mess with the kids. Then you’ll have to call the police,” and headed in the direction of the boys’ room.

I stood up intending on blocking his path, but before I could get in his way, Mike was up and out of the bedroom standing in front of my father. Up until now, Mike had let me handle all the issues that came up regarding my father. This threat to our children had changed the stakes. “What do you mean MESS with the kids!?!? You aren’t going to do anything to my kids, Wes! I won’t let that happen!” My father seemed rattled by Mike’s sudden appearance, but stood his ground, while avoiding Mike’s eyes and looking at me defiantly. “I don’t know,” my father replied. “But I’ll do something to get the cops,” he finished, a little less aggressively.

I have no idea what he was thinking but I suspect that he was weighing the option of having to take on Mike instead of me. Mike is an average sized guy at 5’11” and 155lbs. and although my father has always been a bit of a scrapper, I think he knew, even in his current state of mind, that if he were to try and carry out his threat, the odds were not in his favor.

“You will NOT go anywhere near my children!” Mike said, then added, “If you want to call the police dial 911. But Wes, if you don’t even know how to call the police how do you think you’re going to be able to make it all the way to Florida from here on your own?” When Mike finished talking he turned and went back into the bedroom, sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. We generally don’t smoke in the house, because of the kids, but at this point his nerves were frazzled. I also think he didn’t want to go into the garage and leave me in the house alone with my father. When Mike walked off, my father went back to trying to open the front door. He finally managed to get the top latch off and started to head out the door, phone in hand, but the locked screen door impeded his progress. I jumped off the couch and ran into the foyer yelling, “Dad, you can’t take the phone with you!”

He turned to face me with that evil grin again and said, “Why, you don’t want me to tell them?”

“I don’t care who you talk to or what you tell them! You just can’t take the phone out of the house.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not a cell phone, it’s a house phone and it won’t work outside for one,” I lied. “And two, ‘cause it’s my phone and I said you can’t take it.” My father, seeming to ignore what I had just said, turned back to trying to get the screen door open. At this point, I made a stupid move. I realize it now, but at the time I was tired and angry and just wanted all the nonsense to stop. I went over to my father and grabbed the phone. Now we stood in the foyer having a tug of war with the phone. My father began yelling at me that I didn’t want him to call the police again and that I was keeping him locked up, all the while I’m trying to wrestle the phone out of his hands. During the struggle, I maneuvered myself between my father and the front door, but could not wrangle the phone away from him. After several minutes of this nocturnal dance, I finally let go of the phone, telling my father to just call the police already. He dialed 911 and began pacing the short foyer, while I blocked the doorway.

When the 911 dispatcher answered the phone, my father stopped pacing to talk. I took advantage of this to close and lock the front door and then went back into the living room and sat down on the couch. My father told the dispatcher that he was being locked up and that he wanted to go home. The dispatcher must have asked who was keeping him locked up because my father began to stammer, “My, my, my…” while gesturing in my direction.

I finally yelled, “I’m his daughter,” loudly.

At this my father got excited and said, “Yeah, yeah she’s my daughter,” into the phone. He then said that there were two of us and that we tried to keep him from calling. Tried to keep him from calling? Hell, we did everything but dial the damn phone for him! I’m even helping to explain his freaking delusion. I’m not sure what the dispatcher asked next. I assume that he/she asked for a description of Mike and me because what my father said next was, “She’s got on a white shirt and black things, you know.” He meant shorts. “She’s about forty-five, around five foot four and one hundred and fifty pounds.”What!?!? Forty-five…five foot four…one hundred and fifty pounds!?!?!? Okay Dad, say what you want about me, but don’t make me older, shorter and fatter than I am! I actually laughed out loud. Next, my father stepped into the foyer and looked at Mike sitting on the bed and said into the phone, “Yeah, he looks like a hunter.” What in the world!?!? What part of my bald, goateed, earring wearing husband, sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette in his underwear, makes him look like a hunter? I had to laugh again.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I got up and opened it. Two Arlington police officers were at the door. There was a young white male officer and a middle aged black male officer. Man, this is starting to become embarrassing. By the time this is all over, every cop in Arlington will have visited my house at least once. I let the officers in, and the white officer immediately asked what the problem was. I pointed to my father and said, “Talk to him, he’s the one that made the phone call,” I then turned and went back to sit on the couch. As I sat down, Mike entered the room in a pair of shorts and sat down with me on the couch. The officers acknowledged Mike and then turned to my father. The white officer asked my father if he was still on the phone with dispatch.

My father said, “Yes.” The officer asked my father to speak to the dispatcher. My father tried to hand the officer the phone but as he did he pulled on the bottom of the phone which popped the battery cover off the back of the phone; the nine volt inside disconnected and fell on the floor. I got up and tried to put the phone back together quickly, but it was too late, the call had been lost.

As I went to sit back down, the white officer asked my father his name and what seemed to be the problem. My father told them his name and then went into a fresh diatribe about how we were keeping him locked up, how he wanted to go home and that we wouldn’t let him. The officer turned to me and I gave him a short explanation of the situation, starting with the fact that my father had lost his home in Florida and had no place else to go. I then explained that my father had recently been diagnosed with Dementia and had earlier tried to leave the house in his pajamas insisting that he was going home. At this, my father went ballistic. He started yelling that he did not have Dementia, that that was something that I had made up so I could tell people that he was crazy to keep him locked up and take his money. At this point Mike piped in, telling my father that we hadn’t made anything up and that the VA doctor had made the diagnosis. Mike went on to tell him that we had taken him in and saved him from ending up on the streets when he lost his house. He also reminded him that, in fact, he had called our house and asked me to come and get him when he was scared and hallucinating in his house in Florida. My father shot back that he had not called us and that there was nothing wrong with him, that he was just fine and didn’t need any help. Mike, now beyond tired and irritated, yelled back, “Wes, if there’s nothing wrong with you, then why couldn’t you even make a simple phone call to the police? I had to tell you how to dial 911!” I touched Mike’s leg to try and calm him. The officer then asked my father if he had any money.

My father said, “No, she’s stealing my money and keeping me here.” Now it was my turn to get angry.

I stared yelling, “That’s not true, Dad. You don’t have any money to steal. And as a matter of fact, I know that you do have at least twenty dollars. I know that because I put it in your dresser myself yesterday. But if money is the issue, I’ve got thirty dollars in my purse. I will gladly give it to you right now if you will just go back to bed and let everyone go back to sleep!” I finished standing, preparing to get my purse. The evil grin of triumph appeared on my father’s face again.

He took a step toward me and said, “Yeah give me the money.”

The white officer stepped in between us and said, “No, no, don’t do that.”

At this point, I was standing there, shaking with anger and frustration. When the officer stepped in between us, I began to talk to myself in my head and try and get a grip. Leslie, calm down. You know this isn’t his fault. Everyone is tired, and yelling is not helping matters at all. Think about it Les, he no longer knows your name. He can’t read anymore. He’s hard pressed to have any kind of conversation with anybody but you because he no longer makes sense unless he’s angry. BREATHE…

I then turned to the officer and told him that I could prove that my father had been evicted from his home because I had paperwork from the state in my bedroom. I also told him that I had documentation of my father’s Dementia diagnosis as well. At this, my father said, “Oh yeah, you don’t have any proof!”

I turned to my father and calmly said, “Dad, you have a copy of the paperwork from the VA in your room. It says you have Dementia and high blood pressure, among other things, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Yeah, where!?” My father challenged. I turned and walked into my father’s bedroom and got the paperwork from the VA that I knew was hidden in my father’s dresser. I came back into the room and handed the paperwork to the white officer, pointing out where the diagnosis was. While the officer read the paperwork, I went into my bedroom and got the papers from the Florida Tax Assessor and the paper from the bank which held the defaulted mortgage on the house which stated the intended sale of the house the previous October. I came back and handed those to the officer as well and went and sat back down next to Mike. The officer read over each paper and then handed them to his partner. As the officers tried to hand the papers back to me, my father seemed to panic. He started yelling that I had made it all up. The white officer calmly told my father that he had the papers in his hands and that they were official and he would allow him to read them if he liked. My father made a half-hearted gesture of glancing at the papers, then waved them off and went back to ranting. The officer leaned over and handed me back the papers. The white officer tried again to calm my father. He told him that no matter what the situation, it was late and there was no where he could go at 3:30 in the morning.

My father ignored the officer and instead turned to me and said, “Yeah, well tell them how you got me here!” Both officers looked at me confused. I shrugged my shoulders and looked at my father quizzically. My father turned back to the officers and started speaking hurriedly, “Yeah, we were at a party and they were stealing and then she said “Hurry up” and we had to run and get on the boat and come here. I thought she was okay at first, but you can see.” He finished gesturing at me.

The white officer asked my father where “HOME” was, to which my father said, “Chicago.” The officer looked at me; I shook my head and said quietly, “No, he was living in Florida. You can look at the paper work and check. We haven’t lived in Chicago since I was in high school, and I’m thirty-four.”

“I meant Florida.” My father yelled. “And where has she been? She hasn’t been around then she comes and makes me come here.”

“Dad, I was just in Florida a year ago in November with the whole family to visit. Remember? Me, Mike, and the kids were all there.” I said.

“Oh yeah, and you should have seen what she was….But I wasn’t going for that!”  Now what the hell is he talking about? I went to Florida to do stand up. God, I’m so tired. Make this stop so I can go back to bed!

I tried one last time to get through to my father. “Dad, we are not trying to hurt you. We are not trying to lock you up, or steal your money. We love you and that is why you’re here. There’s no place else for you to go and we didn’t want you to wind up on the streets.”

“I can take care of myself!” he yelled back at me.

I ignored him and went on, “I am trying to take care of you just like you took care of grandma.”

“Your grandmother hated you!” He screamed at me.

I kept going, “Your grandkids love you very much and don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

“Oh yeah you should see them! They’re something else! Running around!” My father said angrily.

Mike, who had been sitting quietly through most of this, was roused by the insult to the kids. “What about the kids!?! They’ve done nothing but love their grandfather and you go and threaten them tonight! Don’t talk about my kids!”

“Alright, enough of this!” The black officer finally chimed in. The white officer then asked about the threat to the children. I told him what my father had said earlier about “messing” with the children in order to get the police to the house. The officer asked my father what he had meant by MESS with the kids. My father mumbled something that didn’t make any sense. The officer told my father that he needed to leave the kids out of all of this. He then told him again that it was late and that if he wanted to leave in the morning or try and find a new place to live, that he was sure Mike and I would do what we could for him. Both officers then turned to leave, thinking this would be the end of it. WRONG!

“She won’t let me send the thing off!” My father blurted out. Again the officer’s exchanged confused looks and turned to me. I shrugged again and looked at my father.

“What thing Mr. Martin.?”

“The thing that changes colors for the dead people!” My father said in earnest. Both officers looked at me even more confused.

Oh lord, here we go! “It’s an at home stool sample that the VA gave him. Don’t ask.” I said shaking my head. This has now gotten way beyond sad. I wish that there was something that I could do. He has no idea how ridiculous he sounds. Both officers shook their own heads and told my father to go back to bed as they headed toward the door.

My father wasn’t done. “She keeps me locked in here and won’t let me have anything and she’s trying to kill me!” He yelled aggressively shaking his fist at me.

I started to snap again. “Won’t let you have anything!?!? What are you talking about!?! We paid your bills while you were still in Florida. We bought you food. We paid to get you here. We’ve bought you clothes. There’s an entire container of chocolate muffins on the counter we bought just for you! Not to mention the croissants, the five gallons of ice cream in the freezer and who knows what else in the kitchen! Why do you think we include you whenever we go shopping? So that we make sure to get you stuff that you want and like!” I said exhausted. “If I was trying to kill you, I sure as hell wouldn’t have turned my house and my life upside down trying to make you comfortable!” I finished. My father just stared at me.

The officers told my father again that he needed to go to bed and that he could deal with any issues he had in the morning. This time the officers waited for my father to head in the direction of his room before turning to leave. I watched as my father went into the hall, opened the boy’s bedroom door, closed it, turned, found his room and went inside. Mike and I thanked the officers and walked them to the door. Once outside, the white officer asked if there was anything else he could do for me. I told him no, that we had gotten used to it. He then asked if I wanted to come outside and talk. I asked him if there was anyway that they could take my father somewhere to try and get him some help. He said no, which I knew he would. I told him that since that was the case, there was nothing to talk about and that I was tired and just wanted to get some sleep. He said that he understood. As I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of helplessness and pity on his face. Or maybe I just imagined it. I was exhausted.

Once back in our bedroom that night/morning, Mike and I decided that it would probably be wise to put a lock on the kids’ door to prevent my father from doing them any harm, accidentally or intentionally. I explained this to the kids on the way to school that morning and told them that we would now be locking them in from their side of the door, in their room at night and that if they heard anything outside their door at night, that they were not to open the door unless it was me, Mike or the police, or fire department. This is starting to get out of hand. I don’t know how long we can continue to live like this.

We didn’t hear from my father until about 10 a.m. the next morning. I was home alone, waiting for Mike to get back from Home Depot. As soon as my father got up, I realized that he had not let go of his anger from our last encounter. I don’t even know if he had slept at all. He came out of his room fully dressed, complete with hat and winter coat. He refused my offer to make him breakfast. He said that he wanted to get out of there, so as had become the routine, I opened the front door and let him go. Mike came home a few minutes later and we took advantage of my father’s flight from the house to get the lock put on the kids’ door without his knowledge. About an hour later, just as I started to worry that I would have to call the police to look for my father, he knocked on the door. He came in and went straight back to his bedroom and did not come back out until dinner.

Things stayed tense from that day on. My father started to argue with me whenever I tried to remind him about showering, so I went back to letting it go until someone noticed his odor. He also stopped thinking of Mike as his buddy, and did not speak to anyone except Ian, other than to argue with me, answer basic questions or to say a quiet, “thank you” after being given food. The tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a plastic spork. A few weekends later, Mike and I decided to try and cut the tension by breaking the normal routine and getting everyone out of the house. We decided to get some fast food and do some shopping at Home Depot for the house and yard and to take everyone on the outing. My father was having a bad odor day, so we started off badly, with an argument about his need to shower before we left. After my father showered and dressed, we all piled in the car and asked the kids where they wanted to eat. They said Burger King. I asked my father if that was okay, and he mumbled something that I took as agreement and we went.

Once at Burger King, everyone ordered their food, my father with my help, and we sat down to eat. We had been sitting at the table for only a few minutes when my dad started clearing his throat and saying, “Hey, hey, I have an agreement.” No one but me had heard him, so I spoke up and told them that my father had something that he wanted to say. My dad turned to Mike and the kids.

“I’ve decided that I am going to get some perfume!” he declared enthusiastically.

Everyone just looked at each other confused. “That’s good, Wes.” Mike said and then everyone went back to eating. This seemed to upset my father and he went back to eating quietly. What was that all about!? Was he trying to say that because I keep telling him that he needs to shower when he starts to smell bad that he has decided to get some cologne so that he won’t stink?

When we had all finished and were heading back out to the car, I pulled Mike back and whispered in his ear what I thought. He agreed that that was the only thing that made any sense. When we got into the car, the kids asked where we were going next and Mike told them Home Depot. As my father got into the car, he pulled a twenty out of his pocket and tried to hand it to Mike telling him when we get there to go inside and get him some perfume. As we drove, Mike explained to my father that he didn’t think that they carried cologne in Home Depot and that it was mainly a store for home repairs and gardening. My father seemed upset with this answer and silently stuffed the money back into his coat pocket. Once at Home Depot, we all got out of the car and headed for the entrance, everyone except my father. I turned around and realized that he was milling about in the parking lot near the car. I went back to where he was standing and told him that we were all going inside. He said, “No thank you,” and wandered off in the direction of some of the plants being displayed outside the garden section. Mike had stopped outside the entrance when he heard me speak to my father. I walked over and told him what had just happened and told him to take Ian inside with him, while Dayton and I pretended to shop outside so that I could keep an eye on my father. Anyone who didn’t know us might have thought we were acting out a scene for some bad spy movie. My father shuffling about the plants on one side of the building, looking over his shoulder at me every few minutes, while I pretended to be talking to Dayton about flowers at the other end of the store; all while stealing glances at my father from over my son’s shoulder. It must have looked ridiculous. When Mike came out, I wasn’t really sure if I should confront my father or not, so instead I just headed to the car with Mike and the kids. My father surprisingly followed and got in the car without prompting. On the way home, Mike asked my father if he wanted him to stop at the store and get him some cologne. My father said yes, but from the tone of his voice I could tell his excitement about the idea had fizzled. Mike stopped at Albertson’s on the way home and after refusing my father’s money, went inside and bought him some cologne.

As soon as we got home, my father went straight into his room. When he came out he immediately said that he wanted to “get out of here.” As usual, we let him go.  We waited for over an hour before I called the police. When the police brought him back, they said they had found him walking west down the main road in our neighborhood. My father was furious, but didn’t say anything. He went straight back into his room and did not come out again until morning.

The next day, as I was getting the kids ready for school, my father came out of his room. I asked him if he wanted some breakfast; he angrily said no he wasn’t going to eat anything that I gave him. Oh crap. This is not good. I then asked him if he at least would like some juice. Again he said that he didn’t want anything from me, especially with HIM. And he pointed to Ian. How in the world could he be mad at Ian? “Dad, what do you mean especially not with him? What did Ian do?” I asked totally confused.

“You know what he did. God damn it. He’s fucking poisoning the food and stuff. I’m not touching that shit. You’re trying to kill me. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Dad, he’s three years old! What’s wrong with you? You can’t swear at the kids like that!” I screamed. I told both boys to go into their room and watch TV and I’d come get them in a minute.

“Oh, I can’t swear at them. Why the hell not!?!” He said with the evil grin.

“Because they are little kids, and they are MY kids and because I said so!” I screamed.

“I’m getting out of here! I’m not letting them kill me damn it.”

“Dad, knock off the swearing! You want to leave, fine there’s the door! But I’m just going to have to call the police again to bring you back because you cannot walk to Florida” I yelled pointing at the garage.

“That’s what you think!” he finished and brushed past me toward the garage door. My father stopped once in the garage not knowing what to do with the closed garage door. I walked past him, hit the button to open the door and walked back into the house. It’s not even 7 a.m. I can’t keep doing this! This has gotten way out of control. I’m having to lock my kids in their rooms at night. I haven’t slept well in months and now he’s swearing at the kids. I have got to stop this nightmare!

I put the kids in the car and took them to school. When I got home, I called 911 and explained what happened. At about 10 a.m., an officer knocked on my door with my father. He was breathing heavy and walked straight past me grouchily and into his room. I didn’t even ask the officer where she found him; I just thanked her and shut the door. At around one o’clock, I knocked on my father’s door and asked him if he wanted some lunch. He shouted no that he didn’t want anything from me, through the closed door, so I left him alone. Mike came home at about two thirty and I explained what had happened earlier during the day. At three o’clock, I took a break and went and got the kids. A few minutes after I got home, my father came out of his room. I asked him if he wanted something to eat or drink, he answered me in the same vein of his morning tirade, profanity and all. This time, it was Mike who jumped on him for his language. I don’t remember what was said. At this point, I had had enough and it didn’t matter. My father and Mike’s quarrel ended the same way mine had that morning, with my father walking out the garage door headed for, “HOME.” That’s it! I’m done.  I realize he’s sick and can’t help himself, but I can’t have this going on in my house anymore! I didn’t even wait to call 911 this time. I called as soon as the garage door closed. When the police, two cars this time, came back with my father twenty minutes later, I told them all that had happened that day and that there was no way I could have him in my house anymore, but I didn’t know what to do. The officer told me that legally, since I was not my father’s guardian there was really nothing that I could do. Since I accepted him into my house, he was my responsibility. I expressed my concern for the kids and the fact that he didn’t want to be in my house anymore than I wanted him there at that point and asked if there was any agency that he could think of that might be able to help.

After thinking a minute, the officer told me the only thing that he could possibly do was to try and talk my father into checking himself in to the psych ward at John Peters Smith Hospital and that they could possibly hold him for awhile there. I told him anything he could do would be helpful.

Together, we quickly came up with a plan. The officer would talk up JPS as a place where my father could, “Get away from ME,” and that he would gladly take him, even though I didn’t want him to go. I thanked him and he went to the police car where my father was sitting, cursing about me to the female officer. The officer spoke to my father for a brief moment nodded at me and switched my father to his patrol car. Once the officer and my father had rounded the corner, the female officer said that we could follow her to JPS and speak to the doctors once they got my father checked in. I thanked her and went and told Mike, who was in the house with the kids, what was going on. We gathered up the kids, got in the car and followed both officers. The other officer had waited around the corner in his car for some reason.

As we approached the emergency entrance of the hospital, the female officer flagged us to park in another area to avoid my father seeing us. As we passed, unfortunately my father looked up and saw us drive by. I saw as we passed my father begin to talk animatedly to the officer driving the vehicle he was in. Oh great!

Mike parked in the visitor’s lot in an area where we could still see the emergency entrance. The officer driving my father took him inside the hospital, while the other officer left. We sat in the car waiting for the other officer to come out and tell us what to do.

I remember sitting in the car thinking that I should feel bad about what I was getting ready to do, but I didn’t. I had tried everything that I could think of, for months, to try and get through to my father and couldn’t. I realized that it wasn’t his fault, but at that moment I didn’t care. I was angry at him for the way he behaved in front of the kids. I was angry that he hadn’t told me sooner that he was having a problem so that we might have prevented the last few months. I was worn out from lack of sleep and walking on eggshells. I was done. At that moment, I could have walked away from my father and never seen him again and would have been fine with it. That’s actually what I was hoping would happen. I just didn’t want to deal with him or the situation anymore.

As I sat contemplating all of this, the officer that had driven my father to the hospital walked up to the side of the car from another entrance. He told us that my father had indeed seen us when we pulled in, but he had used that to reinforce the story that I was trying to keep him from coming here, which had worked perfectly. He then told us that he had left my father in the waiting room on the psych ward. He then handed me a business card for the doctor on the ward. He told me that the registration nurse had said for me to wait about a half an hour and then call up to the ward to speak to the doctor after she had seen my father. I thanked him again for all of his help and he left. I waited the half hour and called the number on the card. When the registration nurse answered the phone, I explained who I was and why I was calling. She told me that the doctor had not yet seen my father and to try back in another half hour. I thanked her, hung up and waited. I called in another thirty minutes and got the exact same answer.

When this all began, it was a little after 4 p.m., it was now closing in on 6:30 p.m. and the kids began to complain about being hungry. I called the psych ward back and asked if I had to be at the hospital to talk to the doctor or if this was something I could take care of over the phone. The registration nurse told me that the doctor would definitely want to talk to me in person. I asked her if I would have time to drive home to drop off my family and come back in my own car. She asked where I lived and I told her Arlington. She said that would be no problem since the doctor was really busy and wouldn’t probably see my father for at least another hour. What? You’ve been telling me to call back in a half hour for over an hour. Is this place staffed by the VA?

We drove back home and I jumped into my car and drove the twenty minutes back to the hospital alone. I called as soon as I got back, to see if the doctor had seen my father yet. The registration nurse told me, “no,” my father had not been seen yet and to try back in an hour. Since it was now closing in on 7:30 and I was starting to get hungry myself, I asked the registration nurse if there would be any chance that my father might see me if I were to go inside the hospital to the McDonald’s and get something to eat. She told me no, that the psych ward was located on the seventh floor, so I would be safe. I thanked her, hung up and went inside. I went into the McDonalds, ordered food, ate and waited. I called back up to the ward after an hour and was again told that my father had not been seen and to try back in an hour. This process went on, over and over again with the same result until around 10:30. When I called again and was told once more that my father still hadn’t been seen, I told the nurse that I had been waiting for over four hours and asked if there was anyway my father could be seen soon. She again told me that the doctor was very busy and suggested that I go home and she would have the doctor call me as soon as my father was seen. WHAT!?!?! I asked FOUR HOURS AGO if I could handle all of this over the phone and you told me that I needed to wait because the doctor DEFINITELY needed to speak to me in person. I’ve been sitting here for four fucking hours for no reason! What the hell is wrong with you people!?! I thanked the nurse, hung up and went home.

When I got home, I got a glass of wine and got in bed waiting for the doctor to call me while discussing the day’s events with Mike and watching mindless television. At some point, the stress of the day must have taken over because the next thing I remember was waking up to the phone ringing. As Mike answered the phone, I looked at the clock, it was 2:45 a.m. Mike handed me the phone, saying it was the JPS Doctor. Holy shit 2:45 a.m.! I could still be sitting there. When I got on the phone, the doctor told me that she had examined my father and that she didn’t find anything psychologically wrong with him and since the ward was designated for psychologically unstable patients she wanted to release him. You have got to be kidding me! I briefly explained to the doctor what had been happening since my father had moved in with us, his diagnosis and what had brought him to the hospital in the first place. Her response was that since my father had checked himself into the hospital, if he wanted to check himself out, she needed to do so. She then told me that I needed to come and pick him up. Are YOU crazy!?! Have you not been listening to me!?! He doesn’t want to be here! I don’t want him here! I can’t have him here with the kids! And even if I did want him here, it’s almost 3 in the morning! I am not getting up and getting dressed to bring him back here at 3 a.m.!

I told the doctor basically that. Her response to this was to tell me that if I didn’t want to pick my father up, that she would send him to my house in a cab. Okay, now I know you’re crazy. You are going to send an aggressively agitated Dementia patient alone in a cab at 3 in the morning to a house that he tried to run away from three times in the last two days because you don’t find anything psychologically wrong with him!?!? He thinks my three year old is trying to poison him! He thinks we have thirteen bath rooms and we’re moving them! He gets locked in a bedroom that has no lock! He thinks everything on TV with a woman in it is Alias! How much more psychologically wrong can a person get!?!

Trying to remain calm, while wanting to jump through the phone and ring this woman’s neck, I told her that I didn’t think that this would be a good idea. I expressed my concern about him coming to my house at all, let alone, by himself in a cab. I asked her what was to prevent my father from telling the cab driver that he didn’t want to come to my house and wanted to go somewhere else. She assured me that she would give the cab driver explicit instructions. I then asked her what would happen if my father decided that he didn’t like those instructions and got violent with the cab driver? She stammered a bit and finally said that my father seemed fine and that she didn’t see this as a problem. He’s fine because he’s not here or being sent back here, you freaking moron! I again expressed my concern at her plan and told her that I needed to get up in a few hours to take my kids to school and really couldn’t afford to be waiting up for my father to come home in a cab. The doctor then said that she would talk to my father again and to wait up and she would call me back in a few minutes. HUH!?! What is talking to my father going to do? It’s not going to make him any less angry, or make him want to be here. This woman is nuts.

I hung up the phone and told Mike what she had said. I waited up for about ten minutes and when I got no call, I went back to sleep. It was a good thing that I did. With everything that had been going on, I had forgotten to set my alarm. I woke up at 8:30 realizing that I had over slept. I jumped up got the kids ready and took them both to school. When I got home I called JPS to find out what had happened. When the nurse answered, I explained the previous night’s events and asked what had happened. The nurse said that since it had been so late they had decided to let my father spend the night. Thanks for calling me. I sure am glad I didn’t listen to that stupid woman last night. I was thinking that when the nurse interrupted my thoughts by telling me that they would be checking my father out after he had eaten breakfast. Here we go again. I explained to this new nurse all that had been happening since my father came home and explained why he had gone to the ward in the first place. She said that she would talk to the doctor on the ward and have someone call me back. About an hour later, the nurse called back and again told me that the doctor told her that my father’s Dementia was not psychological and since he had voluntarily checked himself into the ward, if he wanted to leave, they legally had to let him out. So I asked, “Is he asking to be checked out?” The nurse said that my father was asking to go “home.” GOTCHA!

To this I asked, “So he’s been asking to go home?”

The nurse said, “Yes, he’s been asking to go home since he woke up this morning.”

I then said, “So, has he been asking to go “HOME” or has he been asking to come to MY home?” The nurse faltered at this question and I knew what was going on.

My father had been going on about going “HOME” just like he did at my house. I knew if I were to bring him home we would be right back where we had started the day before and I was not willing to go there anymore. The nurse finally recovered and said that my father had actually been requesting to go to my home. I knew she was lying and told her so. Flustered, the nurse again began to explain her legal obligation, but I cut her off…

“Look, my father does NOT want to be here. He wants to go HOME to his house in Florida which does not exist for him anymore, it’s been sold. He ran away three times over the last two days and I had to have the police bring him back. He’s been cursing at my kids and has even once threatened to harm them. The only place he has to go is my house and I cannot and will not have him here anymore, he’s possibly dangerous.” Again, the nurse tried to go into why she had to legally let my father out if he decided he wanted to go. I cut her off, again.

“Okay, put it this way, do you think if you were to just let him out of the hospital on his own that he could take care of himself?” I asked.

“Well no,” she answered.

“I’m not his legal guardian, so technically he is not my responsibility. He can NOT come back HERE and he has no where else to go. So, if you let him walk out the door and something happens to him it will be your liability, not mine. So, you can either keep him there and find some place to put him yourselves; OR you can keep him there until I find some place to put him. It’s your choice.” The nurse irritably told me that she would call me back and hung up.

About a half an hour later, the nurse called me back. She said that she had paperwork which could help me to get an emergency guardianship over my father which would make it legal for me to put my father into a nursing home. She also told me that she had gotten a list of nursing homes in the area that she would give me to help me find a place for my father. She told me that I could come pick up the paperwork at the hospital. Nice try. I told her that she could fax me the papers and gave her my fax number and hung up.

Once I got the papers, I called the phone number that had been included for the guardianship office and asked what I needed to do. I was told to fill out the papers and then given a fax number to send the completed forms. I then started calling nursing homes on the list to find a place for my father. I spoke to the admissions person at the first nursing home and gave a detailed explanation of my father’s situation and what led me to them. After asking me my father’s age, the woman on the phone told me that there was no way that her facility could take my father. She explained that with my father’s young age and good physical condition, it would be too dangerous for the other more elderly and frail patients to take him in. I thanked her, hung up and called the next home on the list. After giving them my explanation, I was again told that my father’s age, aggressive behavior, and physical condition would make it impossible for the home to take him. This went on over and over again with nursing home after nursing home throughout the day. Finally, at around 3:30, I called a nursing home called Garden Care Center, explained my situation to the administrator and waited to be told “no way” again. To my surprise and relief, the administrator (who told me her name was Hester) told me that her nursing home dealt with patients just like my father. She said that she would go to JPS personally and speak to my father and if she felt it was a match, she would have someone go and pick him up that day. I thanked her, gave her my call back information and hung up. I called the psych ward and told them what was happening. At around 5 p.m., the woman from Garden Care called and said that she had gone and met my father and that he had seemed pleasant and that she was sending someone over to pick him up right then. She told me that since it was already 5 p.m. I could bring my father’s things to the home the next day and fill out the admission forms. Thank you!

Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how tightly wound I had been. It had taken me getting angry over my father’s behavior with the kids to have been able to do what I had just done. Once I knew my father was safe, the anger faded as quickly as it had come and was replaced by a huge wave of guilt and sadness. I actually sat down on the middle of the floor in my kitchen and cried. It’s over, but this is not how this was all supposed to end. I know that I promised that I would not put you in a home, Dad, but you gave me no choice. What else was I supposed to do? I have to think of the kids. I am so sorry. I’m sure you hate me now even more than you did yesterday. I hope you can forgive me. I don’t know how long I sat there.

Chapter 14

The next day I wrote my father’s name on all of his clothes and then I packed the one suitcase that my father had brought from Florida until overflowing. I put the rest of his things into several garbage bags and drove to the nursing home.

In contrast to Mariner where my grandmother now lived, Garden Care and the area immediately surrounding it was anything but plush. Garden Care Center is located in Ft. Worth a few blocks behind the VA clinic. The area where the clinic and Garden Care are located could only be described as run down and impoverished. To get to the nursing home, you pass a number of run down and/or condemned buildings, boarded up long forgotten businesses, a few social services buildings, the drug and alcohol clinic, the AIDS clinic, and a halfway house, just to name a few.  The building itself wasn’t much to look at, just a nondescript square cinder block building painted white. Inside was not much better. Actually, Garden Care Center was everything about nursing homes that scared me as a child. Unlike Mariner, with its open airiness, bright colors and upscale decorations, Garden Care was sterile, bleak, and cold. As soon as I walked in the door, I was immediately hit by the nursing home smell, urine, feces, old people, and cleaning products.

As I walked down the dingy hallway, I looked in room after dreary room. Even the rooms where family members had tried to spruce up with decorations and home furnishings still seemed drab. I don’t know if I can do this again.

I tried to ignore my trepidation at being there and asked someone who appeared to work at the home the way to Hester’s office. I went inside and talked to Hester as I filled out the paperwork she gave me. As I filled out the papers, Hester told me that my father had done fine over night, had eaten well that morning and seemed in general good spirits. When I was done with the papers, I went to the car and brought all of my father’s things inside, into Hester’s office. At seeing all of the bags along with the suitcase, Hester told me that each room had a very small closet that each patient shared with another person. I told her that if there was anyone else in the nursing home that needed clothing, it would be fine to allow them to have what my father would not be able to use, all except his winter coat. Hester gave me the code to get into the locked ward and then left for an appointment.

I stood outside the ward doors watching my father walk back and forth through the unit for a long time. I wasn’t sure if I should go in. I had no idea how my father would react to seeing me. After watching my father disappear around a corner and not reemerge for quite some time, I finally mustered enough courage to enter the ward. I reached behind the vending machine and punched the code into the numeric box on the wall. I had to slide inside the door quickly to keep the little old woman who had been standing near the door from running out as I stepped inside. I moved in front of her quickly as she tried to head for the open door. We did a slight dance as she tried to get around me before the door shut.  I was able to stay between her and the door long enough for it to close and lock shut again. As soon as she got around me, she started pushing on the door yelling incoherently. Breathe Leslie, its okay, you can do this. But I don’t want to do this. Come on just go see your dad for a few minutes and it’ll all be over. Liar!

I headed down the hall arguing with myself. As I continued walking down the hall, a little old man came walking towards me and I froze. This man, who I would learn later was named John, looked just like the old preacher man from the Poltergeist movie. When he got to me he reached out his hand to touch my arm and I could see that several of his fingers were severed mid knuckle. Oh god, oh god, oh god! Breathe, Leslie he’s not REALLY the guy from Poltergeist! He’s not going to hurt you. Just smile!

I started to shake, like I had on my first visit to Mariner, as I stood there rooted to the spot. With great effort, I willed my feet to move and took a step to the side, hoping to disengage John’s hand from my arm. As I moved, John started to sing Amazing Grace at me. Oh god, oh god, oh god! He really IS the guy from Poltergeist! I’m going to die!

I seriously had a moment where I had to physically stop myself from sinking down on the floor and crying. As I contemplated doing just that, John stopped singing, patted my arm, said, “God bless you, and walked away. John turned out to be one of my favorite patients in the ward.

I continued my journey up the ward and finally stopped where the hallway broke off into an L shape. The nurse’s station was on one side of the corridor and a small gathering area with a couch and a bunch of chairs and an old television mounted on the wall on the other. My father was sitting in a chair, staring off into space. I sat down in an empty chair next to him and touched his arm.

“Hey, Dad,” I said terrified of what might come next.

“Oh there you are. Where’ve you been?” Huh!?!

“Um, I’ve been home. How are you?” I said taken aback.

“I’m good. I’ve been here with my lady friend.” He said motioning to an elderly black woman sitting in a chair on the other side of him. “How long you here for?” he finished smiling at me. Holy Almond Joy! This just keeps getting nuttier and nuttier. Now he’s fine and not mad at me at all. Not to mention the fact that he’s been here for less than a day and he already has a lady friend? My dad continued to talk to me congenially for about fifteen minutes. He then started asking me questions which led me to believe he thought that he was in Florida and I had come from somewhere else to visit him. Things like, “how long would I be in town,” and “where was I staying?” I didn’t know how to answer him. Some of the questions I just ignored. Others I tried to tell the truth about. When I told him that I was staying at my house “here” in Arlington his face and demeanor began to change. My father asked me a few more questions regarding my “trip” that I fielded the best that I could, until I could tell that he was becoming very agitated. I told him that I would talk to him later and left.  Oh shit. I hope I didn’t just cause a problem. His moods are like a pendulum. I just hope he swings back to the way he was when I first got here.

The next day, I had planned to go back to the nursing home sometime in the afternoon. Before I could go, I got a call from one of the nurses in the Alzheimer’s unit. She told me that my father had been very agitated since yesterday evening and had to be sedated. She then told me that that morning my father had barricaded himself in the dining room and wouldn’t allow anyone in. They had finally gotten in and sedated him again because of his aggressiveness; he was currently sleeping. I thanked the nurse for the call and hung up. Damn, my visit had caused a problem. I guess I shouldn’t go there anymore; at least not until this aggressive stage runs it’s course, if it ever does.

Since deciding that it was best not to go to the nursing home, I was forced to call to check on my father’s well being. Even without my visits, my father’s mood pendulum kept swinging. Some days when I called, I was told that my father was fine and calm. Other days when I called, he was out of control and had to be sedated. One particular occasion, about a week after my father went into the nursing home, I got a call from the duty nurse. My father had thrown a chair through a window AND taken one of the male orderlies to the ground in a scuffle. Oh geez! What’s next!?!? I feel bad for putting him in there, but better there than here. I don’t know what I would have done if he had done those things with me alone at the house, or worse yet, with the kids.

During this time, I was still taking classes. On the Thursday afternoon before spring break I got a call from one of the doctors at Mariner. He called to tell me that my grandmother had fallen and broken her hip. He said that she was in a lot of pain and that they needed to operate and needed my okay. I told him of course and asked him to call me as soon as he knew more. He said that he would and hung up. Later that evening, the doctor called me again. He informed me that when they had gone in to do the surgery on my grandmother’s hip they had discovered that she had Gangrene of the intestines. He said that they could not operate on the hip without first operating on the intestines and given my grandmother’s advanced age, she had just turned 90 several days before, the mastectomy she had received in December and the small heart attack she had had in January, he didn’t think that she would survive the surgery and would probably die on the operating table. He told me that if left alone, my grandmother was certain to die. He then gave me the option of having them risk surgery or leave things as they were and call in Hospice to make my grandmother as comfortable as possible in her final days. Without hesitation, I told them to call Hospice and I would be there the next day. The doctor said that he didn’t think my grandmother would make it through the evening. But I knew better. “Just send my grandmother back to the nursing home. She’s not going anywhere right away. Trust me.” We hung up and I called and made arrangements to get to Florida.

After making my calls and packing for the trip, I started making phone calls to family members to alert them to my grandmother’s condition. I left a message for Carla, called my cousin’s Robert and Francois and then called their mother, Frankie. I told Frankie all that the doctor had told me regarding my grandmother’s condition. Her response was to begin yelling at me. “How does someone get gangrene of the intestines?” She yelled at me.

“I’m not exactly sure. The doctor said it had something to do with the fall and blood flow being cut off.” I explained.

“You need to tell those doctors to operate! She’s my aunt you can’t just let them let her die like that! They know there’s something they can do.” She went on.

“The doctor said that he doesn’t think she’s strong enough to make it through this surgery at her age with all that’s happened to her lately. He said that more than likely she would die on the operating table. I’m going there tomorrow and I’m going to stay until she passes.”

“Those doctors are lying! They can just cut out that part of the intestines and she’ll be fine. You can’t just let them let her die! You need to make them do something!” She continued yelling at me. Okay, you were the person who yelled at me when I told them to do the mastectomy because you said that the doctors just wanted to cut her up because she was black!?!? NOW you’re telling me to tell them to operate; because she can live without an intestine but NOT without a breast!?!? What the hell kind of logic is that?

“Frankie look, I know she’s your aunt, but she’s 90 years old, she’s had a mastectomy, a heart attack and now a broken hip on top of everything else. The doctors say she is in a lot of pain…”

She cut me off, “SO WHAT IF SHE’S 90 YEARS OLD; YOU CAN’T JUST LET THEM KILL HER!”

Now it was my turn to get angry. “Look, I’ve been listening to you yell at me every time I make a decision. If you want the responsibility, I will sign over medical proxy to you and you can do whatever you want!” I yelled.

“No, no I don’t want to do that…” she stammered.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I offered to let you take control before and you said no, but you have no problem telling me what I’m doing wrong! I’ve only been calling and telling you what’s happening to be nice, but really I didn’t have to. She may be your aunt but she’s my grandmother. I’m doing the best that I can. I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before and didn’t really want to deal with this, but it seems no one else is willing to do it, so I’m making the best decisions I know how! I would rather have Mama Moore pass away being made as comfortable as possible back at the nursing home with me and others who know and care about her, than have her die with her belly cut open in a sterile hospital room! I’ll be at mom’s if you need me and I’ll call you as soon as I know something. I need to go.” I finished and hung up. How the hell did I end up with all of this!?!? I’m supposed to be the screw up baby of the family that can’t do anything! And right now I wish I really was.

Friday afternoon I was back in Florida. I went straight to the nursing home. My grandmother had been moved back to her room. She looked to be resting comfortably connected to an IV drip. As I sat at the side of her bed talking quietly to her, one of the Hospice nurses came in. She told me that my grandmother was on a morphine drip to ease the pain and that it was only a matter of time. She then gave me some papers to fill out. She and I began talking and she told me how sweet my grandmother was and expressed her condolences. She then questioned why no one had come to visit my grandmother. I hate having to explain this. I gave her an abbreviated version of my grandmother’s pre-Alzheimer’s personality. Thankfully she just nodded and said that she understood and then told me that I was a good person for being there with my grandmother in the end. I don’t feel like a good person. I don’t even want to be here. If someone else would have done this, I wouldn’t be. I hope I’m doing the right thing. I know Mama Moore and I did not get along, didn’t even like each other, but I would never want her or anyone else to suffer. This isn’t about hate or anger; this is about compassion for a human being. That is the right thing to do, right? I thanked her and she left. I sat with my grandmother for over an hour and said all of what I was thinking. I had no idea if she could hear me, but I felt like I needed to say it.

After leaving the nursing home, I went to my mother’s house. James was there but my mother was still at work. James and I visited for a bit and then I started making phone calls to try and arrange for my grandmother’s funeral. I called the funeral home to talk to Mr. Gaines, but he was out. I ended up talking to the same rude woman who I’d spoken to before. I left a message, but I had my doubts on whether or not it was actually written down. I then called the cemetery to see what I could do with what was left that was paid on the burial plot. The person I needed to speak to wasn’t in, so I left another message. I then called the consignment store that I had asked to sell my grandmother’s things. I hadn’t heard from Sean, the owner’s son since just after he went to the house to pick up the furnishings to sell. The last time I spoke to him, he said that he was going to be taking the organ and a few other things to auction and that he would call me back. Since then I had left several messages, but gotten no return call. This phone call was no different. Sean was not in, so I left a message. I also called Ralph Flowers and left him a message regarding my grandmother’s health and asked what, if anything, did I need to do about her dealings with the investment group.

Once that was done, there was nothing else for me to do at the moment, so I pulled out my psychology book and began to study. I had a test the week after spring break and I had been struggling with some of the memorization in the course and had only been able to pull a C+ so far in the class.

While I was studying, my mother came home. The first thing she did when she saw me was comment on how skinny I was and asked if I was sick. I know a lot of people have to deal with the, “Don’t you eat right? You’re skin and bones.” comments from their mother, and I am no different. My mother usually thinks I’m too skinny and need to eat, but this time she was actually correct. The six months of living in a time bomb with my father had taken its toll on me physically. Besides the lack of sleep, I had also lost almost 30 lbs in the first two months of him being there. I’m 5’6” and was now close to, if not under100 lbs. Even I thought I was too skinny. I’m not exactly sure why I lost the weight, because I did eat everyday. As a matter of fact, I probably ate more when my father was living with us because I usually ate lunch when I made it for him, which is not something I usually did. I lost so much weight that Mike noticed and said something one day as I was getting dressed because I had lost my ass. My whole life, I had been blessed with a bubble butt. Not huge, but it was a definitely bubble. Now, nothing, it was gone; like I had been robbed. Even at my skinniest as a kid, I had always had an ass. I didn’t even know that it was possible for me to lose it. So, I now swam in my smallest clothing. I assured my mother that I was indeed eating and left it at that.

After my mother got settled in and changed, she told me everything that she had done on her end. She had called one of her friends in town, Hassie, who was a long time Ft. Pierce resident and knew my grandmother and many of her friends and associates. I use the term “friends” loosely because to date, none of these “friends” had bothered to make the twenty minute drive from Ft. Pierce to Port St. Lucie to visit her. We may not have gotten along, but that is something that bothers me to this day. She put out the word to Hassie that my grandmother’s death was eminent and informed her of my grandmother’s lack of finances and asked her to make calls to those in the community that she knew. While my mother and I were talking, the phone rang. My mother answered the phone and after speaking a few minutes she handed it to me telling me that it was my grandmother’s old neighbor Jessie Gibson.

I’ve known Ms. Gibson probably my whole life. When I was little, she lived in the house directly across from my grandmother’s house on Ave M in Ft. Pierce. She had a daughter Felicia who was about the same age as me, who I would play with when I would come to visit. Ms. Gibson was always polite to me, but I got the feeling she didn’t really like me. Maybe that was just my kid vibe, I’m not sure, but she always seemed to be very tightly wound or restrained to me. I picked up the phone and said “hello.” Ms. Gibson told me that she had heard about my grandmother and expressed her condolences. She then told me that she had spoken to several of my grandmother’s friends and sorority sisters about the financial dilemma and that they would be taking up a collection to help pay for my grandmother’s funeral. She said that she would have people contact me at my mother’s house whenever they had gotten the donations together. I thanked her for her help and told her I would call her with any developments on my grandmother and hung up. That was very nice of her. Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought it was going to be.

I spent the rest of the evening watching TV with James and my mother visiting and fielding phone calls from relatives, before going to bed early.

I woke up the next day around 9:30. I got up, took a shower, got dressed and wandered into the kitchen intent on trying to find some coffee. My plans for the day were to visit my grandmother for awhile and then go to the funeral home and the cemetery and see what I could get done in person since I hadn’t been having much luck over the phone. I could tell by the silence in the house that no one was home. When I got into the kitchen, I saw a note on the counter; it was to me from my mother and read something like this:

Morning Darling,

There is coffee in the cabinet above the coffee maker. Make yourself whatever you want to eat. Make sure that you wash all the dishes after you eat.

I need for you to dust, vacuum the carpets and sweep and mop all the floors. The vacuum is in the laundry room and there is a broom and mop and bucket in the garage.

Make sure to clean up the bathroom after yourself.

Love you.

D

You’ve got to be kidding me!?!? Clean up after yourself…What am I twelve? You forgot to tell me to wipe my ass and put on clean underwear! My God, I came here to handle the death of my grandmother, not to be the freakin’ maid! I crumpled up the note, made myself some coffee, had my morning cigarette and then went in search of the vacuum. While I was vacuuming the living room, James came home and asked me what I was doing. I went and got the note and handed it to him. James read the note to himself. When he finished, he put it down and told me not to worry about it and that he would take care of it. I thanked him, put the vacuum away and left for the nursing home. I love James! He rocks! Okay, maybe I am twelve.

I visited with my grandmother for about an hour and a half; talking and singing quietly to her. A nurse came in at some point. She told me that there had been no change in my grandmother’s condition. Once I left the nursing home, I went to Stone Brother’s Funeral Home in Ft. Pierce to see if I could make arrangements. When I went in, I was immediately greeted by a stern looking older black woman who introduced herself as Liz. I identified myself as Wilester Caynon’s granddaughter. Liz immediately got a huge grin on her face and shook my hand firmly and directed me into the main office. Once inside the office she chuckled heartily saying, “So, you’re the one I’ve been talkin’ to on the phone. I thought you were some uppity white woman.” Huh!?!?! I said I was Wilester’s granddaughter over the phone. And if you knew my grandmother, then you knew I wasn’t white, regardless of how I sound. I thought about saying all of this, but decided to keep my mouth shut and just smiled. From that moment on, Liz was nothing but helpful and nice. She told me that Mr. Gaines was not in, but he was already in the process of making the arrangements for my grandmother’s funeral, having heard of my grandmother’s current condition. She said that she would have him call me as soon as he came back into the office. I thanked her, gave her my cell phone number and left. I then headed to the cemetery to find out what I could do about the burial plot.

The cemetery is located on the outskirts of Ft. Pierce, about fifteen minutes north of town. When I got there, I was greeted by a pleasant woman who, after listening to my brief explanation, went and got one of the owners for me to speak to. When the gentleman got there, I gave him a Reader’s Digest version of events. The man told me that he remembered the case; he had actually been the person I had spoken to over the phone. He brought me into an office. Once inside, he again explained that since my father had stopped payment, the only thing that my grandmother now owned was the hole in the ground. I explained my grandmother’s financial situation and then asked what it would cost to actually bury my grandmother. He told me that it would depend on the headstone, but said that he could do a basic burial for about $5000, or if I planned to cremate her, he could probably do it for around half that. Wow, that’s still a lot for a hole in the ground, especially, if she’s cremated. I mean how much room can a cremated body take up? It’s like the size of a coffee can. I then asked what would happen to the plot if I didn’t use it. He said nothing. Since the spot had been paid for, there was nothing he could do with it. He then said that people often sell off burial plots. So I asked how to go about doing that and how much to charge. He told me that he couldn’t tell me how much to charge, that was all up to the individual, but I could check the newspaper and see other people’s ads. I thanked him and told him I would call him when I knew exactly what I was going to do and then left.

I drove back to my mother’s house. James was home when I got there so we talked a little bit about the things I had done that day. At some point, James fell asleep in the recliner in the living room. I took the time and made phone calls to relatives to update them on my grandmother’s condition. The last call I made was to Frankie. I told her that they had moved my grandmother back to the nursing home. That they had put her on a morphine drip to ease her pain and that I had gone and sat with her each day. She began yelling at me about letting the doctors starve her to death. I tried to reason with her, but eventually just let her go off without response until she stopped on her own. When Frankie finished yelling, I explained the financial and burial issues that I was dealing with. When I told her that more than likely I was going to have to have my grandmother cremated, Frankie went off on a fresh tirade… “Cremation is not acceptable…How could I do that to her aunt…” I even think blaspheme was mentioned. I’m not sure, I finally tuned out. Frankie finally finished her current rant. I then told her that I would let her know if there were any changes, said goodbye and hung up.

After I hung up, I grabbed my books and went to the family room to study. My mother came home a few hours later. When she came in, she asked me if I had done everything she had asked me to do on her list. She said she wanted the house to look nice when people came over for my grandmother’s funeral. I told her no I had only vacuumed the living room and James had told me that he would do the rest. She looked annoyed and walked into the bedroom grumbling something. I don’t know what she said; I ignored her like only a child can a parent or vise versa. She didn’t bring it up again. We spent the rest of the evening in relative silence. My mother watching her shows, James dozing on and off before he went to work and me studying and fielding phone calls from Mike and some friends.

Saturday morning, after I got up and dressed, I got a call from Mr. Gaines at the funeral home. I made an appointment to go in to speak to him to make the funeral arrangements. My mother said that she would come with me to help with the preparations. When we got to the funeral home you would have thought I wasn’t there. My mother took over asking questions, making arrangements for the obituary, and finally setting an appointment to have Mr. Gaines and the preacher from my grandmother’s church to come to her house later that week to finalize everything. I don’t think I said more than two words the entire time I was there. Um hello!?! YooHoo, remember me, the granddaughter who’d been handling everything who is actually related to this woman!?!? Part of me was grateful for the break from it all. But there was another part of me that was irritated and resentful for being treated like an insignificant child. But I smiled and kept my mouth shut. When we were finished, I dropped my mother off at her house and went to the nursing home.

On my way to the nursing home, I made another call to the consignment shop. Again I was told that Sean was out, so I left another message. I spent about two hours sitting with my grandmother and then left. On my way back to my mother’s I called my old friend, in Florida, Kathleen. Surprisingly, she was home, so I swung by her house for a visit. I had lived with Kathleen, her mom (Ma) and then boyfriend, now husband, Bobby just after high school. Her house was always like a second home to me. It was nice, in the midst of all that I had been dealing with, to just hang out with friends, have dinner, light-hearted conversation and be normal again. I really needed it.

I got in that night just after 7 p.m. Frankie called, but when my mother said who’s number was on the caller ID I waved her off. I just wasn’t in the mood for another yelling session. I called home and said goodnight to the kids and talked to Mike for awhile. Later I called Sara and talked for a few hours then spent the rest of the evening on the comedy news group catching up. It was down time I thoroughly needed.

Sunday, was relatively uneventful. I went to church with my mother and James, then went with them and had Chinese food for lunch. After lunch I went to the nursing home for a couple of hours, then came back and spent the rest of the day studying at my mother’s. Frankie called again that evening, but I waved off the phone call. The only thing of any significance, that happened, happened that night.

James went to work and my mother actually asked if there was anything on TV that “I” wanted to watch. I said actually, because my mother and I both happen to have a mutant male remote control gene, which requires that we not only hold the remote and control what is watched on whatever television is in our vicinity, but we must channel surf during all commercials. This was during the time when HBO ruled Sunday nights. The current Sunday night show of choice for Mike and I was “Six Feet Under”. I had been afraid that I would miss that week’s episode, so I jumped at the chance to watch it. There was a little more than a half an hour before the show started and I used the time to talk the show up to my mother. By the time it started, my mother was actually excited to see it. If you’ve never seen the show, the short version is, it is a dramady about a family who runs a funeral parlor. Each episode starts with a death, which facilitates a lot, if not most of that episodes’ storyline. So, the show starts with a guy walking into the home gym in his upscale apartment. The guy turns on a television which is playing hard core porn. Oh god NO! The guy then proceeds to hook a belt to the top of his weight bench and his neck at the other end and then begins to masturbate while hanging. Somehow, he slips and ends up hanging himself and dying in the act.

I couldn’t even look at my mother. “I” wanted to die. At the end of the scene, I got up and said, “I’ll watch the rerun at midnight,” as I headed for the guest room.

She said, “Yes, I think that would be best,” as she changed the channel.

On Monday, while I was at the nursing home sitting with my grandmother, one of the nurses came in and said that the business administrator needed to speak to me before I left. I went to the business office and met with the administrator. When I went in, she expressed her condolences. She again expressed her shock at the fact that the nice little old woman that she knew had been so unpleasant that she had only had two visitors, (me and my cousin Robert) the entire time she had been there. She asked how my father was doing. I gave her a quick run down of the last six months. When I finished, she shook her head and said, “No wonder you’ve lost so much weight. I don’t know how you’ve had time to eat.”

“Yeah, I’ve found the key to weight loss…stress!  I’m writing a book, I’m gonna call it, “Lose Your Mind Lose Your Ass, A Care Givers Guide to Weight Loss!” We both laughed. Then I told her about my father having a “lady friend” already, just like my grandmother had her little boyfriend.

She laughed and said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we used to lose your grandmother all the time. She never got out of the building, but we would go to find her, mainly in the evenings and would have to search all over the place. We always used to find her in one of the male resident’s beds. This one time, when she went missing, we found her as we went to put one of the gentleman down to bed. We tried to get her out of the bed, but she wouldn’t move. Finally the gentleman got fed up and got in the bed on the other side and told her “Fine, if you’re gonna stay you need to take off your clothes.” Ms. Caynon jumped out of bed and ran out of the room.”  Oh lord. Well at least my grandmother’s not a hooch , she’s just a tease. We laughed for a long time. Finally, we got down to why she had wanted to see me. First of all, she gave me paperwork to fill out to allow the nursing home to call in the coroner. While I filled out the paperwork, she asked me for the information on the funeral home that I would be using. I gave her the name and number to contact them to make arrangements for transportation. While I continued filling out the papers, she called Stone Brother’s to make contact beforehand.

From the moment she said hello, I could hear her struggling. She tried explaining who she was and why she was calling but didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Whoever she was talking to, seemed to be stone-walling her. I motioned for her to give me the phone. She told the person on the phone that she had Wilester’s granddaughter who wanted to talk to her. I took the phone and said “hello” and Liz’s voice came back saying hello to me. I explained why the woman was calling and asked what needed to be done. Liz made a comment regarding the “white woman” who she had just been talking to and then told me to just have the nursing home people call whenever my grandmother passed and it would all be taken care of. I thanked her and hung up. Oh my gosh, that was so embarrassing! What is wrong with this woman? How do people function in the modern world with that kind of attitude? I apologized for Liz, exchanged a bit more small talk and then left.

Later that night, back at my mother’s, Frankie called again. I figured I couldn’t keep avoiding her so I took the call. I told her that there had been no real change in my grandmother’s condition. Frankie took this as a sign that if she had gotten the surgery, she would have been fine and started yelling as much at me. I sat listening to her yell at me for quite sometime. Finally, my mother, who was sitting across the room from me and could hear Frankie’s yelling, said, “Give me the phone.” I cut Frankie off and told her that my mother wanted to talk to her. I got up and handed my mother the phone. My mother took the phone and walked out of the family room and into her bedroom. After about ten minutes, my mother came back into the family room and hung the phone up. She told me that Frankie would not be calling anymore. That she had told her that I would call her when there were any developments and that she needed to back off. Yeah Mom! Thank you for having my back! I didn’t care if it made me seem like a 10 year old sicking their mommy on a bully. All I knew was that I was glad she had done it. It was a bit of a bonding moment between my mom and me. We spent the rest of the evening watching TV, drinking wine and chatting pleasantly.

Tuesday was more of the same. I got up and dressed and went to the nursing home. There was a small change in my grandmother’s condition. She was beginning to deteriorate physically, ever so slightly. I sat with my grandmother for a few hours and then went back to my mom’s to study.

While I was studying, Jessie Gibson called. She said that my grandmother’s friends and sorority sisters had raised some money for the burial. I told her thank you and asked her how she wanted to handle getting it to me. She then informed me that the people who had donated the money did not trust me to have the money and had given it to her. Oh, that’s nice. What the hell do they think I’m going to do with it, run off and NOT bury my grandmother!?!? I told her that it was fine; she could give the money directly to Mr. Gaines at the funeral home. She apologized several times. I told her not to worry about it. I guess I couldn’t blame them, after what my father had done with my grandmother’s money and the fact that most of them probably did not know me, or only knew of me from the stories my grandmother had told them over the years.

When my mom got home later that evening, as she came into the room, I was telling James what Mrs. Gibson had told me earlier. My mom asked me what was going on. I recounted what had happened. She immediately became incensed. She started talking about how rude the people were and wanting to call them to confront them about it. I tried to calm her down. I told her that I understood, at least a little bit, why the people were acting the way they were acting. I tried to explain to her that yes I agreed with her that the people were being somewhat rude, but at the same time, with all that had gone on, I could see how they would be a bit gun shy about me. As I was saying all of this, my mom cut me off with, “Oh, so you understand why these people are being like this do you? Well, who’s the one getting a C in Psychology!?!” What the fuck!?!? Where the hell did that come from? I went rigid. I don’t think I could have been more shocked if my mother had slapped me across the face. My mother began speaking again, telling me why she thought these people needed to be called, when I cut her off.

“You know what, Mother, that was totally uncalled for.”

“I was just trying to get you to understand…” my mother began, sounding offended.

“I know exactly what you were trying to do.” I said curtly, cutting her off again. “You were trying to make me listen to you. To make me agree with you and you felt the need to try and belittle me to do it. You’ve done it all my life.” I continued with restraint.

“I did no such thing. I…” she began again. This time I cut her off with an index finger in the air.

“You know what, I’m a 34 year old woman and I will not be spoken to like that anymore by you or anyone else. If you weren’t my mother I wouldn’t even still be sitting here after a comment like that.” I sat there fuming, glaring at my mother; every childhood issue between us bubbling just below the surface.

My mother opened her mouth to say something else in her defense, when James, who had been sitting quietly watching this exchange chimed in. “Delores, enough.” He said calmly. My mother looked at him as if she were going to say something then decided against it. She lit a cigarette and grabbed the book she had been reading during the week from the arm of her chair and began to read. I gave James a “Thank you” look, got up and went into the guest room. She did it again. Just when I thought she had my back with Frankie, she pulls the rug out from under me. I mean, there was no other reason to say something like that, except to try and mentally muscle me. I can’t wait until all of this is over. I am so done with all of these people in my family. I’m done. When my grandmother dies, I will never come back to this state ever again. There is nothing here for me. I hate this place. I am so done. I spent the rest of the evening chatting online with friends.

Whether my perception of what happened was correct or not, I still don’t know. I do know that from that moment on, an emotional door closed inside my head.

Wednesday’s routine remained basically the same with a couple variations. I got up and went to the nursing home. I spent time talking to the Hospice nurse. My grandmother was still slowly deteriorating; her kidneys were beginning to shut down. When I left the nursing home, I went to visit my friend Heather’s mom, Sue, and her new husband. I stayed and visited for about an hour, then went back to my mother’s and studied.

That evening, Mr. Gaines and the preacher from my grandmother’s church came to the house to finalize the funeral arrangements. I was struck instantly by the preacher’s appearance. He was a relatively tall black man of around 6’2”. I couldn’t tell exactly how old he was. If I had to guess, I would say he was in his late forties, early fifties; the Gerry Curl made his age deceiving. Who still wears a Gerry Curl? He was dressed in a bright green pin-striped zootsuit, topped off with multi-colored, wing tipped, patten leather shoes and gold rimmed glasses. I think he may have even had gold teeth, but I can’t be sure. My mother ushered the two men into the living room and immediately took over. I tried several times to enter the conversation, but both the preacher and my mother acted as if I wasn’t in the room. Finally I just sat back and listened. It wouldn’t have been an issue, if the funeral arrangements had been the main focus of the discussion. Instead, my mother spent most of the time talking about how my father had financially done her wrong during their marriage and comparing it to what he had done to himself and my grandmother. Yes, everything she said may have all been true. I just didn’t feel that during an appointment for funeral arrangements was the time or place for it. But I kept my mouth shut. As the meeting seemed to wind to an end and both men got up to leave, the preacher stopped on his way out the door. He turned to James, my mother and me and said, “Ya’ll need to come out a check out my pimp wagon.”

O…K…

We followed the two men out and he did indeed have a pimp wagon. In the driveway was an old Cadillac that could have been the toast of MTV’s “Pimp My Ride.” The Cadi was a metallic gold color, and lowered with gold rims and white wall tires. While we stood there “admiring” his ride, he opened the doors to show the interior. I didn’t see inside though, I had positioned myself behind James to try and keep everyone from seeing me laughing. We stood outside while the preacher sang the praises of his ride for about ten minutes, then he and Mr. Gaines left. Once back in the house, my mother went into her bedroom for something while James and I went into the family room. As we both sat down, I turned to James and asked, “Is a preacher supposed to have a Pimp Wagon?” We laughed for a long time about that.

Years later, I swear I saw this same man in the documentary, “Pimps Up Ho’s Down.” He was wearing a lime green suit and the same glasses, standing in front of his “pimp wagon.”

I called Mr. Gaines the next day to apologize for the bashing that was going on during the previous day’s meeting. Mr. Gaines just laughed and said, “I know your mother.” And we left it at that.

The week continued to drag on. On Thursday, I did finally get a call from Ralph Flowers, the lawyer for the Investment Corporation. He told me that since I did not have the deed to my grandmother’s shares, the best he would be able to do would be to send a donation toward her funeral. I thanked him for his help and hung up.

Friday and Saturday were more of the same. Up, visit my grandmother, back to my mother’s to study. This is the woman who wasn’t going to last through the night TWO weeks ago. I told the doctors she wasn’t going anywhere fast.

Sunday, I had planned to do my normal routine, up, nursing home, study, but my mother insisted I go to church with her and James. So, of course, I passive-aggressively over slept. I woke up to two things happening simultaneously; my mother knocking on my door asking if I was getting up for church and my cell phone ringing. I yelled, “Hang on,” to my mother as I rolled over and answered my phone. It was the Hospice nurse on my cell phone telling me that my grandmother had just passed away. Apparently, one of the nursing home nurses went in to check on her and noticed her breathing had gotten very shallow. The nurse had called in one of the Hospice nurses and while they checked on her vitals, she just stopped breathing. The nurse talked about how sweet my grandmother had been and how much they had all enjoyed caring for her. I zoned out. Wow, it’s over, just like that.

I told the nurse that I would come up to the nursing home as soon as I got dressed to fill out the final paperwork and handle anything else that needed to be done. I then got up and told my mother that my grandmother had died and that I was going to head up to the nursing home. My mother still insisted that I go to church since, “She’s passed away. There’s nothing you can do for her now. The paperwork can wait.” Wow! That’s where I get that from. I thought about arguing the point, especially since I didn’t want to go to church in the first place, but decided to keep my mouth shut and just go.

While I was getting ready for church, I called Mr. Gaines and left him a message to get the funeral process rolling and that I would call him after the service. I then called Mike to tell him that my grandmother had finally passed away and happy birthday. How weird is this… Happy Birthday, my grandma’s dead.

After church, I went to the nursing home and filled out paperwork for the coroner to do an autopsy. I didn’t get to see my grandmother; she had already been picked up. So I went back to my mother’s. At my mother’s, I made phone calls to Mrs. Gibson, Ralph, Carla and numerous other relatives and lastly, Frankie.

When Frankie answered the phone I told her everything that the Hospice nurse had told me about my grandmother’s death. Surprisingly, she didn’t really say much. I then told her that I was thinking about having the funeral on Wednesday to make sure that she and other family members out of state could get there. I asked her what day would she and her boys, Robert and Francois would be able to fly in. She told me that she wasn’t coming. What do you mean you’re not coming? After all of the grief you’ve been giving me about Mama Moore being YOUR aunt and now you’re not coming to her funeral!?!?

She said that she had fallen and pulled something in her shoulder. She said that she couldn’t get herself to the airport. I told her that I would figure out a way to get her to the airport, send a car for her, whatever it took and make sure that there was help for her at the airport and on the plane. She then said that she couldn’t dress herself for the funeral. I told her that my mother and I would make sure she got dressed and not to worry about it. Frankie began getting heated with her reasoning for not coming. Try as I might to reassure her that she would be taken care of during the trip and for the funeral, she just wasn’t having it.

I tried one final time to persuade her until she cut me off screaming, “Didn’t you hear me? I’m hurt! No one seems to care about me. No one seems to care that I’m in pain! I will not come out there when I can’t even put on a brassiere!”

Wow, hello Sybil! I stopped trying. Instead, I asked her if she would like my grandmother’s ashes. BIG MISTAKE!

Frankie started yelling that it was disrespectful to have her aunt cremated. She said the family should be able to come up with enough to bury her properly. She then said that between her, Robert and Francois that they could come up with at least five hundred dollars. I tried to explain to her the prices I had been given for all of the burial expenses and that even with five hundred dollars; I didn’t think that we would be close. She would not be deterred. We went back and forth for about twenty minutes until finally she hung up on me. I can’t wait until this is all over. I am so through with this whole family. They’re all freaking nuts.

Later that day, Francois called. I could tell from the very beginning of the call that Frankie had either put him up to it or he was at least calling to plead her case about the burial. I told him that financially, it was just not feasible to have a full burial. I then asked if he and his wife would be coming to the funeral. He said that they both were very busy with work and school and would not be able to attend. Figures. I finished by telling him that I appreciated the call, but I was doing all that could with the resources at hand. And then told him that no offense to him, but I would rather not have to deal with his mother anymore. We exchanged a strained good-bye and hung up. I had an instant message conversation with his brother, Robert, online later that evening where I was a bit more blunt. Robert and I have always been closer and for that reason seem to be able to say exactly what’s on our minds without any fall out.

The next day Carla called to tell me that she had gotten my message. She said that she didn’t think that she would be able to get back to the states for the funeral. Oh no, I am not going through this whole thing alone. She’s your grandmother too. You need to be there! I told her that so far none of our other relatives would be able to come, mostly for medical reasons and I would really appreciate it if she would be there with me. I really didn’t want to be the only family member at the funeral. I’m not sure why, I just knew I wanted someone else from our crazy family there with me to deal with the Ft. Pierce folk. Carla finally agreed that she would come. She said she would call me later with her flight info. I told her that I would come pick her up at the airport and she could have the guest room at my mother’s and I would sleep on the couch in the family room. She told me not to worry about it. She said she would rent a car and book a hotel room for herself. Thank you, thank you, thank you. SIGH. Okay, Les, it’s almost over.

The rest of the week was pretty boring. I spent most of it studying at my mother’s and fielding phone calls. Ralph Flowers called to say that he would be donating one-hundred dollars from the investment group towards the funeral and would bring it to Mr. Gaines. A few distant relatives called to say that they couldn’t come, most were elderly and had medical issues of their own. A few said that they would be sending me money to help with the expenses that I had incurred. Thank you, we could really use it. I didn’t expect to be here for two weeks.  Mike hasn’t been able to work since I got here. This is going to kill us financially. Carla called to say that she would be in Friday afternoon in time to make the viewing at 6 p.m. The coroner called to say that they had finished the autopsy. My grandmother did indeed have true Alzheimer’s. She had died of liver and kidney failure as a result of the gangrene of the intestines. Mr. Gaines called to say that he had received the donations from the people in town and that it was not enough to cover a true burial, but he would cut his fees enough so that I could have a proper funeral and then cremate her. He then asked me what outfit I would be putting my grandmother in for viewing. Crap, I hadn’t thought about that? She doesn’t have any nice clothes anymore. I’ll have to go buy her something.

I told him that I wasn’t sure and that I would call him back on Tuesday to let him know.

When my mother got home, I told her that I would need to go and buy my grandmother an outfit for the viewing. She questioned why this would be needed since I planned to cremate my grandmother. I told her that I didn’t know. My mother got on the phone and called Stone Brother’s and asked Mr. Gaines if they had any kinds of gowns or robes at the funeral home that they could put on my grandmother for the viewing and then take off afterwards for the cremation. Mother, OH MY GOD YOU DID NOT JUST ASK THAT! Apparently Mr. Gaines said no. My mother hung up, irritated. I told her that I could go shopping the next day for a dress, but my mother told me not to spend my money. She said that she would find something in her closet that she didn’t wear anymore that they could use. And that’s what we did. My mother found a black and gold outfit that no longer fit, that I do think my grandmother would have liked. It was a nice gesture, as strangely motivated as it was.

Friday finally arrived and there was an electric buzz about the day. I have never understood why that happens before a funeral. I get why there is an energy that surrounds other occasions like weddings or births. But the day of a funeral is leading up to something somber that no one looks forward to. Whatever the reason, I could feel the charge in the air as I made and took phone calls about the funeral. I started to get very nervous at 3:30. I still hadn’t heard from Carla. I knew that she was flying into Orlando, which is why I started to panic. Orlando being a two hour drive, on a good day, meant that if she didn’t land in the next half an hour, I would be going to the viewing of my grandmother alone. Please get here in time. Do not make me have to sit in a room with all of the Ft. Pierce people all by myself!

I called Mr. Gaines to let him know that I still had not heard from Carla and that I really didn’t want to start the funeral without her. He told me not to worry. He said that I could go to the viewing if I wanted to, but it was not required and was not formal. He said that since the funeral was at my grandmother’s church, it would not be a problem to push things back a bit.

Finally, a little after 4 p.m., Carla called to say that she was on the ground in Orlando and in a rental car headed to my mother’s. I told her that I would go to the viewing with my mother and James and would meet her back at my mother’s so that she could get ready for the actual funeral.

After I hung up with Carla, I got ready, and then my mother, James and I drove to the funeral home to view my grandmother. The dress my mother had given her looked nice. As I stood at the side of the casket looking down at my grandmother, I felt… nothing. Huh, I know I should feel SOMETHING, but I don’t feel a thing. No sadness, no closure, nothing. We stayed for about half an hour. In that time, a few of my grandmother’s friends came in and gave their condolences. My mother did most of the talking, while I hung back with James being quiet.

Back at my mother’s, we waited for Carla. She came in like a whirlwind, talking about what she had been doing since we had last seen each other, while getting dressed. Once she was ready, we prepared to head out to the church. As we were heading for the door, my mother said that she would ride with us. I went sort of ridged. I know it was stupid, but I just wanted to hang out with my cousin for the short car ride to the church. I must have made a face, because before I could protest, James piped in and said that since Carla and I were family, they should let us go alone. Thank you James! You so rock.

Carla and I got into her rental car and then drove to the church. Most of what we did was small talk, but I felt a small sense of relief. I was with the one other person in town who understood what being the granddaughter of Wilester Caynon was all about.

When Carla and I arrived at the church, I had a flood of memories hit me all at once. It had been years since I had set foot inside my grandmother’s church as a child. Some of the memories were good; winning the memorization of the names from the books of the bible, dressing up for service, and some of the people I had met there over the years. While others were not so good; my grandmother telling me she “Didn’t know that I could do anything” after winning the bible books challenge, being awakened for church by my grandmother hitting me with a belt, being called an “Oreo” by some of the kids because they said I “spoke white”, just to name a few. The benign feelings I had in the funeral home were quickly being replaced by old angers.

We went inside and were asked by one of the church members to hang back inside the chapel. My grandmother’s sorority sisters were holding some secret ceremony at the front of the chapel, that I guess we weren’t supposed to be a part of. When they finished, Carla and I made our way to the front pew that was reserved for family. A few of the sorority sisters came over and expressed their condolences to Carla, making mention of the fact that she looked just like her mother Beverly, while completely ignoring me. I assume that the women remembered Carla from her years living with my grandmother. She hugged several of the women as they came around. Now I know that these women know that I have been the one handling everything since my father got sick, but whatever. While this went on, I made eye contact with the only woman in the group that I knew, Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson was the mother of Cassandra, one of the children that I usually played with whenever I came to town to visit. I remember always thinking how nice and pretty she was. She had always been very nice to me. I liked visiting her home to play with Cassandra and later playing with her baby daughter Christelsi. (I have no idea how to spell that name.) I could hardly pronounce it as a kid. Everyone ended up calling her Chrissy, as I remember. I said hello and asked how Cassandra and Chrissy were doing. As she told me, I got the distinct vibe that she did not want to be standing there talking to me. She seemed nervous and uncomfortable. Wow, even Ms. Johnson? I guess it doesn’t matter. I will never see any of these people ever again after tonight. I stood there smiling as she gave me the brief run down of her daughters. Cassandra was not in town, but Chrissy was and would be at the church later for the funeral. When Ms. Johnson finished talking to me, Carla turned to us. Seeing who I was speaking to, she shouted excitedly, “Ms. Johnson! Oh my gosh!” and they began an animated conversation. I went and sat down on the pew, alone.

The sorority sisters eventually all filed out of the chapel and left Carla and I sitting silently alone in the chapel. After a time, I don’t know how long, people started filing into the chapel. People would come down the aisle to view my grandmother’s body and then turn to Carla and me sitting on the front pew as the only family members.

Time after time, the people would come over and go directly to Carla to give their condolences and engage in some small talk and then walk away. I did get a few head nods in my direction, but not one person spoke to me. Carla finally noticed and asked me what was going on. All I could say was, “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because of what Dad did and they’re mad at me for it. I don’t know. Either that, or they all hate me just like Grandma did?” She hugged my shoulder and we waited for the service to start.

The choir filed in and the music started, then the pimp preacher took the pulpit. The preacher gave a halleluiah service straight out of the movies. He started slow and built to a fevered pitch. He praised the virtues of my grandmother. He preached how her greatness and goodness was echoed by her friends, family, and the community, complete with an AMEN section provided by the choir. I have never been so angry in my life.

The more the preacher spoke, the angrier I got. It was as if with every good thing he said about my grandmother, a hundred awful things she had done over the years bubbled up to the surface. I tried hard to control the rage, but the harder I fought to keep it down the more it pushed upward. I began to shake uncontrollably with the effort. Finally, I broke down in hysterical angry tears. It was an ugly cry like nothing I have ever experienced before or since. While this was happening, I glanced over at Carla and she was doing the exact same thing. I knew her tears, like mine, had nothing to do with being sad about our grandmother’s passing. It was more to do with the fact that all of this admiration was a complete and utter sham. Carla and I spoke about it later on the car ride home. We both knew that every person in that chapel had, at some point, come to a point of refusing to deal with my grandmother and her abusive, abrasive, non-compromising ways. If these few people who had decided to make an appearance at my grandmother’s funeral had really cared about her and admired her like they were saying, then at least ONE of them would have come to the house to visit her when she became ill, or at least gone to visit her at the nursing home in the ten months that she was there. But they hadn’t and we both knew it.

When the service was over, we were all directed to another room of the church for the traditional funeral dinner provided by the church. At the dinner, my mother and James stood and talked to some of the people that they knew in town. Carla hardly made it into the room before being swept up in hugs and greetings from townspeople she had known her from her days in Ft. Pierce. I waded through the people, got myself a plate and sat down at a table by myself to eat. While I was eating, Carla brought Mrs. Johnson and Chrissy over to where I was sitting. Chrissy, who had been maybe about five the last time that I saw her, said hello politely and then stood there as I told a few stories from her childhood. The three of them were whisked away by someone after a few minutes and I sat back down to eat. Several minutes later, I heard my name being called. I looked up and saw another woman that I had known and really liked from childhood. I couldn’t remember her name, but that didn’t matter. I stood up and gave her a big hug and asked how she had been doing. She said fine and told me how sorry she was for everything that she had heard had been going on. I thanked her and we began to chat about things that had happened to people in town over the years. After the town gossip, she asked me if I was married or if I had any children. I told her yes. I grabbed my purse from the table and pulled out my wallet and flipped to the family photos that I carried. She looked at the picture and her demeanor totally changed. Her smile turned to a scowl, she looked up at me and said, “Hhm, so your husband’s white.” Before I could answer she turned and walked away.  Oh my god, get me the hell out of this backwards ass town! I don’t want to be here anymore!

While I still stood there, stunned, looking at the back of this woman’s head, Mrs. Gibson came over and hugged me. We spoke for awhile about my grandmother, Felicia, and my family, until Carla came over. Carla whispered in my ear that she wanted to go get something to eat because the food at the church was way too heavy and greasy. I told her that was fine with me. I went and told my mother and James what we were doing and went out to the car to wait for Carla, who kept getting stopped by people to talk. I sat on the hood of the car in the church parking lot and lit a cigarette, glad to be outside and away from everyone.

When Carla finally came out, we drove to the outskirts of Port St. Lucie on US 1 and had a quiet dinner at Chili’s reminiscing. After dinner, Carla dropped me off at my mother’s house and picked up the bags she had left there. We made a plan for me to go to her hotel in Stuart the next day and go to lunch.

Saturday morning, I got up and dressed and headed to Stuart. We drove out to the beach and found a little Italian restaurant and spent another quiet meal talking about old times. On the way back to the hotel, I pulled off to the side of the road at one of the many little riverside alcoves. I had on a jade ring, one of the only things my grandmother had given me in my adult life. It was a gift for my twenty-third birthday. My grandmother had called me the weekend after my birthday as Mike and I were getting ready to go out and celebrate. She said that she realized that she had forgotten my birthday and wanted me to stop by her house so that she could give me my present. I told her that Mike and I had plans, but if it wasn’t too late we would stop by her house on our way home, since it was on the way. The evening ended early, so we did decide to stop by. When we got to my grandmother’s she told me to follow her upstairs. She brought me up to her dressing area which served as her jewelry box of sorts, with random jewelry strewn all across the counter. As we walked in she said, “Pick something. I forgot to get you something.” The jade ring had been the least ugly thing on the counter that I saw. Once we pulled over, I got out of the car; Carla followed me. I took the ring off, looked at it and said, “I’ve done my duty. It’s over,” and threw the ring into the river. It’s done. At least as far as Mama Moore is concerned. Now, I just want to go home.

We got back in the car and I dropped Carla back off at her hotel room. We said our goodbyes. Carla was leaving later that evening and I was finally going home the next day. I went back to my mother’s to pack for my trip. As soon as I walked in the door, my mother started in on me about the bathroom that I had been using being messy. I didn’t even react. I was so emotionally drained. I just went into the bathroom and took all of my stuff out and put it on top of my suitcase. When I came back out, my mother asked me, “What was the matter?” What do you mean, what is the matter? I didn’t say anything. I didn’t fight with you. I did what you asked and cleaned up the bathroom. I just want to go home. I told her nothing and went into the guest room. While I hibernated in my room, I remembered that I still hadn’t heard from Sean at the consignment store. I called the store again and asked to speak to Sean. This time I actually got him. Unlike all the other times we had spoken, this time he seemed snippy. He told me that he hadn’t been able to get much out of the house. That he had sold the organ for one hundred dollars at an auction. I told him that I could come down and pick it up right then if he liked. He said no, that the store would be closing soon and he would send me the money. I asked him about the painting. He said that he hadn’t been able to sell it yet, but he would let me know when he had. He then said that he was very busy and needed to go and hung up before I could say anything else. God, I just want to put this entire state out of my head and never come back. I thought about going down to the store with James, who at a healthy 6’5” might make Sean change his tune or calling Kathleen and asking her police officer husband Bobby, to go with me, but then just decided I didn’t care enough to mess with it.

Late that afternoon, I got a call from Mr. Gaines. He said that my grandmother’s sorority sisters had called him with concerns about my grandmother being cremated. Why is everyone so freaked out about cremation? He said that they had asked him to call me and ask if I would mind if they paid the expense to have my grandmother buried. I told him of course not. That would be fine. I told him to tell the sisters that if they wanted, I would call the cemetery that my grandmother had originally wanted to be buried in and give permission for them to bury her in the plot that she had originally wanted next to her second husband, Mr. Moore. Mr. Gaines said that he would tell them and hung up. About twenty minutes later, Mr. Gaines called back and said that he had called the ladies and given them my offer, but they had said to tell me, “No. They would rather not deal with that cemetery. It was outside of town and owned by white people. They would rather bury her in the black owned cemetery in Ft. Pierce.” You’ve got to be kidding me. Get me out of the assbackwards town!

All I could say was, “Okay, whatever they want to do is fine.” Mr. Gaines thanked me and hung up.

These women didn’t even bother to ask if I wanted to be there when my grandmother was buried. Didn’t even bother to tell me where the black cemetery was. The only reason I even know where my grandmother is buried is because they put the name of the cemetery on her death certificate.

The next day, as I drove to Orlando, I felt my spirits lift the closer I got to the airport. When the plane taxied down the runway, I said one last goodbye and good riddance to the state of Florida and the town of Ft. Pierce.

Forgotten Tomorrows Crazy Todays (Ch 11 & 12)

Chapter 11

Just before Christmas, my father got a cold, which you wouldn’t think would be a big deal, but it turned out to be the start of another ongoing battle with my father.

My father came into the living room one morning, sniffling and complaining of coming down with something, I looked in my medicine cabinet (a small cabinet I set aside as such in my kitchen) to see what I could give him. He asked me if I had any Sudafed. I said I did, to which he proceeded to excitedly expound the virtues of Sudafed. I thought you hadn’t even had to take an aspirin in ten years? Later that evening as I was getting out the Sudafed to give my father, I happened to read the back of the package which said do not take if you have high blood pressure. Crap, he has severe high blood pressure. He shouldn’t be taking this. At that moment, my father came into the kitchen. I told him what I just read and said that I would go to the store the next morning to get him something else.

“I do NOT have high blood pressure! I’m as healthy as I horse. There’s nothing wrong with me!” He yelled in response.

Here we go again. “Dad, it’s not a big deal. We’ll just go to the store in the morning and get you something else. It says you shouldn’t be taking Sudafed because it could cause you to have a stroke. I don’t want anything to happen to you. They have plenty of other things at the store that you can take.” I said calmly as I put the Sudafed back into the cabinet. My father then went on for about ten minutes about how Sudafed had always worked wonders for him and he had never had a stroke and how he’d been taking it all his life. The makers of Sudafed would be proud of this life long customer willing to die rather than take something else. To try and quiet him, I started to talk about all the stuff he used to make me take as a kid. Especially this cough medicine called “666”. And it was from hell. It looked like urine and tasted twice as bad as I can imagine urine must taste. It worked in one dose, I think because when your body tasted it, you didn’t ever want the stuff in your mouth ever again. My father laughed at that and seemed to calm down. The Sudafed crisis was over. Or so I thought.

The next day when my father came out of his bedroom he seemed to be feeling fine. I asked him if he still wanted to go to the store to get some other cold medicine; he hesitated for a second and then said no, he was feeling much better. What’s up? Something’s not right. After breakfast, my father went into his room and I went to the medicine cabinet. Sure enough, the Sudafed was gone. Oh my god, he’s stolen the whole package. Now what do I do? I can’t let him take them. I gathered all my motherly strength and yelled,

“DAD, GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!”

My dad came into the room smiling happily. Okay, Les. You can do this.

“Dad, I know you stole the Sudafed out of the medicine cabinet so I’m not even going to ask you about it. You need to bring it in here right now. You cannot take it. We will go get you something else if you’re still not feeling well, but you need to bring me the entire pack right now.” I said with authority.

I think my father was so stunned that he didn’t even try and protest. He turned, went back into his room and came back with the entire package.

“Thank you. And Dad, I have little kids running around here. We cannot have you stealing medications and leaving them out for one of them to find and accidentally take, so I am going to put an alarm on the cabinet for the future.”

My father just stood there looking at me for a minute then turned around, went back to his room, closed the door and didn’t come out again until dinner. I hated doing that, but what else was I supposed to do? Later that night, Mike put a baby latch on the door and I put a small alarm on that I had bought for our windows that stuck to the side of the door so that when turned on, if there was any motion on the door it would let me know someone was messing with it. That quieted the Sudafed debate for awhile. And my father never did steal anything out of the cabinet. The only problem was, when I tried to give him his medications that night at dinner he said, “No thank you.”

“What do you mean “No thank you? Dad, you need to take these medicines, the doctor at the VA said so.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t like the way they make me…”  He said getting that evil grin again and that was that. When he got up from the dinner table that night he left his medication sitting on his napkin untouched. Great now what do I do?

I assumed that it was the anti-psychotics that were the medicines that made him feel weird. Since getting his medication from the VA, I had noticed that besides the weird sitting and staring, he did seem a bit more confused during the day and when he did get upset, it was twice as bad as before he started taking the meds. I just couldn’t be sure if that was the progression of the disease or the medication. Mike was home the next day so I tried to call the VA to speak to the doctor or a nurse about it. They were not available when I called so I left several messages, but got no response. I did finally get to speak with the social worker who said that she would have someone call me back, but no one ever did. I even tried the Alzheimer’s Association, but their only advice was to crush up the medicines and put it into my father’s food or drink to get him to take it and to talk to the VA doctor about any adverse reactions.

To be able to crush the medicines, I needed to get a pestle and mortar. Since Mike was home, my father agreed to go shopping, so we gathered the whole family and went to our local apothecary. My father seemed to really enjoy looking at all “this weird stuff” as he called it while I bought what I needed. That night before dinner, Mike and I started a ritual that would last the rest of my father’s stay. When my father went into his room, I gathered all of his medications and brought them into my bathroom, along with some old cough medicine cups and the pestle and mortar. Every night, I would grind up enough medicine for each of my father’s doses for the next day and put them into the individual cups and then run back into the kitchen, hide them in the medicine cabinet and turn on the alarm. At each meal, I would sneak his medicine into or under his food or into his drink without him seeing. Or so I thought.

Some time in January, Mike was home for the day so that I could go take an exam for school. Mike had been out of town for several days, so after the exam I took advantage of the time out alone to run some errands and see some friends. While I was out, my cell phone rang. It was Mike and he was furious. “You need to get home and deal with your father right now!” So much for my alone time.

When I got home both Mike and my father were furious and facing off in the living room. I asked what happened and Mike explained. Apparently, my father had gotten up and said that he wanted to go to the store. Mike thought nothing of it, so he said sure and had taken him to our local grocery store. In the store, my father had started talking about coming down with something and wanting some Sudafed, again. Mike tried to explain to my father that he couldn’t take Sudafed because of his high blood pressure but my father had told him that he didn’t have high blood pressure and that was just something that I had made up to try and lock him up. Mike said that he had tried to enlist the help of the pharmacist in explaining why my father shouldn’t take Sudafed, but my father kept insisting that there was nothing wrong with him. Mike said that they had gotten into a screaming match in the middle of the store when he had refused to buy the medicine for my father. My father then remembered the money I had left for him, which he had brought with him and then had insisted on buying the Sudafed himself. Here we go again! I told Mike to go take a walk or have a smoke and that I would deal with my father. While Mike was relaying the day’s events, my father had sat down in the rocker. Once Mike left, I turned to my father to try and reason with him about the Sudafed again. He started his usual loud protest about there being nothing wrong with him. I cut him off and told him again that he did indeed have high blood pressure and that I was not going to allow him to take something that could kill him. I told him that he needed to give me the Sudafed and that I would take him to the store to get him something else that would not harm him. This time he was not so compliant. He actually told me that he didn’t have any Sudafed. Geez, this is like dealing with a spoiled child. I stood there wracking my brain, trying to figure out how to get through to him. Okay, if he won’t listen to me, then I will have to get help somewhere else. “Look, Dad, I’m tired of arguing with you. You do have high blood pressure, whether you want to admit it or not. Sudafed could possibly kill you and I will not let you do that in my house. So, if you won’t listen to me, I’m going to have to call someone else to make you give it to me.”

“Fine, you call!” He said calling my bluff.

“Fine, I will, but if I do, you need to know that the thing that I have been trying to avoid might happen. These people might come and lock you up for your own good.”

“I knew it, you just want to lock me up and take my stuff!”

“No Dad, I’ve been doing everything I can NOT to lock you up but if you won’t listen to me, I have no choice.”

“Fine, you call them! They aren’t gonna lock me up! I’m not crazy! You’re just making it up.”

“Fine Dad, have it your way.”  I went to the phone and called the social worker at the VA. Luckily, I actually got through right away. I explained what was going on and asked if she would talk to my father. She said that since she wasn’t a doctor she really didn’t think that she could help. I told her that I didn’t think that it would matter; I just needed someone who seemed to have some sort of authority to tell him the truth instead of it coming from me. She still said that she couldn’t help me. Thanks! I hung up with her and called the Alzheimer’s Association hotline and explained what was going on and asked if they could help. I got the same answer. I asked if there was anything that they could think of for me to do. The woman suggested that maybe I could call Adult Protective Services. I thanked her for the number, hung up and called. I explained to the woman on the phone again what was going on and asked if she would talk to my father. She thankfully said “yes” and I held the phone out to my father. He looked at me angrily and said, “Who is it?” I told him that it was someone who wanted to talk to him. My father took the phone and listened. I watched his face change as he listened, from angry to confused, and finally frightened.

After a few minutes, my father got up and handed me back the phone and walked into his bedroom. The woman on the other end said that because I had called they would have to file a report which meant that someone would have to come out to check on my father’s welfare and that she had told my father that. As she spoke, my father slowly came back out and handed me the unopened package of Sudafed and sat back down in the rocker defeated. I thanked her and hung up. As I went to put the phone down and the Sudafed away, my father began again with his “I knew you were trying to lock me up” tirade. I don’t know what happened, but I snapped.

I rounded on my father and started screaming at the top of my lungs. “God damn it, Dad! For the last time, I am NOT trying to lock you up! If I were trying to lock you up I could have done it weeks, hell, months ago with all the crazy things you’ve been doing!”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“Oh, really Dad, there’s nothing wrong with you! Then why do I have to go into your room every day to try and figure out where you’ve peed!” My father looked at me in shock at that statement. “Yeah Dad, I know you’ve been peeing in your laundry and in the trash can and in cups and hiding them all over your room at night. Where the hell do you think all those cups go to every day!? Why do you think I wash out your trash can everyday!? Why do you think I do your laundry everyday!?!  If I was trying to lock you up, that alone would give me grounds to do it, but I haven’t because I’ve been trying to take care of you like you did for grandma!”

“You’re grandmother hated you.” He replied without much conviction.

“You know what Dad, just by you saying that to me every time you get mad let’s me know that the Dementia, yes Dementia, is affecting you! Because you wouldn’t say something so mean if you were in your right mind! I know grandma hated me, so you might as well stop saying it! It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are sick! I know you don’t want to admit it, but you are! You can’t find the bathroom during the day which is right across from your room. At night, you get locked in a room that has no lock on the door. You insist that you’ve taken showers upstairs in my house when my house only has one floor! You insist that my house has thirteen bathrooms and that I’m moving them! Someone in their right mind wouldn’t say something like that! I know that you want to go home to Florida, but Dad there is no home to go back to.” I said a bit calmer. “Grandma’s house has been sold. You live here now. I know it’s hard to have to rely on someone when you’ve always taken care of yourself, but Dad, that’s what I’m here for. I’m your daughter. I love you and I’m doing my best to take care of you. You asked me to come and get you because you were hallucinating and scared. You have got to stop fighting me and let me help you.” I finished sitting down on the floor in front of the rocker. I sat there breathing heavily for a few minutes not knowing what else to do.

All of a sudden, my Dad started talking softly. I looked up and saw tears slowly running down his face. I had never seen my dad cry before. I leaned over and put my hands on my dad’s lap and listened to him talk. I don’t remember exactly what he said. A lot of it was mixed up and confusing. He talked about people telling him to put “Mother” into a nursing home and how he hadn’t wanted to because he had promised her that he would never do that. He talked about “Pops” and when he died. He talked about when he thought he started to lose his memory. He said that he remembered hearing a “pop” inside his head and that’s when things had started to get mixed up after that. He talked about Elaine and Florida and the Elks and a bunch of other stuff. As he spoke, he had a far away look on his face. Tears continued to stream down his face as he spoke. I sat there, with my hands on his lap, quietly listening to everything that he said.

I don’t know exactly how long he spoke, but I know it was at least an hour. While my dad talked, Mike came back into the house at some point. I waved him off with a look and he went to pick the boys up from school and daycare. When my dad finished talking, I held his hand and we sat there in silence, not looking at each other until the mood was broken by the sound of the kids coming into the house. I got up and got my dad a tissue. As my dad wiped his face and blew his nose, I sat on the edge of the fireplace hearth next to the rocking chair and spoke to him quietly. I told him that since he was having trouble finding his way out of his room at night, I would call the VA and ask them to send us a portable toilet to put into his room. I told him that I would remind him every other day about taking a shower. I also told him that Mike and I had talked about looking for a bigger house for all of us, so that we weren’t so crowded and maybe, we could even get a place where he would have a bathroom of his own in his room. The last thing I told him was that I would do everything in my power to take care of him like he took care of his mother and not have him locked away anywhere ever. He said “okay” and “thank you” and got up and went into his bedroom and closed the door.

After my dad left the room, I went to the store and bought some Coricidin HBP. Later that night, when I put my dad’s medicine on his napkin he said, “Don’t you need to put it in my drink?” So much for my stealth tactics. Again things at home got quiet, for awhile.

During the quiet period, after the Sudafed incident, I had a brief medical scare of my own.

I was standing in the kitchen talking to Mike and was hit hard by a sharp pain on the left side of my chest, followed by heart palpitations and shortness of breath. I called my doctor who told me to come in immediately. I was put through a battery of tests; EKG, x-rays and blood work. Once the results were in and after talking to me, my doctor said that it was stress. Ya think!?!? He prescribed Clozapan to help me sleep and told me to try and take it easy. Yeah right.

Chapter 12

Throughout the time that my father was with us, I had to deal with problematic phone calls. Some, like those from Elaine, Sam and my friends were easily dealt with. Others, like those from family members and the doctors at my grandmother’s nursing home, were not so easy. Eventually, I had to tell everyone I knew not to call my home phone at all and to call my cell phone and leave messages. I kept my cell phone off most of the time during the day and would check it each night or whenever I got the chance during the day. It was a pain in the ass, but it helped to keep the peace.

The calls from the nursing home staff were more than difficult, they were strange, to say the least. Because of my father’s increasing paranoia, whenever I talked on the phone or brought up the subject of his mother, I had to pretend to be talking pleasantly to a friend whenever they called.

It has long been a habit of mine, when I get a phone call to go into the garage and talk and smoke. Number one, it keeps me from being rude and bothering anyone who may be inside trying to watch television and number two, it keeps me from being rude to callers  by yelling at the kids to keep it down every few seconds. To my father, my phone departures were evidence that I was hiding what I was saying because I was talking about him and trying to lock him up.

Before I made the ban on home phone calls, every phone call was a potential day ruiner. I tried to reassure him by taking phone calls in front of him, but in his increasing paranoia he still insisted that I was talking about him and trying to lock him up, even when he could hear my phone call from start to finish. Sometimes the phone calls sent my father straight out the door on a mission home and other times it just made him angry and hard to deal with. Either way, it was a no-win situation for me, so I tried not to talk on the phone at all.

From the time the entire ordeal with my father started, I had to field at least weekly, if not daily, calls from my cousin, Frankie. Sometimes the calls were benign inquires into my grandmother’s health and welfare. Other times the calls turned into arguments about how I was handling things.

One really unpleasant phone call with Frankie was a result of a call from one of the doctors at my grandmother’s nursing home. I was sitting on the couch watching TV with my father when my home phone rang. I jumped up and grabbed the phone. When I said hello the person on the other end identified themselves as one of the doctors from Mariner. He said that he was calling to discuss a serious medical issue that had come up with my grandmother. He told me that they had found a softball sized lump in my grandmother’s breast and he wanted to know if he had permission to do a full mastectomy. I responded the way that I always did to phone calls when my father was in the room… I acted as if I was having the best, happiest, most light heartedly, fun phone conversation ever. The poor doctor must have thought I was a complete lunatic as I laughed and giggled through our phone call. I had an entire fifteen minute conversation with the man about the removal of my grandmother’s breast sounding like a teenager drunk for the first time. Not only did I have to sound overly pleasant, I also had to be as vague as possible about the calls subject matter because my father became aggressively agitated when his mother was mentioned. Thankfully, on this day my father had been in a good mood and had not reacted at all to the phone call. About an hour later, I told my father that I was going to the bus stop to pick up Dayton. I pocketed my cell phone as I left with Ian. Once around the corner, where my father couldn’t see me, I called the doctor back to explain why I sounded so inappropriately cheerful during our last conversation. He told me that he had thought the call had been a bit odd and was relieved when I explained myself. Is this how the rest of my life is going to be? Talking to people on the phone sounding like I’m stark raving mad to appease someone who is losing their mind? I wonder if Dad went through this with Mama Moore?

Later that evening, after Mike came home from work, I went into the garage and called Frankie to tell her about the phone call from the doctor. When I told her that I had given the doctor permission to do the full mastectomy, Frankie went ballistic. She started yelling at me that there was no reason for them to take the breast of an 89 year old woman. When I tried to explain the size and severity of the tumor, she continued to yell at me for allowing the doctors to experiment on my grandmother. She said that doctors just wanted to cut up black people for no reason and that she knew that there was no reason for my grandmother to have to have surgery. What!?!? What the hell are you talking about!?! The doctor said that the tumor was so large that it was starting to break through the skin! I can’t just let that go, that’s got to be painful! Doctors just want to experiment on black people!?! What year is this!?!? I mean, I know it has been done in the past, but you’ve got to be kidding me!?!?

I tried for over an hour to reason with my cousin, but she just kept yelling at me until I couldn’t take it anymore. I went into the kitchen and flagged Mike down and asked him to call me from one of the other phones so that I could tell Frankie I had a call and hang up. She and I would have many similar phone calls throughout this ordeal.

Since I was now taking over the guardianship duties for my grandmother from my father, I had to make a few calls on behalf of my grandmother. Some of these phone calls proved to be weird and difficult. The first weird one was regarding paperwork detailing my grandmother’s funeral arrangements. My grandmother had planned for her passing, in detail, and left instructions on the funeral home and cemetery that she wanted. I first called the funeral home and asked for the owner, Mr. Gaines, whose name was mentioned on the paperwork that my grandmother left. The woman on the phone was extremely brisk with me when she asked what it was in reference to. I explained briefly who I was and why I was calling. I figured that since this was a local Ft. Pierce funeral home that I knew had been around for quite some time, once I mentioned my grandmother’s name, the woman on the phone would get more pleasant. That didn’t happen. She continued to curtly answer my questions as vaguely as possible until I got frustrated and finally asked her to please have the owner call me. Mr. Gaines did finally call me a few weeks later and thankfully, was pleasant and very helpful. I also called the cemetery that my grandmother had indicated she wanted to be buried in, which was also where her second husband, Mr. Moore, was buried. Everyone at the cemetery was very nice, but they did inform me that there was a problem. My grandmother had been making payments on her burial plot, but my father had stopped them and taken back the payments for everything except the actual plot of ground itself; the headstone and support services for burial were no longer paid for. GREAT! Now what do I do? I thanked the gentleman that I had been speaking to and decided to deal with it later.

After forwarding my grandmother’s mail to my house, I received paperwork from an investment group that my grandmother had been involved in. On the paper, it named Ralph Flowers as the legal representative for the group. He was an old school buddy of my father’s. I felt the same about Ralph as I did about Sam; I didn’t really like him much. I have heard some not so great rumors about Ralph from my father and other people in the years since meeting him that I won’t go into. I only bring it up to say, I didn’t trust him. I’ve known Ralph since I was in high school, when my parents hired him to be my lawyer after I got into a fight in school, with a teacher’s daughter. It was NOT my fault! She started it! Okay, so I hit her first, but she called me a whore and she wasn’t even a relative. I got charged with assault after the girl ended up getting twenty-seven stitches above her eye. I couldn’t help that the girl couldn’t fight her way out of a wet paper bag. And hey, she fractured my pinkie knuckle with her face. I should have sued! That incident is also when and why I got kicked out of school for good, for being a threat to the faculty and the student body, according to her mother… All 105lbs of me.

I called around trying to find Ralph’s number but it was unlisted. I eventually called my mother and she found the number for me. I called Ralph and left several messages over several days before I finally got a hold of him. I explained to him what had been going on and told him that if my grandmother was owed any money, it would need to go to the nursing home. Ralph asked me if I had my grandmother’s deed to her portion of the investment group. I told him, no, I didn’t know anything about it. He told me that my grandmother was indeed owed money monthly from the investment group but since I did not have her deed, he wasn’t sure what to do. He then said that he would look into it and call me back. Several months later, Ralph sent me a letter saying that since I did not have the deed that there was nothing that he could do. What do you mean nothing you can do? Why can’t you send my grandmother HER money in the nursing home? What does that have to do with the deed? You said yourself that she is owed money. I tried calling him several times after that, to ask exactly that, but I never got an answer or a return phone call, so I dropped the issue. I did call the business office of the nursing home and told them what happened and left it at that. I had enough on my plate to deal with.

In December, I got a phone call from a lawyer in California saying that my grandmother’s brother had died and left her part of his estate. I explained what was going on regarding my father, who was my grandmother’s true legal guardian. She told me that it would take her awhile to calculate exactly how much would be going to my grandmother and in the meantime I should get a lawyer. Get a lawyer,? For what? I’m not my grandmother’s legal guardian. The money is just going to have to go to the nursing home. I hope that it’s not too much, because if it is, this is going to be a nightmare.

One of the other things that happened repeatedly during this time, which astounded me, was neighbors who would continually have their kids come to my house after school for me to baby-sit for hours. The even crazier thing about this was that the two culprits of this should have known better. The first was my new neighbor across the street after Arlington and his wife moved away. The wife was a nurse and the husband was an educated man. You would think someone working in the medical profession, even WITHOUT me telling her the things that my father was doing whenever I saw her, that she would not a.) Put her son in a situation to possibly be witness to the kind of unstable behavior that my father was capable of and b.) Would not give her neighbor another burden to deal with when I already had enough on my plate. I finally had to say as much, after 1) A month of her son coming to my house everyday, directly after school and staying until 6:30 or later without ever asking if this was okay. Let alone saying thank you or ever offering  to maybe take MY kids out of the house to help ME out just to be nice! and 2) My father went on a verbally offensive rampage one day while her son was at my house. The other neighbor, who was two doors down from the first, for some strange reason decided to pick up where the first had left off. The husband was a business owner and not home a lot, so I’m not sure if he knew that his son was at my house with a potentially volatile person. The wife on the other hand was a teacher and knew very well, from talking to me, what was going on in my house. I spoke up after about two weeks with this one. I was beyond the point of niceties at that point. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE!

Black + White= Something else (written 5/5/07)

The other day my oldest came home after taking the TAKS Test.

(I have no idea what the hell TAKS stands for other than The Administration Kills Schools.)

Apparently when you take the test the school puts your race on the form. On my sons form they have him down as Hispanic. WTF!?!?!

I have been fighting a battle with the Texas school system since first putting my oldest in school. On the registration forms they have a place for race but I believe the only options are: Caucasian, Black (Not of Hispanic Decent), Hispanic, Asian, and Native American. That’s it.

When registering my kids I always check both Caucasian AND Black, because that’s what they are. I’m black (shut up) and Mike’s white. Every year the school calls me to INSIST that I pick one race and I always refuse. My children are not ONE race they are two and I’m not picking between the them.

We always go around in circles until I tell them that if they feel the need to pick one they can go right ahead but I will not. I will not disrespect Mike by excluding his input into his children and choosing Black. And I’m definitely not going to disregard the 60lb weight gain during two different summers (both kids were born in July), stretch marks and many hours of natural (HA!) painful child birth on my part by excluding myself and checking Caucasian. I shouldn’t have to.

If I checked my calendar correctly, I believe we are in 2006 not 1706 when one drop of black blood made you unclean and considered black. (And no I’m not saying being black is unclean).

In response to my defiance, every year the school system has picked the race of my sons for them. It changes from year to year. Last year my oldest was considered white while my youngest was black. Which I thought was crazy enough, but now Hispanic?

Can someone please explain how African, Native American, English, German, Scottish, Irish and French translates into Hispanic?

What was even better was this all went down on May 1^st. Maybe I should have let him stay home from school that day to protest with his new people.

I just wonder what they’ll be next year?

If you talk to either one of my kids they’d opt for Japanese.

Do I let him take the day off to celebrate with is people?

Forgotten Tomorrows Crazy Todays (Ch 9 & 10)

Chapter 9

Everything changed that day at the clinic. From here, the story gets a little crazy and to tell it properly I may have to jump around a bit when it comes to the chronology.

The day after the clinic fiasco, my father started taking off from the house on a regular basis.  Instead of the two of us walking to the corner store to get my father his daily paper, he informed me that he would go by himself. What could I say, “No, you’re not allowed to walk 3 blocks all by yourself, you might get lost,”? After the previous day, there was no way I was going to try and say that. So when he said he wanted to go out alone, nervously, I let him. As soon as he walked around the corner, I called the local police department to ask what to do. They informed me that there was legally nothing that I could do. Being that he was a grown man and had not been officially diagnosed with anything and since I was not his legal guardian, if he said that he wanted to go somewhere I had to let him walk out the door and go. Once he left the house, I needed to wait a “reasonable amout of time” for him to return, then and only then could I call the police. I asked what a “reasonable amount of time” was, exactly. They told me that they could not tell me that, all they could say was that I needed to wait a “reasonable amount of time” for my father to get to wherever he said that he was going and come back. Thanks, that was a lot of help. And what do I do if he says he’s going “HOME!?!?” What is a “reasonable amount of time” to allow him to try to walk to Florida?

I hung up the phone and waited. About twenty minutes later my phone rang. I picked it up. It was a man named “Bob” who said that he was a friend of my father’s who lived in Miami. He said that my father had just called him from some store and asked him to come and get him right now because I was holding him hostage. I thanked the man for the call and explained briefly what was going on. He told me that if my father called again, he would let me know and we hung up. I never did find out how Bob got my name or number, but I guess it didn’t matter. About ten minutes after I hung up with Bob, I was sitting outside on the bench in front of the house when my father came walking back around the corner, panting. He even had a newspaper, but that was not always the case. It made me so nervous to have him walking to the store by himself, but I had no choice.

In the beginning weeks of my father doing this, I informed my neighbors of what was going on. Everyone was very gracious and promised to watch out for my father, should they see him walking. I even gave the owners of the convenience store the heads up with my cell phone number in case they saw him heading away from the direction of my house. On one occasion, a couple of my neighbors told me that they had met my father in the street as they walked home from the park. They said that my father had been headed in the wrong direction, if he was headed to the store, and they pointed that out to him. They said as soon as they spoke to my father, he had seemed frightened and ran away in the direction of the store. Well at least they redirected him. Another neighbor, Roy, told me that my father had actually asked him to either take him “home” or let him use his phone. Roy said that he had brought a phone out to my father, but once he got it he didn’t seem to know what to do with it, and handed it back with a mumbled thank you. There were several occasions when my father definitely didn’t return in a reasonable amount of time, and I had to call the police to bring him back. Those days were hell after he was brought back. Loss of memory or not, once my father got angry, he stayed angry for long periods of time, days sometimes. When that happened, he was awful to be around, at least for me.

You see, once my father had decided that I was trying to lock him up, and I was the enemy, he also decided that Mike was his buddy and only ally.

The Saturday after the clinic appointment, we decided to try and get everyone out of the house. So, we took a trip to the local mall to do some window shopping. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. My father was walking briskly, talking nonstop about all the stores and people that we passed. The kids were running around playing with one another and Mike and I were talking, watching it all. As we passed the Hallmark store, my father said that he wanted to go inside to buy Elaine a birthday card. We all went in and I pointed my father in the direction of the birthday cards. After about twenty minutes, my father came over to me with a card in one hand and a wad of cash in the other and said he was ready to leave. I pointed him toward the cash register and started to round up the kids. Instead of going to the register, my father went and put the card back in the rack. I walked over and asked why he wasn’t going to get the card. He looked at me with this melancholy face and told me that he couldn’t buy the card because he didn’t have enough money. I went over to the rack and took the card back out and told my father to give me his money and I would take care of it. He immediately perked up, shoved the wad of money into my hand and walked to the front of the store. The birthday card was $3.50 plus tax. I pulled a five dollar bill out of the thirty-seven dollars my father had given me, got my change and headed out. He had no idea how much money he had! How is that possible? I watched him buying things just last week on his own in several different places. Has he gotten worse or does this come and go? My gosh, if I hadn’t gotten to him when I did, would he have been completely helpless on his own by now? We continued walking through the mall, as we did I pulled Mike aside and told him what had just happened. We both agreed that we would need to keep a much closer eye on my father from now on.

On the way home, my father made a comment that would become a ritual on all future outings. Just west of our subdivision, there was a small trailer park. As we drove past the park, my father commented that there was never anyone outside in the park. This seemed to really amaze him. He talked about it all the rest of the way to the house and brought it up every time we passed by it, which was a lot. The trailer park became an extension of the road kill conversation from Florida, which popped back up about two weeks into my father’s stay.

That evening, after the kids went to bed, another couple of issues surfaced, one of which would prove problematic during my father’s entire stay with us. We were settling in to watch a boxing match on TV when my father asked about going out and doing something that night. I told him that with all the expenses that we’d had since going to get him, we really couldn’t afford to go out. My father countered with saying not to worry about money, he would pay for drinks. Where is he going to get money to pay for drinks? Even if he had the money he didn’t even think he could afford to pay for a $3.00 birthday card earlier this morning.

I then explained that besides the lack of funds, there was no way that we could find a babysitter to come over on such short notice. A look of non-comprehension washed over his face. I guess it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. Since the kids were in bed, I assume he had forgotten that they existed. The confusion then turned to a pout, but he sat down and began watching the boxing match.

A few minutes into the match, my father asked me if there was any beer or rum around. Mike and I looked at each other in a panic. Although I had seen my father drink in Florida, I wasn’t at all sure that it was a good idea to let him drink at all, or at least not until after we had an official diagnosis of his condition and its severity. I thought briefly about lying to him and telling him that we didn’t have any alcohol in the house, but I knew that there was a bottle of rum and a box of wine sitting in plain sight on top of the refrigerator. Even if he believed me, there was the chance that he would see them later on, which would cause a problem. Instead, I was honest with him. I told him that we were concerned about his drinking before finishing the medical check ups, hoping he would understand and agree. That didn’t happen. What happened was that he became incensed. He stood up and started shouting that there was nothing wrong with him, that he was in better shape than both Mike or me and how the doctor (nurse) at the clinic had said so. I tried calmly to explain that he still had some exams to take for his memory and that it would probably be better, for his sake, if there were no outside influences on their outcome from substances like alcohol. Blah…blah…blah…

Sometimes I can be a bit windy. I could see from my father’s face that he shut down. I’m sure all he heard was “Wah…wah…wah….wah…” from the Peanuts cartoons. As soon as I finished, he started yelling again about his great physical condition and how he didn’t need any help. He finished by telling me to mind my own business as he slammed himself back down in his chair. Mind my own business!?!? If I had minded my own business you would be out on the streets or worse!

I knew it was the Dementia talking and not really my father but it took me a few minutes before my intellect and my emotions caught up with one another. Pick your battles, Les. It’s not like he was a tea-totaller before you got to him. I got up, went into the kitchen and made my father a rum and coke. When I came back into the living room and handed it to him, he was still breathing heavy from his outburst.

“What’s that?” He asked me angrily. When I told him all traces of his anger vanished. He said “thank you”, took a big sip and then started talking excitedly to Mike about the boxing match.

This see-saw of emotions is enough to drive anyone crazy. I need a drink. I went back into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine and made Mike a rum and coke. When I handed Mike his drink, I could tell by his look of gratitude that he had been thinking the same thing I was. The rest of the evening was pleasant, albeit peculiar.

The boxing match that we were watching was a live broadcast from Las Vegas on HBO. Throughout the three bout program, my father kept commenting on how he had already seen each bout and then would give and inaccurate blow by blow of what was about to happen each round. Mike tried correcting him several times, explaining that my father could not possibly know what was about to happen because the fight was happening live as a we watched it. My father would not be swayed. In between each round, my father would go into detail, explaining how one of the guys was the better fighter and how he remembered that in the next round he would knock out his opponent. The bell would then sound to start the next round and even if the exact opposite of what my father had just predicted actually transpired, my father would hoot wildly and then exclaim how he had been right all along. Mike finally gave up trying to explain it and just nodded and “MMm Hhhmmed” a lot through the rest of the program. God help him if he becomes obsessed with the lotto. He’ll think he’s won every week.

After boxing was over, my father got reminiscent and began telling stories about his past. He began by telling stories about living in New York. He told us about hanging out with Wheeler and his impressive stereo system. He told us how he used to go and watch the Macy’s Day Parade floats being blown up in Manhattan early in the morning before the parade. He went on to tell us stories about living in Illinois and how he had loved going into Chicago to party. He then went on to tell us about going to Jamaica with Jerry Farrell; dancing in the clubs and vacationing in the villas with Delores. Most of these stories would have been nice to listen to, if it weren’t for the fact that Wheeler was my uncle, I’ve known Jerry (or as I call him “Uncle Jerry”) since I was four, Delores is my mother and I had been on most of the outings he was describing and he didn’t seem to remember any of that. Who does he think I am?

The other disturbing thing was that some of the stories did not paint my father in a very nice light; fights, women, crazy things that I think may have been illegal. I won’t go into detail, out of respect for the other people in the stories, but suffice to say, my father did some things that I really didn’t need to hear about from anyone, let alone in a bragging tone from his own mouth.

Thrown in with the stories, my father would talk about how he was going to start his detailing business up again as soon as he got his benefits started. He talked about how great he had been doing before and how much money he would be making and how great it would be. How are you going to start a detailing business? Dad you can’t even figure out how to buy a birthday card. There is no way he’s going to be able to figure out how to manage his own money. Look what he did with all Mama Moore’s money. What do I do? This is a nightmare. I tried not to dwell on it and finally went to bed.

The next morning, I got up and started doing laundry for the family. When my father got up, I went into the kitchen to make him breakfast. While I was cooking, I asked him to gather up his dirty clothes and throw them in a pile on the floor so that I could separate and wash them with everyone else’s. He seemed to understand and said okay. Once my father was finished eating, he got up and went into his bedroom and closed the door. While he was in his room, I got down on the floor and started separating the rest of the family’s clothes into piles. After about ten minutes, my father walked slowly back into the living room and sat down on the loveseat, without bringing any clothes with him.

What’s the deal? He must have forgotten what I asked him to do. I got up and went into my father’s room to get the clothes myself. There was a pile of clothing lying in the middle of the floor, as if he had attempted to gather them up and then just stopped. I went in, gathered the clothes in my arms intent on adding them to the piles on the floor in the other room, but stopped. I realized that the clothes were soaking wet, not just a little damp, but sodden almost to the point of dripping. It must have been my mother’s instinct that took over because I bent my head down and smelled them. “OH MY GOD, IT’S URINE!”

My father peed all over his clothes! Gross! When did he do this!?! I know he has trouble finding the bathroom during the day. Could he be getting lost in his room at night? Okay Leslie, just act like there’s nothing wrong. Aaawww, that’s why he wouldn’t bring the clothes out… This is so awful! I walked out of the room with the wet pile of clothes in my arms as if there was nothing wrong with them. I took the entire pile of clothing into the laundry room and threw them all into the washing machine together. I tried not to look at my father as I walked through the living room so that my face would not give away the fact that I knew his secret. Immediately after putting the clothes into the wash, I went into my bedroom to take off my now wet clothes and shower. Mike came in and asked me what was wrong and I told him about the clothes. Neither one of us knew what to do. We both felt so bad but didn’t know how or even if we should address the situation. In the end, we just decided to act like nothing had happened and hope that it was an isolated incident. It wasn’t. After that day it became a regular occurrence. Not only did he continue to urinate on his laundry, but he started urinating into the small trash can in the room, piling papers on top to hide it. Then he started taking cups into his room at night, urinating into the cups and then hiding them all over the bedroom. The bedroom began to smell awful, but I didn’t know how to address the situation at all. Instead, it became a game I played with myself every morning after my father got up. While he ate breakfast, I would go into the bedroom and play “Guess Where I Peed” and hunt for the latest receptacles.

I know it sounds awful, but it was a horrible situation that had to be dealt with. This is how I cope; I joke and/or laugh at the horrible, the uncomfortable, the tragic, inappropriate or not.  And, inappropriate laughter would become my best friend for a very, very long time.

On Monday, my father and I went to the Social Security office for his appointment to start his benefits. My father was pleasant and did his best to answer all of the administrator’s questions, turning to me for help whenever he got stuck. Everything was going fine, until we got to the portion of the appointment when the administrator asked my father to sign the papers making me the payee on his account. As soon as it was suggested, my father physically stiffened in his seat. He became defensive and began angrily questioning why this needed to be done. Thankfully, the administrator seemed to have dealt with situations like this before. She calmly explained to him that having me put on his account as payee would insure that if anything were to happen to him there would be someone, me, who would legally be able to handle his finances and make sure that he got his money. My father still seemed to be agitated and began his usual protest regarding his superior health. I cut him off, reminding him that this was his idea and something he had asked me to do for him in Florida. I told him that if he was still unsure we could take the paperwork home and he could read it and then sign it later. My father agreed to this and went back into the lobby while the administrator and I finished filling out the last of the paperwork. Once alone with the administrator, I explained the circumstances which brought my father to Texas and my home. She expressed her understanding and told me all that could be done to make sure that my father did not do to his finances what he had done to his mother’s. What she told me was that with me as the payee on his account, the checks would have my name on them as well as my father’s. My father would be able to deposit and cash checks if need be, but I would be the primary person responsible for the maintenance of his Social Security. She then explained that once I became the payee on the account, I would be able to start a bank account for my father and then the checks could be directly deposited into the account. She also told me that since my father currently did not have a bank account in his name the first check would be sent to my house around December. To prevent my father from getting his checks and trying to take off or losing it, she put a notation on my father’s account to have the checks mailed in my name only until I could get direct deposit started. The only catch was that even if my father signed me over as his payee, I still needed a physician to fill out paperwork with his official diagnosis stating my father’s inability to manage his own affairs. She gave me the paperwork for the physician and all the other paperwork for my father to fill out. I got my things together thanked her and left.

In the car, my father asked me for the paperwork that I received from the administrator. Luckily, I thought to put the physician’s form in my purse. I handed my father the paperwork he was supposed to read over and sign which contained the date and the amount of his first social Security check. I was really afraid he might lose it but what could I do? On the ride home my father talked nonstop about how he couldn’t wait to get his money so that he could go home. How am I going to convince him to sign this paperwork? He doesn’t think that there’s anything wrong with him but if he gets a hold of this money, God only knows what he’ll do. He couldn’t even figure out how to pay for a birthday card. How in the world can I let him try and manage rent, and utilities, and food and whatever else? I don’t want him to think that I’m trying to take advantage of him. He’s paranoid enough. But truth be told, we’re going to start needing to get some help if he’s going to continue living with us. He’s eating us out of house and home. Our grocery bills have doubled, and I’m sure our water bill has too, having to do laundry daily, and I hate to see our electric bill.

I’ve heard many stories about people having to care for elderly or infirmed relatives, but I guess I never paid attention to the expense of it all. I don’t ever remembering hearing how the experience can nickel and dime you to the poor house. Between our phone bills, plane tickets, car rental, my father’s utilities, groceries, clothing and whatever else, it was starting to put a huge financial strain on our household. My father’s Social Security would help to ease that burden, but how to make him understand? I decided to leave the issue alone for awhile and hope for the best.

I was able to get my father to fill out the paperwork and let me send it in a couple weeks later, when he was having a particular good day and had forgotten he was mad at me. Several months later, he re-found what was left of the paper work and it became another battle of, “You’re trying to steal my money and lock me up.” I finally quieted the argument for good by stealing the rest of the papers out of his bedroom one day when he took off.  Out of sight out of mind.

On the way home from the Social Security office, my father asked me to stop at a bookstore so that he could get something. I stopped at the Barnes and Noble near the mall a few miles from my house. Once inside, my father wandered around the store looking confused for awhile. I walked behind him unsure of what he wanted to buy. When I asked him what he wanted he tried telling me, but couldn’t find the correct words. The most I got out of him was a lot of hand waving and a bunch of, “You know the thing, the thing.” After about ten minutes of this frustration he finally came up with, “The thing so you can put things down.”

“Do you want a date book? Is that what you’re looking for?” I asked. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said triumphantly.

Now, whether or not that is what he had actually wanted I’ll never know. But once we found the aisle with the calendars and date books it seemed to make him happy. My father picked out a small date book and took it to the register, I paid for it and we went home. When we got home, my father took his paperwork and date book and disappeared into his bedroom until I called him for dinner. After dinner, my father disappeared again into his bedroom without saying anything to anyone. After getting the boys down to sleep, Mike went into the bedroom to work on the computer while I went into the kitchen to do the dishes.

Since going on the road doing stand up, I had fallen into the habit of working out my comedy routines in my head and out loud; to myself. I know there have been times that I’ve looked like I had mental problems as I drove down the road or walked through a store talking to myself. As I did the dishes, I was doing it again; working out comedy bits about the recent events.  I turned around to get one of the dirty pans off the stove and ran smack dab into my father, who had been standing almost on top of my heels. HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING THERE!?! AND HOW LONG HAS HE BEEN STANDING THERE!?!? I jumped about ten feet off the ground in my head but managed not to scream or react outwardly. And the Oscar goes to…

“Are you the last one here?” my father asked concerned.

“No Dad, Mike is in the bedroom on the computer.”

“Oh,” he said flatly walking over to the table and taking a seat. “Do you need me to wait and walk you out when you’re done?” he continued as if he hadn’t heard me. What? Walk me out? Where does he think we are?

I got my answer, sort of, when he spoke next… “Are you all closed up or can you still sell beer?” “Um, we don’t sell beer here, Dad. I can go get you some if you want,” I replied trying not to sound as confused as I really was.

“No, no, that’s okay. Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself? You don’t need me to wait ‘til you lock up?”

Aw, he thinks this is some sort of restaurant or bar or something. But who in the world does he think I am? “Yeah, Dad. I’m sure I’m okay. Would you like me to get you something to eat or drink?”

“No that’s okay if you all are closed.” He said sadly and with that he got up and slowly walked into his bedroom.

We had many more nights like that.  My father was stealth, like a cat burglar who didn’t steal. I would be standing in the kitchen doing something, turn around and there he would be, just standing there looking at me.  The exchange was always the same; he would ask if I was alone and no matter my answer, he would ask if I wanted him to wait to walk me out and then he would ask if I sold liquor. It was as sweet as it was sad and creepy. Strange thing was, if it happened after he and I had had a particularly bad day, it would drain the tension of the day completely. The next day whatever had angered him would be forgotten. Another weird experience was what happened every time I washed the kitchen floor. I’m not sure why, but no matter what time of day it was, whenever I scrubbed the floor, my father and I would have a similar interaction.

The first time it happened it was in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday several weeks after my father arrived. I’m old school when it comes to cleaning vinyl and tile, which means that I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. My father came out of his bedroom and sat in the rocking chair which was in the living room directly across from the kitchen. He sat there, rocking, watching me for awhile and then said, “Do they make you do that?”

I looked up and said, “Do what, Dad?”

“Do they make you do it like that?” he asked again, a peculiar look on his face that was a mixture of concern and confusion.

“No, Dad, they don’t make me. I think it’s just easier.”

“HHMM.” He said nodding and that was it.

Another residual from the clinic incident was that my father would no longer sit anywhere in the living room, except the rocking chair. Before the blow up, he would sit on the loveseat mostly, sometimes the couch, but now, as if in protest, he would not sit anywhere but the rocker. You wouldn’t think that something so small would mean anything, but that rocker became an indicator of my father’s mood for the day. When things were fine, my father would come in, sit in the rocker and rock happily or placidly. I learned to tell if my father was angry by how he sat in the rocker. If he was angry, instead of sitting down immediately, he would move the rocker, sometimes inches, sometimes feet, and he would not rock. He would sit stock still and glare at me.  It was as if in moving the rocker he was taking the only control of his world that he could through that wooden chair.

My father started to do something else that I later found out was a classic Dementia symptom. He started dressing like a homeless person. He would come out of his bedroom regardless of the temperature inside or outside, dressed in his rain coat and wearing a hat. He then started layering his clothes inappropriately. He would come out of his room wearing two and three dress shirts on top of one another, sweating profusely, but acting as if this were perfectly normal.

My father also became obsessed with different things that he saw on television. The first things he became obsessed with were commercials for different products that he decided Mike needed. The one I remember most was a mulching riding lawn mower. It was a behemoth of a thing. I don’t think we could have fit it in our garage had we bought one, but my father insisted that it was good and Mike needed it. Then my father got fixated on getting a cell phone. The cell phone obsession actually caused one of our worst days. I was in the kitchen doing something while my father was sitting in the living room watching television. He came around the corner and announced that he wanted a cell phone. I told him okay, meaning to placate him, and went back to what I had been doing.

My father turned and went into his bedroom and came back about five minutes later wearing his overcoat and said, “Okay, let’s go.” I was totally caught off guard. I hadn’t realized he wanted one that instant. I explained to my father that we didn’t have the money to buy him a cell phone right then because besides the initial charge of the phone itself, we would have to pay for a monthly phone plan. The look of frustrated non-comprehension I had come to know so well washed over his face. He didn’t respond, instead he turned and slowly walked back into his room, only to emerge five minutes later saying he wanted to go to the store and get a paper. Mike ended up having to go and find him about two hours later when he hadn’t come back. He had walked all the way to the grocery store that day.

The next obsessions were television shows themselves. The first TV show that my father became enamored with was “Alias”. My father saw a commercial for “Alias” one evening while we were watching nothing in particular. Midway through the commercial, my father had excitedly started telling us all about the show and how great it was and how “she would change outfits all the time and solve crimes!” For days, anytime a commercial for “Alias” came on my father would sell the show animatedly. He was so excited about the show that Mike and I decided that we would make sure to watch it with my father the next time that it came on. The night finally came for “Alias,” we told my father it was about to come on and then we sat and watched. My father couldn’t follow what was going on and didn’t seem to realize that it was the show he had been talking so much about. We would have forgotten all about the show except for the fact that my father was still obsessed. The only problem was he thought every show other than “Alias” was “Alias”. Anything we watched, other than the news, that had some sort of drama in it became “Alias”. My father and I watched the movie “Erin Brockovich” one afternoon together. He spent the entire movie saying things like, “Look, she’s gonna change into some sexy outfit now,” and “See how she figured out who the crooks are.” I know it wasn’t his fault, but it became incredibly annoying. To this day I can not look at Jennifer Garner without getting irritated.

The next show my father became obsessed with was “24.” FOX had started putting full page ads in the newspaper announcing its preview. My father read everything he could on the show. If Mike was at work, as soon as he came in the door my father would pounce, telling Mike something else new he had read or heard about this new show. Luckily for Mike, his business seemed to pick up substantially almost immediately after my father moved in, so he was away from home for days at a time. I’m still more than a little suspicious about that. VERY convenient! The night finally came for “24”. With the kids in bed, the three of us sat down to watch it. Mike and I were immediately hooked (and are to this day); my father on the other hand could not follow the storyline. He was also very confused by the stop watch timer that is displayed before and after commercial breaks, explaining the timeline for each show.  He spent most of the show asking “What are those numbers for?”  Then FOX really messed with our household, because the first week that “24” was on, at least in the Dallas market, they replayed the first episode daily. The problem came the next week. Although my father could not follow the show when he watched it, he was still obsessed with the idea of it coming on and could not understand that it no longer came on everyday.  I think I spent several hours for several days showing him online, in the paper and in the cable guide that “24” was ONLY on one day a week.

Something else my father started doing, or I should say not doing, was bathing. I don’t know if it was because he became self-conscious about me washing the shower curtain daily or what started it, but whatever the reason it ended up becoming a real problem. The first time it became an issue was about a month or so into his staying with us. My father was sitting in his usual spot in the rocking chair when my oldest walked past him and said loudly, “Eeeww what’s that smell?” Now I had noticed that my father had started to have body odor, but with all the unanticipated blow ups between us I didn’t want to make an issue out of it. Okay, if Dayton notices it, it’s got to be really bad. I’m going to have to say something. Me telling him isn’t going to cause my father to flip out at all… Ugh! Can I quit now?

So I gathered all my courage, walked up close to my father, touched his arm and said, “Um, dad you haven’t showered in awhile and it’s starting to be a little noticeable.” My father immediately went on the defensive and started yelling. “Yes, I have. I took a shower today.”

“No dad you haven’t.” I said patiently.

“Yes, I did,” he said jumping up out of the chair, “I took a shower upstairs.”

“Dad we don’t have an upstairs.” At that, my father just looked at me confused. I gently told him that my house was only one story and showed him where his bathroom was. He just followed me mutely looking confused. I asked him if he’d like me to start the shower for him and he said yes. While I started the shower, he went into his bedroom came out with his pajamas in his hands and went into the bathroom. After his shower, he went directly to his bedroom and did not come out.

On other occasions, the more common theme was after telling my father that he needed to shower, he would insist that he had tried to shower but the house had thirteen bathrooms which we kept moving around on him in the middle of the night. On those occasions, I would have to take him by the hand and walk him through the house to prove that: a) my house only had one floor, b) my house only had two bathrooms and c) the bathrooms did not move. It was exhausting.

The saddest of these times happened just before Christmas. Mike, the kids and I were putting up the decorations while my father sat in the rocker and watched happily. We had asked my father if he wanted to help, but he said, “No, he was good.” While trying to put up lights, Mike realized that he needed to go to the store to get more bulbs. When he told me this, my father chimed in and said that he wanted to go. To me, this sounded great. It would get my father out of the house with supervision and since he thought Mike was his buddy, he should have a good time. Before Mike left the house, I went into our bedroom to get something and Mike followed. He pulled me into our bathroom and told me that my father hadn’t showered again and smelled really bad.  I guess after awhile I had gotten used to his smell and hadn’t even noticed. I knew that I should say something, but he was having such a nice time, I didn’t want to ruin it, so I begged Mike to take him anyway. Mike reluctantly agreed. My father looked so happy to be going as he followed Mike out into the garage. Mike, on the other hand, looked like he was being sent to the gallows. The contrast was actually kind of funny. When Mike and my father got back, Mike motioned me into the garage. He said that it had been so bad in the car that he had had to keep all the windows down the entire time; it was in the high 30’s that evening. Needless to say, I fought the shower battle the next day.

Another thing that would guarantee a bad couple of days was a call from Elaine. A couple of weeks after my father’s arrival, Elaine started calling weekly to speak to him. I figured since she had been his girlfriend and was his last tie to Florida, I didn’t have the right to cut her completely off from him. I always answered the phone when she called and would take the phone out into the garage and tell her what had been happening lately before giving the phone to my father. The calls always seemed to perk him up, for a bit, but then they always seemed to throw him into “I want to go home mode,” after which we would endure several days of him being angry and having to call the police to bring him back to the house.

The worst Elaine call day, was actually the first really bad take off from the house incident. It was a really hot weekend afternoon in October. Elaine called and spoke to my father for about a half an hour, after which time he had come out of his room, set the phone down and went straight into a tirade about me holding him captive and wanting to go home. After a long while of trying to reason with him and calm him down, my father had stormed off into his bedroom. Several minutes later, he came out dressed in his over coat and hat and said he was leaving. As usual, we had to let him go, but this time I knew he didn’t plan to just go to the store, so about five minutes after he left I sent Mike after him in the car. Mike followed my father as he walked up our street, past the convenience store and out of our neighborhood. I assume he was headed to what was home, in his mind.

Mike followed my father for several hours, calling me periodically to let me know what was going on. Mike pulled up beside him at one point and asked him if he wanted a ride, but my father had refused and kept walking. Mike hung back and continued to follow him for hours, until my father ended up at another convenience store several miles from my house. Mike called me as he hung back and watched from inside his car across from the store as my father went inside and then came out and got into a truck with someone.

“He’s doing what? Who is this person!?!? Oh shit, hang on let me call 911 on my cell phone!” I yelled when Mike told me this. Oh my god! This person could be a nut. God only knows what my father said to him. Who picks up perfect strangers in stores now a days?

The 911 operator answered the phone and I explained as quickly as I could what was happening.  She asked me where my father was now, at which point I told her to hang on while I asked my husband, who I was talking to on my home phone as he was following my father in his car. I relayed what Mike told me, which was that the truck and my father were heading north toward the highway. At the access road to the highway, the person driving the truck stopped and my father got out and started walking west down the east bound shoulder of the highway.  I told all of this to the 911 operator and told her my husband was going to head west and get on the highway headed back east to try and intercept my dad, at which point the operator asked me, “Can you give me a description of what your husband’s vehicle looks like?” HUH, a description of my husbands vehicle?

I told her my husband was driving a white Ford Explorer. She then asked, “Can you give me a description of your husband and what he’s wearing?” What the hell are you talking about? Why are asking about my husband? Why aren’t you asking about my father, THE MAN I CALLED YOU ABOUT WHO HAS DEMENTIA!?!? “My husband knows who he is and where he is!” I yelled into the phone. “Don’t you want a description of my father? The one I called you about? He’s the old black guy, walking down the highway the wrong way, in 90 degree heat in a hat and over coat!”  I don’t know what she said to me next because at that point, I could hear Mike talking to my father in my other ear through the house phone. The four hour walk apparently had worn my father out sufficiently enough for him to accept a ride home from Mike. I told the 911 operator that my husband had my father and hung up with both of them.  My father came into the house sweaty, breathing heavy, but still angry with me. He went directly to his bedroom and I didn’t see him again until the next morning.  He wouldn’t even come out for dinner.  I called Elaine that night and told her what had happened and also told her that I didn’t think it was a good idea that she speak to my father anymore, at least for awhile.  She agreed and continued to call occasionally to check on him, but never spoke to him again.

Another big blow up, which surprisingly did not lead to a flight to freedom attempt, came as a result of my father’s VA medical visit in November. Actually, things started to flare up the night before the appointment. Since my father was so adamant about his perfect health and his needing no help, I decided not to tell him that the VA had called with his appointment until the day before. I don’t know if it would have mattered if I had given him the two weeks notice that I was allowed or not. I do know that his reaction the night before the appointment, when I told him we were going to the doctor in the morning was not good. The only things that somewhat calmed his protests were the fact that I had the date of the appointment in writing and the fact that Mike said that he was going to go with us. So my father went to bed in a huff and woke up in the same apprehensive, agitated state.

The morning of the appointment, Mike got Dayton off to school while I made breakfast for Ian and my father. Once they were done, the four of us headed to the VA Clinic in Ft. Worth which was about twenty minutes from my house. When we got there Mike, Ian and my father went and found seats while I went to the reception desk to get paperwork to fill out. When I came back to the seats, my father seemed to be in a better mood. He was people watching and talking off and on to Mike about people in the room. It took several hours before my father was called back to the exam room. When his name was called, we all got up to go with him. The nurse stopped us as we went back and asked why we all were going with my father. I panicked for a half a second as my father looked at her and then me, confused with a hint or suspicion on his face.  I recovered quickly and told her that there were a couple of question we wanted to ask the doctor. That seemed to satisfy her and we all continued back to the exam room. Okay, I’m going to have to figure out a way to get the doctor or at least the nurse alone before they see my father and explain what’s going on.

Once we got my father situated in the exam room and on the table, I said that I needed to go to the restroom, excused myself and left the room. Once out of the room, I found the nurse that had brought us back and quickly explained everything that had been going on with my father. I then showed her the paperwork from the Social Security office and asked her if she would relay all of this information to the doctor before he saw my father. She said that she would have the doctor talk to me privately before he saw my father. I thanked her and went back to the exam room. About fifteen minutes later, the nurse came back into the room and said that the doctor wanted to see my father alone first for the exam and that when he was done we could come back into the room. Mike and I looked at each other, a little puzzled, but said okay, gathered our things and Ian and left the room. When we were out in the hall, the nurse directed us to another exam room to wait for the doctor. The doctor came in and I explained again what had been going on since I first spoke to my father in September. I told him about his not knowing my mother, losing his home, the way he had been living, the urinating in his bedroom at night, his paranoia, what happened at the other clinic and his reaction to it, his taking off from the house, everything. I then gave him the paperwork from the Social Security office. He said that he understood and that he would fill out the paperwork if he deemed my father to be mentally unstable. Thank God. Finally someone who understands and knows what they’re doing.

The doctor told us to stay in this exam room and after the initial physical exam, he would have the nurse come and get us. A little while later, the nurse opened the door and said we could go back in. We went back into the exam room where my father was sitting pleasantly on the exam table with his shirt off, talking about nothing in particular to the doctor. When we came back into the room the doctor turned to me and said, “So I was told you had some concerns about your father’s health?” WHAT? What are you asking me this now in front of him? Did you not listen to anything that I told you? How paranoid he is…How he thinks there’s nothing wrong with him…How he didn’t even want to come here!!!!???? What are you doing to me!?!?

“Um, yeah, well he’s been having some trouble with his memory,” was all I could think to say. The doctor then asked my father a series of questions about the date, the current president, his name, my name, the war, and a few other things. After every question my father would look at me as if waiting for me to either help or just answer for him, as I had been doing since getting to him. I avoided his glances and acted as if I wasn’t paying attention to force him to try and answer the questions himself. The only question he got right was his name and he actually had difficulty getting that out. Wow, he doesn’t even know my name. He thinks I took him from New York? He doesn’t know anything about the war? When he’s not mad at me or taking off, that’s all we do all day is watch the war coverage. What does he remember?

When the doctor was finished asking his questions, he told my father that he could get dressed. He then told us that we could wait out in the lobby for my father and left the room. That’s it? He didn’t say anything to him!?!? He didn’t tell us anything!?!?. Mike and I looked at one another and went back into the lobby. After a couple minutes the nurse came out into the lobby and said, “Mrs. Martin?”  No. “Yes,” I said as I got up and walked toward her. Okay, cool she’s going to tell me what the doctor said and give me the Social Security paperwork.

As I got to the hallway where the nurse was standing, my father came walking down the hall just as the nurse said, “Your father was just diagnosed with Dementia.” My father and I froze simultaneously. I stood there bouncing back and forth from confusion to fear as my father’s bright expression instantly changed to dark anger. What the hell are these people trying to do to me? Did they tell my father he had Dementia before he came out here? What kind of way is this to tell someone, yelling in a hallway without telling us what to do next!?!

“Um, I guess, the doctor didn’t actually say anything to me after he saw my father.” I answered not knowing what else to do. The nurse then spotted my father. She handed me the Social Security paperwork then she turned to my father and handed him a cup and a bunch of papers and said, “Okay Mr. Martin, take this cup and fill it in that bathroom and then give it to the woman at that counter, then when you’re done, go over there and get your prescription filled.” And then she turned and walked away. What!?!? How could she give HIM his prescription and paperwork!?! What am I supposed to do now?

We walked across the lobby to where the nurse had pointed for my father to fill his sample. Mike, Ian and I sat down while my father walked over to the counter and stood there. After standing there for several moments he came back and sat down next to Mike. A few minutes later he leaned over to Mike and asked him what he was supposed to do. Mike told him he that the needed to go into the bathroom and give a urine sample in the cup and then pointed to the bathroom to our right. My father said “thanks,” got up and walked into the bathroom. After about three minutes, he came out holding the still empty cup looking confused. I got up and went to him and explained exactly what he was supposed to do. My father looked horrified, but turned and went back into the bathroom.

The next time he came out he was holding a full sample cup but again just stood there looking confused. I called my father’s name and then told him to give the cup to the woman at the counter; to which my father actually yelled, “What woman? That big fat woman right there?”

OH MY GOD! This really is like dealing with a giant toddler. “Yes Dad. Hand it to the woman in the white shirt right there.” I said trying not to seem as mortified as I was.

We then went to the other side of the clinic to get my father’s prescriptions filled. How am I supposed to make sure he takes his medication? He’s never going to let me have it if he even lets me see it.  I don’t even know what it’s for or if there will be any side effects I might need to watch for.  God, this just keeps getting better. While we were waiting for my father to be called to get his prescription, a woman called his name from a desk in the middle of the room. When my father went to the desk the woman handed him some papers and then he came back and sat down.  “What was that all about, Dad?” I asked, trying not to sound anxious.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied smiling as he folded the papers and put them in his coat pocket. Oh great! What was that? Are these people all fucking stupid? How do you diagnose someone with dementia and then just hand him all kinds of crap without telling his family who is sitting with him anything? They finally called my father’s name and he went and got his prescription.

While my father was getting his prescription, I went to the woman at the counter who had given my father the paperwork. I quickly explained my situation and asked if she could give me a copy of whatever it was that she had given to my father. She said sure and went into another room to make me a copy of the paperwork. I stood at the counter waiting for her to come back and grabbed some pamphlets on applying for benefits. While I stood there looking over the pamphlets waiting, my father came walking up with Mike and Ian following behind. The woman came out of the room and handed me the paper work IN FRONT OF MY FATHER! Are all of these people mental!?! My father looked at the paper then turned to say something to Mike. As soon as my father turned his back I folded the paperwork that the woman had given me and stuck it into my purse. As we left the clinic my father rounded on me and said angrily, “What was that she gave you?”

“Just some papers on getting you benefits,” I replied blankly.

“Give ‘em to me, they’re mine!” he demanded.

“Okay.” I said and proceeded to pull out the pamphlets I had taken from the counter and held them out to him, leaving the real paperwork in my purse. He snatched the papers out of my hands and sped up his walk out the door. Being sneaky as a kid really does come in handy later in life.

Once home, my father went into his room with all of his papers and his medication and didn’t come out until dinner. When my father came out for dinner, he seemed to be in good spirits. He sat at the table talking pleasantly to Mike and the kids. After dinner, he asked for a rum and coke, so I made him one and he spent a late evening watching television and talking happily to Mike. I spent the entire night trying to figure out what to do in my head. I knew if I asked my father to see the medication and paperwork he would just brush me off or say no “It’s mine” as he had earlier.  I went into the bathroom to look at the papers that the woman at the front counter had given me. They were just a reminder to my father of his next appointment to the clinic the next month. I also looked at the paperwork that the doctor had filled out for the social security office.  All he did was sign the form and mark ‘yes’ under whether or not he felt that my father needed someone else to manage his money.  What the fuck? There’s no diagnosis on here!?! They’re not going to accept this. Am I not speaking English all of a sudden? How am I going to find out what’s going on. I mean the nurse said that he was diagnosed with dementia, but what does that mean? What are we supposed to do? I’m going to have to go back up there alone and get a copy of all of his records. But when am I going to be able to get out of the house to do it? Mike goes out of town again in the morning for like a week and I can’t wait that long.

I got my answer the next day. Up until now, my father was usually up when I woke up or woke up as I was getting Dayton ready for school. Maybe because he had a few drinks the night before. I don’t know, but I heard neither hide nor hair of my father as I got Dayton ready for school. He still wasn’t up when I got back from school, so I decided to take my chance and go back to the clinic after the paperwork. I gathered Ian up, set the alarm and left.

The VA clinic is about a twenty-minute drive from my house, without traffic. I made the drive in fifteen. I have got to get in and out of there quickly and make it back home before he wakes up. If he wakes up and tries to go somewhere and realizes the doors are locked and the alarm is set, all hell is going to break loose.

I ran into the clinic and went to the registration desk and explained why I was there. The woman at the desk directed me to the clinic area where my father had been seen the day before. I went to the desk and explained to the man at the counter why I was there. He told me to have a seat in the lobby and when someone was free they would get to me. I hesitantly carried Ian to the lobby and sat down. Okay people, I don’t have much time. After about fifteen minutes, I went back up to the desk to try and explain my urgency. Again, the man told me to have a seat and as soon as someone was free they would talk to me. I reluctantly went back to my seat to wait. Okay, I haven’t even seen him talk to anyone. I can’t sit here all day. I let another ten minutes go by and went back to the counter to plead my case. I tried as nicely as I could to get across to the man that I could no longer afford to sit and wait and explained again that I had someone with Dementia at home asleep. Now the man had not been very pleasant from the beginning, but this time he was down right nasty. He told me that it was not his problem and that the doctors and nurses were very busy and I was just going to have to wait probably until someone took their lunch break. What!?!? Not your problem!?!? Excuse me, if you hate your job and don’t want to have to actually DO something. I need help and I need it now! I can’t sit here until noon waiting on someone with my father home alone! I need to talk to someone and I need to talk to someone NOW and I’m not budging until SOMEBODY gets me what I need! I tried to be nice but…Alright, old man, it’s on!

I proceeded to yell everything I had just thought, and more, at the top of my lungs standing at the desk until a nurse finally came out and asked if she could help me. Thank you! I explained to her why I was there, and then explained my haste and reason for going nutty buckets. She apologized for the wait and told me she would take the paperwork back to the doctor and would personally make me copies of everything my father had gotten. Five minutes later, she was back with everything I needed. I thanked her and left. It’s a good thing I have no shame. If I hadn’t gone apeshit in there, there’s no telling how long I would have had to sit. I hope my father hasn’t woken up yet!

I drove home just as fast as I had driven to the clinic. When I pulled into the driveway my heart fell, the house alarm was screaming loudly. In my head the bells and sirens changed to Michael Buffer’s voice from HBO boxing. All I could hear was, “Let’s get ready to RUMBLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLE!” Oh god, this is NOT going to be pretty.

I pulled into the garage with a lump the size of a medicine ball in the pit my stomach. Ian and I went into the house, I turned off the alarm, told Ian to go watch TV in my bedroom and waited for what was coming. As I rounded the corner from the kitchen to the living room, I saw my father sitting in the rocking chair stock still, wearing his hat and trench coat.  Oh, shit!

“You okay, dad?” was all I could think to say.

“You’re not gonna keep me locked in here.” He said in a low voice without looking at me.

“Dad, I’m not trying to keep you locked in here. I had to go out and you were sleeping so I set the alarm.”

“I’m not crazy! You’re not gonna lock me up like mother. I have rights,” he continued his voice now rising.

“Dad, I’m not trying to lock you up. If I left the house with anyone home sleeping I would have turned on the alarm. If someone tried to break into the house, the alarm would keep them out.” I said trying to sound even. Yes, I had wanted to make sure that my father didn’t leave the house, but I was telling the truth; if I left the house with anyone else sleeping I would have set the alarm. I just hadn’t given my father the code to turn it off. As we had this exchange, the phone rang. It was the alarm company wanting to know if everything was okay. Damn it! This means he just tried to leave the house. If the damn guy at the VA had just gotten me someone when I first asked, we wouldn’t even be going through this. He would have never known I was gone. I told the woman everything was fine, gave her my codes and hung up. When I came back from the kitchen after taking the phone call, my father got up out of the chair and headed for the front door.

“You’re not gonna keep me locked up in here.” He said again.

“Dad, I’m not trying to.”

“Then let me out. I wanna get out of here.” He said.

Damn it! I have to let him go, but god knows where he’ll go this time and I’m alone with Ian. I can’t go chasing him. He’ll never get in the car with me if I do. “I don’t need to let you out, Dad. You can just walk out the front door,” I replied as nonchalantly as I possibly could.

“Good,” he said and headed for the door. I stood in the living room watching my father fumble with the door for a few minutes, then went and opened it for him. He mumbled an irritated “thank you” and walked out the door. I followed him out and asked him where he was going. He looked at me darkly and said, “I’ve got it covered.” Then he turned and walked away. Crap! Now what do I do? Do I call the police? What is a reasonable amount of time to wait for him to come back from “Out of here”?

While my father was gone I took the opportunity to look at the paper work from the clinic. The doctor had written his diagnosis as: Moderate to advanced stage Alzheimer’s like Dementia with delusions, mild Apraxia, beginning Aphasia, Exophthalmos (bulging eyes), Anemia, severe Hypertension, Paralysis Agitans, Depressive Disorder and Urinary Tract Infection. The medications were for the Anemia, the Hypertension, an anti-psychotic, and something for the Urinary Tract Infection.  Moderate to advanced stage? How can he be that bad already? I don’t know what half this other shit is. Apraxia, Aphasia, Paralysis Agitans, what’s that? And he’s got anti-psychotics in the house! What if the kids get hold of one of these bottles? What if he overdoses himself? I wonder if he’s even taking these medications at all? I need to find these medications and make sure he’s taking them right. I went through my father’s room and found the medicine bottles hidden in his coat pocket. I know that they were hidden because he had taken them out of the stapled bag that the VA gave him. He hasn’t taken any of these and he’s supposed to take all of this stuff daily. I need to make sure he doesn’t get hold of these and have an accident. I need to hide them.  How am I going to get him to take it?

When I was done hiding the medication in a cabinet in the kitchen, I went to my bedroom and got on the Internet to look up all the diagnostic words that I didn’t understand. At the Alzheimer’s Association website I found out:

• Symptoms are divided into two categories: cognitive, or intellectual, and psychiatric.
• Differentiating them is important so that behavioral problems that are caused by loss of cognitive functioning are not treated with anti-psychotic or anti-anxiety medications.
• Cognitive, or intellectual, symptoms are amnesia, aphasia, apraxia and agnosia (the 4 As of Alzheimer’s).
• Amnesia is defined as loss of memory, or the inability to remember facts or events. We have two types of memories: the short-term (recent, new) and long-term (remote, old) memories. Short-term memory is programmed in a part of the brain called the temporal lobe, while long-term memory is stored throughout extensive nerve cell networks in the temporal and parietal lobes. In Alzheimer’s disease, short-term memory storage is damaged first.
• Aphasia is the inability to communicate effectively. The loss of ability to speak and write is called expressive aphasia. An individual may forget words he has learned, and will have increasing difficulty with communication. With receptive aphasia, an individual may be unable to understand spoken or written words or may read and not understand a word of what is read. Sometimes an individual pretends to understand and even nods in agreement; this is to cover-up aphasia. Although individuals may not understand words and grammar, they may still understand non-verbal behavior, i.e., smiling.
• Apraxia is the inability to do pre-programmed motor tasks, or to perform activities of daily living such as brushing teeth and dressing. An individual may forget all motor skills learned during development. Sophisticated motor skills that require extensive learning, such as job-related skills, are the first functions that become impaired. More instinctive functions like chewing, swallowing and walking are lost in the last stages of the disease.
• Agnosia is an individual’s inability to correctly interpret signals from their five senses. Individuals with Alzheimer’s disease may not recognize familiar people and objects. A common yet often unrecognized agnosia is the inability to appropriately perceive visceral, or internal, information such as a full bladder or chest pain.
• Major psychiatric symptoms include personality changes, depression, hallucinations and delusions.
• Personality changes can become evident in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. Signs include irritability, apathy, withdrawal and isolation.
• Individuals may show symptoms of depression at any stage of the disease. Depression is treatable, even in the latter stages of Alzheimer’s disease.
• Psychotic symptoms include hallucinations and delusions, which usually occur in the middle stage. Hallucinations typically are auditory and/or visual, and sensory impairments, such as hearing loss or poor eyesight, tend to increase hallucinations in the elderly.
• Hallucinations and delusions can be very upsetting to the person with the disease. Common reactions are feelings of fear, anxiety and paranoia, as well as agitation, aggression and verbal outbursts.
• Individuals with psychiatric symptoms tend to exhibit more behavioral problems than those without these symptoms. It is important to recognize these symptoms so that appropriate medications can be prescribed and safety precautions can be taken.

Psychotic symptoms can often be reduced through the carefully supervised use of medications. Talk to your primary care doctor, neurologist or geriatric psychiatrist about these symptoms because they are treatable.

• Dementia is a general term that describes a group of symptoms-such as loss of memory, judgment, language, complex motor skills, and other intellectual function-caused by the permanent damage or death of the brain’s nerve cells, or neurons.
• One or more of several diseases, including Alzheimer’s disease, can cause dementia.
• Alzheimer’s disease is the most common cause of dementia in persons over the age of 65. It represents about 60 percent of all dementias.
• The other most common causes of dementia are vascular dementia, caused by stroke or blockage of blood supply, and dementia with Lewy bodies. Other types include alcohol dementia, caused by sustained use of alcohol; trauma dementia, caused by head injury; and a rare form of dementia, front temporal dementia.
• The clinical symptoms and the progression of dementia vary, depending on the type of disease causing it, and the location and number of damaged brain cells. Some types progress slowly over years, while others may result in sudden loss of intellectual function.

Each type of dementia is characterized by different pathologic, or structural changes in the brain, such as an accumulation of abnormal plaques and tangles in individuals with Alzheimer’s disease, and abnormal tau protein in individuals with frontotemporal dementia.

…among other things.

I sat in front of the computer stewing. I don’t know how long I sat there. All too soon, Ian came in and said he was hungry. As I made him lunch, I couldn’t take the waiting anymore and decided to call the police. I set Ian up at the table and made the call. I explained to the police what had happened and they said that they would send someone to the house and that they could have the officer look for him on the way. About a half an hour later, the door bell rang. I sent Ian back into my room to watch TV and answered the door. There was an officer standing there with my father, who looked furious. I let them both in. My father stomped past me and went and sat down in the rocker. The officer told me that he found my father outside the convenience store trying to make calls on the payphone. As the officer spoke my father broke in, “She’s trying to lock me up.” The officer told him that he was sure that wasn’t the case and that I was just trying to take care of him. My father slumped down in the chair in defeat as I walked the officer out. I walked all the way out to the officer’s car. I told him that I was home alone with my three year old and was a bit afraid of what he might do. The officer chuckled and asked if my father had a history of violent behavior. I told him, “Yes kind of,” and gave him a few brief examples from my childhood and beyond: The fact that I had witnessed him beat my mother, beatings I took as a child, hearing him beat a girlfriend over the phone while her child screamed in the background, just to name a few.

When I was done he chuckled again and said that he had talked to my father on the ride to my house and he was sure everything would be fine. He told me if there were anymore problems “just call 911”, then he got in his car and left. HUH!?! Is everyone crazy or is it just me. Is that it? I’ve actually lost my mind and everyone else is sane!?! I went back into the house and put Ian down for a nap. My father was still slouched in the rocking chair wearing his overcoat not moving. When I came out of Ian’s room my father spoke, “I’m not crazy.”

“Dad, no one said you were crazy. You’ve been diagnosed with Dementia and…”

“I DO NOT HAVE DEMENTIA!” My father screamed cutting me off.

“Dad yes you do. The VA doctor diagnosed you with it yesterday.”

“I AM NOT CRAZY!” He screamed louder.

“Dad, no one is saying you’re crazy, but you do have Dementia and now we need to deal with that…”

“SO YOU’RE SAYING I HAVE DEMENTIA LIKE MOTHER, SO WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? CAN THEY CURE IT!?” He screamed as if angry, but the look on his face said something else. Looking back on it I should have lied. I should have said something comforting, I should have told him that there was some kind of hope that he didn’t have the same fate as his mother who was now totally regressed mentally back to her childhood, but I faltered.

“Well, no Dad, they can’t cure it but…”

“THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT! I’M NOT CRAZY! YOU’RE NOT GOING TO LOCK ME UP IN A NUT HOUSE LIKE MOTHER!” He said turning to go to his room.

“Dad, I’m not trying to do anything bad to you. I’m just trying to take care of you like you did for grandma.” I said following him.

“Your grandmother hated you!” He replied.

“Yeah, Dad I know that, but she didn’t hate YOU. You did your best to take care of her and that’s all I’m trying to do for you.”

“I don’t need any help. I can take care… Who asked you?”

“You did, Dad. You called me from Florida and asked me to come and get you, don’t you remember? So why would I be trying to lock you up?” At that, my father turned and looked at me with the evil smirk that I would come to learn meant he thought he had me, like he had thought of something so clever there was no way I could do anything. And then he answered, “Because you’re a whore!” WHAT!?!

“What!?! What does that have to do with locking you up?”

“You’re trying to lock me up because you’re a whore!” He said again, sitting down on the bed and glaring at me with that evil grin still spread across his face in defiance.

I will say I was struck dumb. I had no response. I couldn’t even come up with something smart ass to THINK let alone say. “Okay.” Is all I came up with and I walked away.

Mind still reeling, I went into the kitchen and started making my father lunch. Wow, where the hell did THAT come from? Whore? I got nothing. When I finished, I yelled to my dad that lunch was ready as I put his plate on the table. My father came slinking out of his bedroom. Without saying anything, my father sat down, took off his hat and began eating his lunch. While he ate, I stayed in the kitchen cleaning, and talking as if our last conversation had not happened. When my father was finished he brought his plate to me, looked at me a bit confused, said “thank you,” went back into his bedroom and shut the door. I may be a whore, but you’ll eat my food.

I’m not sure if my reaction to my father’s insult made an impression on him or what, but for a few weeks the tension seemed to drain from the house. That night at dinner, I just kept going with the “there’s nothing wrong here,” attitude. When I put my father’s plate down, I also put his medication on his napkin, then to act as if it were no big deal I gave the kids and myself a multi-vitamin. My father did ask me what the pills were. I just nonchalantly told him that it was the medicine that the doctor gave him from the VA and left it at that. He took the medicine with no further comment.

The people at VA did another wonderful thing to make my life so much more fun, only this time I didn’t know that they had done it. A few weeks after my father’s VA Clinic appointment, Mike was actually home for the evening so I took advantage of his presence to go into my bedroom and catch up on my e-mail on the computer. I had only been in there a few minutes when I heard Mike calling me. “Uh, Les… Could you come in here a minute?” Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good. I walked into the living room and saw my father and Mike standing face to face in the dining room. My father was holding something and looking irritated and confused. Oh lord, what now!?! When I came into the room Mike said, “Okay Wes, explain what you need to Leslie.”

My father turned around and looked at me. I could tell that he didn’t want to tell me whatever it was that he had told  Mike. He hesitated for a minute and I said cheerfully, “What’s up, Dad?” My father stood there a minute longer, seeming to decide whether or not to tell me and then seemed to resign and began speaking.

“I got this…” he said waving whatever it was that he was holding in the air. “I was asking him if he had a piece of candy or some meat or something so I can put it out so it’ll change color.” He finished. What!?! I looked at Mike for help and thankfully he took over and explained. The VA doctor gave my father an at home stool sample to do. What!?! What the hell does that have to do with candy or meat!?! My father chimed back in at this point, “Yeah, they gave it to me and I need some candy or some meat so I can put it out for the dead people.” What!?! My brain was starting to have a permanent stutter. I asked my father if I could see the package; he reluctantly gave it to me. I read the instructions. These people are more insane than I thought they were. They sent a man with Dementia home with a SEVEN day at home stool sample to do on his own and then MAIL back to them!?!? They’ve got to be kidding, or screwing with me! I handed the package back to my father, took a deep breath and explained to my father exactly what a “Stool Sample” was and how you needed to do one. As my father stood in front of me looking both horrified and puzzled, I told him not to worry about it and that I’d talk to the VA doctor about it at his next appointment in a couple of months. My father said a quiet, “Okay, thank you,” and went slowly back into his room. I thought that was the end of it, other than me retelling the story to my online comic friends and my best friend and then rehashing it with Mike later that night. Boy was I wrong!

A few weeks later, while my father was on one of his walks to get a paper, I was doing my usual hunt for urine receptacles in my father’s room. Behind my father’s dress shirts, I did find a cup hidden but instead of being filled with urine it was filled with tissues and wooden dipstick from the VA stool sample kit, all of which were covered in feces. Oh no! How am I going to put a stop to this? I can’t believe these people sent him home with this after everything that I told them. UGH! I tore apart the room trying to find the kit and throw it out, but I couldn’t find it.  I fought with myself while my father was out trying to decide how I should handle this new dilemma. I finally decided not to say anything for the time being. I threw away the cup and everything in it and hoped that my father had thrown away the sample kit or lost it somewhere. Unfortunately, that was not the case. After several more days of this my father came to me enthusiastically with a mangled envelope with a wooden dip stick and some tissue sticking out of one corner, covered in feces stains and asked me to give him a stamp.  In hindsight, I should have just given him the stamp or told him that I would mail it for him, but I didn’t. Instead, my rational mind tried to explain why he couldn’t send the envelope. My father’s jubilant face changed. He said a quiet, “thank you,” and slunk back into his room. I waited for several days for the wrath, but it never came. I no longer found cups full of feces in his room; they went back to the previous urine cups. Several days later, I found the envelope in the trash along with the rest on the sample kit. SIGH!

Another incident that sticks out in my mind happened soon after my father’s VA visit.  It happened at dinner one night. Whenever I made dinner, I would put all the condiments on the table for everyone to use at their leisure. I had been doing this nightly since my father came to live with us without incident. On this particular night, I had made pork chops so I put out the salt, pepper, steak sauce for Dayton and Tabasco Sauce for Mike and barbecuesauce for my father. I called everyone to the kitchen to eat; my father was the first one at the table. I put my father’s plate down in front of him and went back into the kitchen to get everybody else’s food. While I was doing that, Mike came in and tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up at what he indicated with his head that I should look at, my father. I looked over at the table to see my father drowning his pork chop in Tabasco Sauce. Holy shit! That’s even too much for Mike and my father doesn’t even like hot food! That’s gonna burn a hole in his gut! “Dad, that’s Tabasco Sauce. I don’t think you want to put that much on your meat. It’s really hot.”

“I know what I’m doing.” He said defiantly and continued to shake more Tabasco on his chop.

“Okay.” I said and went back to getting everyone else’s food. We all sat down to eat and watched in amazement as my father ate his now totally orange pork chop, as sweat poured down his face. Mike and I kept looking at each other as my father ate every bit of his meat without outward complaint. Man he’s stubborn, he really must be mad at me. I know that that Tabasco is killing him. You can see it on his face but he just keeps eating. His ass is gonna be on fire for days. But what can I do? He won’t listen to me. My father did drink several large glasses of water as he ate, but he never said a word other than to ask for something to drink. As soon as he finished dinner he said, “thank you,” as he handed me his plate and then went back to his room. We didn’t see him again that night. The next day it was as if it had never happened. Wow, his stomach’s stronger than I thought. He never did that again though.

Chapter 10

Things at home ran smoothly for quite some time, if not strangely. Most days, as long as I didn’t talk on the phone, leave my father alone in the living room for long stretches of time, and allowed him to drink occasionally, things would be good. We did actually have a few good times.

My neighbor across the street, Arlington Jones, is a jazz pianist. One day while getting the mail, he told me that he was holding a small concert at a museum in Dallas that was free and open to the public. I knew that my father liked jazz so I decided to take him. Mike was out of town again, so my father, the kids and I went alone. The ride there was pleasant. My father talked happily about different musical groups that he had seen or heard. The kids were actually good, playing and talking in the back seat quietly. All was well.  The concert was really nice. I love Arlington’s music, and my father seemed to like it as well. There was a slight problem when my father tried to get something to drink. He ordered an ice tea, which he complained loudly about after drinking it that there was something wrong with it. I tasted it and realized that it was unsweetened. I tried to explain this to my father, but he just kept complaining that “these people don’t know how to make ice tea.” I finally went and got some sugar packets and put them in his drink for him, crisis averted. The kids got kind of cranky toward the end of the concert. It really wasn’t their fault; there wasn’t much for them to do. So on the way home, they were bouncing off the walls, so to speak, fighting and yelling and just being general brothers and kids. I tried to ignore them, but about halfway through the drive home, my father, I guess, had had enough. He turned around and yelled at them to be quiet, which they did. Shocked the hell out of them and me; that was the one and only time my father yelled at my kids to discipline them.

Sometime after my father started taking his medication, he started to complain about being cold all the time. Now, when he would sit in the living room in his trench coat and gloves, instead of sweating, he would complain of it being too cold.  Because of this, we started keeping the heat up around 85 – 90 degrees which is where he seemed most comfortable. This meant that no matter how cold it was outside, inside our house became a sauna. As soon as Mike, the kids or I came into the house we would immediately change into shorts and the smallest top available, or no top for the kids. Occasionally, people would come over and be confused at why I would come to the door in shorts and a tank top on a day with a high temperature 35 degrees.

During the day, while my father and I were home, we would watch TV. Most days, I would give my father the remote and let him try and find something that he was interested in. Unfortunately, if it wasn’t the constant war coverage, he would usually find the most sexually inappropriate thing possible on at the time to watch.  I tried explaining that we could not watch these things with the kids at home, but he just couldn’t grasp why. I finally had to put Ian in daycare during the day to keep him away from it.

Around this time, my father also started, or I should say stopped, talking most days. I know that I’ve said that he didn’t ever really talk, but this was worse. Once my father finished breakfast, if there wasn’t any kind of tension going on, he would just sit in the rocking chair sometimes staring at me instead of the television. He would sit there rocking and staring, all day long, or at least until the kids came home. Even when I would try and talk to him, he would just sit and rock and stare. It was creepy. I think the anti-psychotics might have had something to do with it. I’m not sure. After a few weeks of this, I decided to enroll myself in college, online, just so I would have something mentally stimulating to do besides watching TV. Once school started, I would still sit in the living room with him staring at me, but I would be doing homework, so at least I felt productive.

Sometime in December, Mike got an invitation to a film/television industry party. We decided to go and take my father. It would be a night of food and music and something my father could get dressed up for, which I knew he would like. I had to fight the shower issue the night of the party, but other than that, getting to the party had gone smoothly. Thankfully, they had filet mingion, soft boiled potatoes, and steamed broccoli that my father was able to eat without much trouble. He seemed to like the music. He even asked me to dance a couple of times, which we did. We had a good time.

Things got a little strange when my father went to the bathroom and came back to the table with a woman. She came back arm and arm with my father, sat down at the table and introduced herself to us. Oh lord. I was worried about him being able to find his way back to the table. Does this woman have any idea what she’s dealing with? She tried talking to my father for awhile. Every time she would say something to him, he would either not answer or just mumble one and two word answers. Finally, the woman leaned over to me and said, “Your Dad is very handsome and charming. I really like him, but he doesn’t say a whole lot. Is it me or is he always like this?” I briefly explained my father’s medical condition, to which she said she was sorry, but he was still very handsome and it was too bad she would have liked to date him. She then gave me her business card, excused herself and walked away.

When she left, my father leaned over to me and said, “Who was that?” What? What do you mean who was that? You brought her to the table. I read her name off the card and showed it to my father. I then told him that she thought he was handsome. He chuckled and said, “Yeah, she’s a bit big for me.” Oh my god! This man who can’t even remember my name is a) still getting hit on and b) has the where-with-all to be picky.

The woman was a local actress in town. I have seen her a few times over the last few years at auditions and things. Every time I see her, she still asks about my father.

We stayed at the party until about 11:30. As we were leaving, Mike got stopped by a camera guy that he knew. As they talked, the woman that he was with, which I assume was just a friend, came over and started chatting up my father. She was getting the same responses from him that the first woman had received.  I think she was drunk, because after a few minutes of my father’s mumbling responses, the woman got loud and started asking what his deal was, who I was and was I with him. I pulled her away from my confused looking father and whispered in her ear that he was my father and that he had Dementia. At that she walked back over to where my dad and Mike were and said loudly, “Really, you’d never know there was anything wrong with him. Hell, I’d STILL do him!” she then laughed wildly and walked away. LALALALALALALA! Holy shit what was that!? I guess he’s still got it.

The next day, since my in-laws had the kids we decided to take my father to a local sports bar, No Frills Grill, to watch a Bears game. Watching football games with my father was a memory I had from my childhood that I hoped my father would remember. On the Monday nights and Sunday afternoons during football season when my father wasn’t working or sleeping from the rigors of his revolving shifts at United, he was usually watching football. I can remember my father watching Jets games as far back as when I was three and we lived in New York. But my most vivid memories are of my father watching the Bears on Sundays.

I wasn’t actually much into watching football as a kid. I liked to play, but for the most part when there was a game on I would usually be in the room doing something else and not really watching the game. I became a football, or more precisely, a rabid Bears fan, after we moved to Florida. I had a crush on two boys who were in band. I couldn’t figure out if I ever got the nerve to talk to either one of them what to talk about. So I got the bright idea since they were both in band that meant that they had to go to football games. So, for several weekends I sat myself down and watched every football game that I could find. The way my brain works, I cannot like a sport unless I have a team to root for and a team to hate. Since Chicago was home to me, the BEARS became my team of choice, which was a good deal since this was 1985, the year WE (The Bears) won the Superbowl. And Miami, became my team to hate, since I hated being in Florida and they were the only team to beat US (The Bears) that year. I never did talk to either one of those boys, but I’ve watched a lot of great football since.

We told my father what we had planned and he seemed really excited. We loaded up and headed to the bar. When we got there, we saw one of our neighbors from around the corner that we referred to as the Greenbay Guy. This was his name because he was even more rabid about Greenbay than I am about the Bears. He flew a Greenbay Packers flag on the side of his house every football season. He and I had had a friendly feud going from the first day I saw that flag flying from his house. We walked in and he and I swapped smack talk. We were both there to watch the same game. The Bears were playing the Packers that day at Lambo field. After a few minutes, I could tell my father was getting a bit restless, so I made my excuses and we headed for the bar and the smoking section. As we entered the bar area, we saw that it was sectioned off in unofficial team sections. There were Eagles fans, and Seahawk fans, and Patriot fans, and of course Cowboys fans. Off to the right, in the back of the bar area, I saw a sea of navy and orange….my people…Bears fans! I had worn my Chicago Bears hat and was immediately spotted by several Bears fans and waved over. We found three seats at the end of the bar and proceeded to make new friends and get ready to watch the game. Above and around the tops of the walls of the bar, there were about a dozen televisions most playing different games. There were several TV’s in the corner all playing the Bears-Packer’s game. There must have been TV’s in the section behind the bar playing the same game because after a few minutes several Packer’s fans that were obviously regulars to the bar came out from that section. Healthy, friendly, heated, trash talking ensued, and I was having a blast. The waitress came by and took our drink orders, or tried to. My father was having difficulty hearing and it took me a few minutes to get what he wanted and relay it to the waitress. Mike ordered a beer and I ordered my father one as well and I got myself a coke. The game was close and intense. I was really getting into the game when I noticed my father staring off into space. I asked him if he was enjoying the game. He told me that he couldn’t see it. What do you mean you can’t see it? There are at least four televisions right in front of you, all playing it! I said something roughly to that effect, but nicer, and pointed out several televisions within his line of vision. My father just mumbled and went back to staring at nothing.

Man, I really thought we had found something we could do with him. The place is even family friendly so we could bring the kids next time. SIGH! I asked him if he wanted to leave. He said no he was fine. We finished watching the game, which sadly we lost in a heart breaking 17 to 7 defeat. We stayed and talked to people for awhile. A few minutes after the game ended, my father went to the restroom. I took his departure as a chance to talk to Mike, who had been sitting too far from me for me to talk to during the game and explained my father’s problem. We paid Brice, our bartender and left. So much for the Bears games. We did continue to watch football on TV from home, where my dad would get excited and wrongly predict the outcomes of the games just like he did with boxing matches. Oh well. He also became obsessed with some kid he swore that he had seen at the bar and kept insisting that he was seeing on television commercials. He said that the kid was red-headed and really funny looking. He would point at the TV sometimes and yell, “See, there he is again.” But usually there wasn’t even a child on the screen. That stopped after about a month. I never did figure that one out.
The beginning of December also saw my father’s Social Security check finally come in, which was a great help to us with all the added expenses. I figured that my father was close to running out of money from his many jaunts to the local store. I started occasionally putting ten and twenty dollars in his top drawer, so that when he left the house he would have money. He never mentioned the money, but I knew that he found it because he would still buy newspapers. I also saw when I put away his laundry that the money would usually be gone.

Christmas turned out to be pleasant. Since my father had no winter clothing, or any real good clothes for that matter, I had had to go shopping for him and buy him a whole new wardrobe. I decided to use Christmas to give my father most of the clothing, since I really couldn’t think of anything else to get him. Normally, we spent Christmas Eve at my mother and father in-law’s. We would open presents there that night, then come home and get up in the morning and open our family gifts and the gifts from Santa, then go back to their house for Christmas dinner. We told my father this, but he said that he would just stay at the house. Try as I may, I could not convince my father to come with us. I don’t know if he didn’t remember them, or if he remembered his dealings with them in Illinois, or what, but he would not go. He just kept saying, “No, that’s okay, thank you.” with a smirk on his face. So we called and told Lois and Mel that we would be spending Christmas at our house. They said that they would come by and bring our presents to us. My father seemed really uncomfortable and hardly spoke when Mel and Lois came over. His mood seemed to lighten as Dayton passed out gifts to be opened. I don’t think he really understood what was happening. Every time Dayton handed him a present, he would look at him perplexed and say, “What is this?” Dayton would bound off saying, “It’s a present for you, Granddad.”

“Oh, okay,” my father would say and chuckle with a look of amused skepticism I had seen from him all my life. He was actually my dad again, if only for a little while. The next day was more of the same. He seemed genuinely pleased at all the gifts that he got. He was especially pleased with the television we bought him for his room. We actually bought one for his room and one for the kids. With my father’s recent love of inappropriate television programming and his unpredictable behavior, we had satellite put in the kids’ room and regular TV in my father’s. We thought it would be a good idea to a) give the kids a place to go and watch their shows if there was a problem and b) allow my father a place of his own to veg. It was a nice two days.

The only weird thing that came from Christmas was, we realized that my father was afraid of fire. I kind of had an idea that he might be; since seeing the state of the stove at my grandmother’s house and my father’s insistence on using only the microwave for cooking. There was also an incident at my house soon after my father arrived when I was cooking outside on the grill. My father had come outside to talk to me. While talking to him, I had turned over a steak and the flames had flared up. My father actually jumped back toward the patio door and went back in the house almost immediately.  I built a fire in the fireplace which was located just to the right of the rocking chair my father always sat in. As soon as I got the fire going, my father got this frightened look on his face and moved his chair as far away from the fireplace as he could without going into the dining room itself. I wonder what actually happened in the kitchen to make him so afraid? I  guess it’s a good thing, in a way. It should keep him from doing anything to possibly set the house on fire.

Kids are so cute…No they are NOT! (written 6/19/06)

Kids are assholes!

I’m sorry to be a hack and steal a line (from Louis CK), but he’s ABSOLUTELY CORRECT!

I’m laying on my side in bed over the weekend cruising Myspace, as usual. My 7 year old walks in. In his adorable sing song voice he say, “I see London. I see France. I see my mother’s big, fat, gross, wrinkly belly.”

ASSHOLE!

(Sorry to ruin the illusion guys.)

His birthday is next month. See if this old, fat, wrinkled woman gets his ass anything.

Forgotten Tomorrows Crazy Todays (Ch 7 & 8)

Chapter 7

Friday morning, I was back at DFW Airport bright and early for my flight back to Florida. Everything went well until I got to the Orlando Airport and went to pick up the keys to my rental car. I had made the exact same reservations with the same rental car company that I had made the week before. When I got to the counter, I was ready for everything to go as smoothly as it had the previous week. The rental agent last week had been surprisingly pleasant and efficient. I had gotten a Toyota Camry, which had turned out to be a great car with excellent gas mileage and plenty of room. Now, I gave my name and confirmation number to the woman at the counter. Again the agent was pleasant and went to her computer to put the information in. As she typed I told her how much I had enjoyed the Camry that I had rented the week before and asked if I could possibly have the same type of vehicle, if it was available. She looked up from her computer screen and informed me that the type of reservation that I had made was for an economy car and did not entitle me to such a vehicle. I explained that I had made the exact same reservation the week before and that I had gotten a Toyota Camry. She looked at me skeptically and said that that was impossible and that their economy cars were limited to Dawu’s and Geo Metros. I have four of the biggest suit cases on the planet with me, there is no way I’m going to be able to get these thing into either one of those cars.

At the time, I drove a 96’ Ford Escort, so I do not mind driving small cars; I actually prefer them. But there is small and then there are lawnmowers with doors. I have had experiences with both of the cars in question; neither was a good one. When my family came to Florida the previous November, we had rented an economy car from a different car company and had been given a Dawu. It had been like driving a leaky beer can. It smelled funny, drove rough and sounded as if it were going to fly apart anytime you pushed the speedometer over 60mph. A few years back, Mike’s car was in need of repairs so he put it in the shop. The Ford dealership gave him a Geo Metro as a rental car. It was so small, it made my Escort look like a stretch limo. I remember coming out into the garage and being amazed at how much my Escort dwarfed the Metro. Mike would not even drive it. He ended up driving my car. I drove it once up to the corner store and back. I would have been better off taking my bicycle for all the power it had.

Although I was upset, I tried to be pleasant and explained again that I had indeed received the larger car with the same reservation a week prior. I also showed her my enormous suitcases and explained why I was in town. After hearing my story about my father and why I was in Florida, the agent looked up my previous reservation (Which she should have from the very beginning, but we won’t mention THAT!) and found that I had indeed been telling the truth. She said that the agent who had given me the car had done so in error. She then said that since they were not fully booked and because of my circumstances with my father, that she would go ahead and give me the upgrade at no charge. Thank you. Thank you. Lady, I could kiss you. After I smack you! I thanked her profusely and went to retrieve my Camry.

I got to Ft. Pierce in record time once again. This time, I had a key to the house and let myself in. I went inside and called my father’s name. I heard him ask, “Who’s there?” from upstairs. I went upstairs, telling him it was me. My father was sitting on the bed not seeming to be doing anything.

When I came into the room he smiled and said, “Hey, it’s you. Where’ve you been?”

DejaVu, here we go again. I explained to him that I was there because he had called me to come and get him and I was there to take him home with me. He argued that he was fine and that he did not need to go anywhere, but not very hard. After explaining the imminent sale of the house and Tuesday’s phone call again, he just kind of went blank for a moment and then passively said okay. Alrighty then, that was kind of creepy. I think I like it better when he argues. When he’s like this, it’s as if all the life has been drained out of him; like a Stepford Wife without the perkiness and the cooking and cleaning. Be careful what you wish for.

I turned to go downstairs, my father followed quietly. I told him as we walked that I had brought the biggest suitcases that I could find and that I would bring everything of his that I could with us. I also told him about the man from the consignment store who would be coming over later to look at the items in the house to see if anything could be sold so that he would have some money in his pockets until we could get his benefits started in Texas. Again he agreed docilely, then went back to his behavior from the previous week of following me around talking incessantly. We got the suitcases out of the rental car and brought them upstairs. Once up there, I realized that a lot of his clothing that had been in the closet the week before were missing. When I asked him about them, he said that he had done laundry and the clothes were downstairs. I went back downstairs, my father chattering on my heels, to look for them, but found nothing. I looked all over downstairs. The washing machine was empty and the dryer was gone. I looked in the spare bedroom, the sewing room, the family room, the living room, but the clothes were nowhere to be found. Finally, I went out onto the back porch and found them in a heap in the laundry basket. I went to take them out and found that they were soaking wet. When I mentioned this to my father, he seemed both confused and embarrassed. He offered to take them to the laundry mat to dry them. Since he had no car and there was no way I could let him drive the rental car, I told him no,  we would just spread them out on the patio and let them dry out as much as possible. I went for the basket to take care of it, but my father insisted on doing it himself. Good, that will give him something to do while I take care of other stuff.

At the last moment, the night before I returned to Florida, I decided to try and keep as much of my grandmother’s china and knickknacks as I possibly could, so I packed some small boxes in the suitcases. I went upstairs and got the boxes out of the suitcases and brought them into the formal living room/dining room to start packing. It was really sad. My grandmother had amassed a large collection of trinkets throughout her many years, from around the world, and now most of it was gone. I could not tell exactly what was gone, but I knew that there were things that I had seen for most of my life visiting that living room and had not taken much stock in, were now missing. Where they had gone, I could only venture a guess. All that was left were, a few incomplete sets of fine china, a porcelain salt and pepper shaker set of John F. Kennedy and Jacqueline Kennedy, a few steins, and a couple of ashtrays. It’s hard to believe that this can be all that’s left of 89 years of living.

As I packed, my father came in and asked me what I was doing. I told him what I had planned and then told him that when I finished I would go upstairs and pack his things. Hearing this, my father became very excited and said that he had some suitcases upstairs and that he could pack up his stuff if I liked. I told him to go ahead and that I would come up and help him as soon as I was done. About and hour into packing, there was a knock at the door. I got up to get it and met a man by the name of Sean and his helper, whose name I never got, from the consignment store. I liked them instantly. I invited the two of them in, apologizing for the mess and gave them a brief explanation as to why I had called and why I wanted to sell the contents of the house. Sean seemed genuinely sympathetic and said as we walked that at a glance there really was not a whole lot that they would really want since the furnishings were not antiques and most of it was in bad shape. When we walked into the living room, he saw the china spread out on the floor and said that he was sure that he could sell all of it. I thought about it for a brief moment, but thought better of it and said no. Even though there had been bad blood between my grandmother and me for years, it just did not seem right to sell it. While we continued talking, my father came into the room. I introduced the three men. Sean and his assistant seemed to connect with my father as well. Sean had grown up in Ft. Pierce and knew of some of the same people as my father. At this, my father perked up and began talking people and places as we continued the tour of the house. As we walked, Sean asked if there were any paintings of Florida scenery in the house. Apparently they sold really well, especially if they were done by a particular Floridian artist, whose name still escapes me. I started to tell him no, but as I did my father chimed in and said that he thought there was one of those in the garage. We all went to the garage and after a bit of rummaging Sean was able to find the painting. Sean said that it did indeed look like one of the artist’s paintings. He then said that, unfortunately, the painting was not signed, so instead of being worth about a thousand dollars, the painting might fetch somewhere in the neighborhood of two to three hundred dollars. He also said that he could probably sell the organ in the family room for about a hundred dollars and might be able to sell some of the furniture for a few hundred at auction. I told him that would be fine, but unfortunately my father and I would be leaving at 3 a.m. so if he was going to take the stuff he would need to do it immediately. He said that since he had not brought his large truck and Stuart being as far away as it was, it would be impossible to get back that day to take any of the items. He then asked if I had a key to the house. I told him yes I had a set and would gladly give them to him so that he could come back at a later time to pick up the items. He said he would come back first thing in the morning to pick up the items and then call me to let me know exactly what he took. I gave him the key thanked him and walked them out. Once out in the driveway, Sean asked what I planned to do with the car. I told him nothing since it was in pieces. He then offered to call around to some salvage yards to see if he might be able to sell it off for parts for us. I thanked him again and they left. Wow, more proof that there really are good people in the world.

I went back inside and started packing again and then realized I was kind of hungry. I went into the kitchen intent on making myself something to eat. When I opened the refrigerator, I was shocked at what I saw. It was all but barren. All that was inside was a plate of leftover meat and peas, an empty glass, a liter of coke and a gallon bottle of fruit punch. I opened the freezer and found it bare as well. There was a full ice tray, an empty glass, and one box of the many Jamaican meat patties that I had purchased the previous week. I looked in the cabinets where I had put food away the week before and found nothing but the old items that had been there before I had taken my father shopping. Where the hell is all the food? Did he eat it all the first day? How do you eat a hundred dollars worth of groceries all by yourself in one week?

“Dad, what happened to all the food I bought you last week?” I yelled into the other room where my father was standing staring at nothing.

“I’ve got food in there,” he answered coming into the kitchen. “See,” he said opening up the refrigerator and pointing at the plate of leftovers. I decided there was no sense in arguing with him, instead I nodded, smiled and went back into the living room to continue packing dishes.

Seeing the plate of leftovers must have made my father hungry because he put it in the microwave, heated it and sat down in the dining room and ate it watching me pack.  When he finished eating, he went back upstairs, and I did not see him for quite a while. Some time later, my father came back into the living room and presented me with his old briefcase and said that he had packed it and would go upstairs and pack some more. I said okay and told him to leave the case on the floor and I would deal with it later. As soon as I heard my father back upstairs, I got up and went over to see what was in the briefcase. I am really glad that I did. Why is he packing stuff in here and not one of the suitcases? I didn’t even know he still had this briefcase.

The briefcase had been a Christmas gift to my father from my mother sometime when I was in grade school. I still have a picture of my father sitting at his desk with the briefcase open from the early seventies. I opened the briefcase and found one brown slipper, one black dress shoe, four mis-matched socks, and an empty vacuum bag. This is going to be more work than I thought. I went upstairs and found my father standing in the closet holding one of his blazers looking confused.

“Dad, why don’t you just hang out and relax and as soon as I’m done with the china I’ll come up here and pack your stuff.”

“Okay,” he said cheerfully. He then folded the blazer, went to the bed, laid it down and then began messing with cassette tapes on the dresser. I went downstairs and hurriedly finished packing the china.

Once I finally finished packing the china and knickknacks, I went upstairs to start on the clothes. My father was sitting on the bed, listening to music, drinking what I assume was a rum and coke. I grabbed the suitcases and pulled them into the closet and started packing. Although my father’s wardrobe was greatly diminished from his “Waiting to Exhale” incident, he actually had more clothing than I originally thought. Or at least it seemed that way as I packed. I wanted to bring as much of my father’s belongings as I could, but the bulk of his blazers were proving difficult. As I packed, I realized a lot of his stuff was in pretty bad shape, but I wanted my father to feel at home in my home and I know how having your own things, ratty or not, can help the process. Heck, even if we have to throw a lot of this stuff out once we get it to Texas at least he will know that I brought it and know that it is important to him. Right?

As I packed, my father would come in and out of the room showing me things that he wanted to take with him. It was like being at the grocery store all over again. Among the things he tried to give me to pack were a bicycle pump, one of my grandmother’s slippers, another unused vacuum bag, and several other items that I never could identify. Again and again he would enter the room presenting me with his chosen item like a child who found Long John Silver’s gold and then try to sell me on the items exceptional qualities. Every time I rejected an item, he would shuffle out of the closet looking dejected. To my father’s credit, not everything he brought to me was inappropriate. He did bring me several family photos which I took and put inside one of the garment bags. I got all of the clothes in the closet packed and then went back into the bedroom to start on the dresser. I opened drawer after drawer to find nothing but brick-a-brack. Each drawer was like a mini junk drawer. The only clothes inside were two pairs of underwear with the elastic worn completely out and three pairs of dress socks. Where’s all of his stuff? What’s he been wearing under his clothes? Maybe there are more clothes on the patio that I missed. I went downstairs to retrieve the clothes that had been drying on the patio and to see if there were any more clothes to be found.

On the patio I found another huge garbage bag that had not been there the week before. It was full of more wet clothes of my father’s. I don’t have time to try and dry all of these things. I still have to drive the china to my mother’s house AND try and get to the nursing home. I’ll just have to pack them wet and deal with them at home.

I grabbed the garbage bag and the clothes that had been drying and brought them into the living room. I went back upstairs, grabbed the last big suitcase, brought it downstairs and started packing again. While I was packing, my cell phone rang. It was my mother calling to ask if I was still coming to drop off the dishes. I told her yes, I would be leaving as soon as I got finished packing, but it had taken longer than I thought. As I told my mother about my dealing with Sean and my father’s attempt at helping me pack, my father came downstairs and went into the garage. When he came back, he was carrying a belt sander headed towards the stairs.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I yelled. “This is good stuff! It’s brand new!” my father said excitedly. “Dad, we can’t bring that on the plane,” I explained.

“Yeah, but it’s brand new. You could use it,” he said disappointed.

As I continued to try and talk my father out of packing the belt sander my mother started yelling at me through my cell phone, “Leslie! Leslie! You need to talk to me and let me know when you’re coming.” She said irritably.

“Mom, Dad is trying to pack a belt sander in the suitcase I need to deal with HIM right now.” I answered hurriedly. As soon as I started talking to my mother, my father turned and headed toward the stairs again. I told my mother to hang on, dropped the phone and ran after my father. I was able to coax the belt sander from him with some effort by promising him that if I had room when I finished packing I would pack it as well. My father reluctantly let the belt sander go and went into the kitchen. I went back into the family room to continue packing. You can do this Leslie, just a few more hours.

I found the cell phone and told my mother that I would call her as soon as I was ready to come over. I intended to say good-bye and hang up when my mother abruptly asked if my father knew that I was going to her house and that she had built a new home. What!?! I told her that I had explained what I was doing with the china to my father, but I had not mentioned that she had built a new house. My mother then told me to tell my father that he was more than welcome to come over with me and have dinner, see the new house and if we both wanted to spend the night, James would not mind.

What!?!?! Did you not hear what I was just going through with him? I told my mother I would extend the invitation but doubted that he would accept. As I hung up with my mother, my father came walking back into the room. I gave him my mother’s invitation. “I’m not going there,” my father laughed raising an eyebrow. “He’s liable to have a gun and come after me.” I assured him that James was not looking to shoot him. It’s so strange. This man that is trying to get me to pack vacuum bags and belt sanders is still capable of understanding how inappropriate or at least odd a visit like that would be. My mother on the other hand…

My father went back upstairs chuckling to himself while I went back to packing. Some-time later the door bell rang. My father went to answer it. It was Elaine. @#$**%%~~!!! Better late than never I guess. At least she came to say good-bye. The pair came into the room hand in hand on their way into the kitchen. Elaine stopped and exchanged a brief greeting and short small talk with me regarding the trip. My father came out of the kitchen and handed her a glass. He then turned to me and asked if I wanted a drink. I declined and they went upstairs together leaving me to finish packing.

I finally finished packing around 7 p.m. and called my mother to tell her I was on my way. After the call, I went upstairs to tell my father I was heading out, I then went back downstairs, grabbed the boxes and headed toward Port St. Lucie. Instead of going straight to my mother’s house, I stopped at the nursing home and visited with my grandmother for a little while. I sat holding her hand, listening to her talk happily about her mama, her brothers, and dances from days gone by. It’s so odd. I can sit here with this woman I have harbored such rage for for so many years and feel none of it. She looks like my grandmother. She sounds like my grandmother, but the connection is gone. Now all that I see is a sweet little old lady who has no one.

After about a half an hour, I kissed my grandmother good-bye and left for my mother’s house. Once at my mother’s, I visited with her and James for a few hours. I told them about my father’s reaction to their invitation. They got a kick out of my father thinking James was packing and out gunning for him. Finally, I ate a small dinner and went back to my father’s.

By the time I got back to my father’s, it was almost midnight. I expected my father to be sleeping or at least to nap before we left. That was my plan, I was exhausted. When I went upstairs, my father and Elaine were both wide awake listening to music and drinking. I told my dad that we needed to leave at 3 a.m. to get to the airport in plenty of time to catch our flight. Instead of a real response, he just asked me if I wanted a drink. I told him no. I still needed to pack the car with the suitcases and then I was going to try and nap downstairs in the wingback chair before leaving. My father came down and helped me put the suitcases into the car. When we came back in, my father went back upstairs while I went and grabbed a sheet from the downstairs linen closet, got my travel alarm out of my purse and set in for 2:45 a.m., stretched out in the chair in front of the TV to nap. I don’t think I ever really slept. I was too afraid of oversleeping and not hearing my alarm, coupled with the fact that every few minutes my father would come downstairs and walk past me and the television on his way to the bathroom. Finally, my alarm went off at 2:45, I got up, turned off the TV and went upstairs to tell my father it was time to go. He and Elaine were still sitting in the bed talking and drinking as if it were a typical Saturday night. There seemed to be no sense of the fact that in a moment, my father would be leaving Florida, probably never to return. I told them it was time. I feel like the executioner…It is time… dun dun dun!!! I grabbed all the tapes off the dresser and threw them into the garment bag that I had left in the room. I unplugged the boom box and brought it and the bag out to the car while my father and Elaine followed talking. Out at the car, the pair kissed good-bye as I put the last things in the car. My father walked Elaine to her car, she got in, waved good-bye to me, told my father that she would call him at my house later that week and she drove away. My father and I got into the rental car and headed off to Orlando.

Although I hadn’t slept at all, I wasn’t the least bit tired; adrenaline was kicking in. I wasn’t sure what to expect for the trip home. My father talked about road kill again for about the first half hour of the trip, then fell silent. I stopped at a gas station halfway to Orlando to get some coffee, just to make sure I stayed awake through the rest of the ride. While getting coffee, I looked over and saw my father looking longingly at some sandwiches in a case. I told him to get whatever he wanted and that I would take care of it. He looked at me as if he had rubbed a magic lamp and I was the genie that popped out promising him untold riches. Oh my gosh, I hadn’t thought about it. Elaine didn’t bring any food with her when she came over. I bet they never left the house. He hasn’t eaten since that leftover stuff from the fridge early this afternoon. He picked through the sandwiches and then decided on a burger that needed to be microwaved. He stood, holding it, looking confused. After watching him, I realized he didn’t have a clue as to what to do with it so I went to his rescue. I took the burger from him, heated it in the microwave, paid for it and gave it back to him once we were back in the car. My father was like a little kid, eating and talking happily about cooking for most of the rest of the car ride.

We arrived at the Orlando Airport with a good forty-five minutes to spare. We dropped off the rental car, put the bags on the luggage carts that I had brought and made our way into the airport. The airport was surprisingly busy for 5 a.m. on a Sunday. We had to wait in line at the baggage check for about twenty minutes. My father complained loudly about having to wait, but was other wise in good spirits. We finally got to the check-in counter where I was informed that the luggage carts counted as baggage which put us two items over the limit. I explained to the woman at the counter my father’s illness and why we were traveling together. The woman loosened up and told me that she would wave the item limit and allowed me to check all our items. I thanked her and headed with my father toward the terminal. At the security gate, I got scared that my father was going to cause a scene. I went through the metal detector first without incident. When my father went through it beeped and he was asked to empty his pockets. Instead of just emptying his pockets, my father looked scared and began to argue that he had done nothing wrong. Before things got out of hand I walked behind the security officer and whispered my father’s condition in her ear. I then went back through to my father and touched his arm and explained that no one thought he had done anything wrong, they just wanted to see what he had in his pockets and that it was routine. When I touched my father’s arm, he seemed to calm down and began to empty his pockets, looking at me. The culprit that had set off the metal detector was a pair of nail clippers in his front pocket. Surprisingly, the security woman let my father retrieve and keep them after sweeping him with the metal detecting wand. Crisis averted, we headed toward the trams that take you to the actual terminal. As we walked up, a tram pulled into the docking station. I knew it was at least five to ten minutes before another tram would come. We had taken at least thirty minutes so far in the airport since arriving and I was afraid we might be cutting it close. My father, who usually moved at a brisk pace, was shuffling slowly behind me, looking around. I told him to hurry and started to jog for the open tram door. My father did the same looking a little startled. We made it to the tram just in time to jump into the doors as they were closing. This is so strange. I grew up in airports with this man. I learned the “Airport Quick Walk” from following him and my mother through more than a dozen airports, this one included. He acts as if he is doing and seeing all of this for the very first time. I wonder just how much he has forgotten.

We got to the terminal with no more incidents and a few minutes to spare. My father sat down to watch the overhead televisions which were reporting on the War on Terrorism while I went to the counter to check us in. I explained my father’s condition to the ticket agent and asked him to inform the flight crew, just in case there was a problem on the flight. I don’t know how he is going to act on the flight. He should be fine but better safe than sorry. When I finished at the ticket counter, I went over to sit with my father. As I sat down, my father mentioned that he had seen some muffins on a cart across the terminal that looked good. I gave him five dollars and told him to go get one if he wanted. Again, my father grinned excitedly like a kid who had just been given his first allowance. He came back smiling widely with a huge chocolate muffin and ate it greedily. As he ate I just stared at him. Thank you, dad for letting me take care of you like this. I’m sure it can’t be easy. I know I should say this out loud but I’m not sure how you’ll respond and I’m afraid of opening a can of worms.

All I actually said was, “The muffin good, Dad?” He smiled and nodded while he continued to eat. We got on the plane with no problems. My father took the window seat while I took the aisle. Just before we took off my father asked me where we were going. I told him he was coming to stay with me and my family in Texas.

“Oh yeah,” he said smiling and then began looking out the window. As we began taxiing down the runway, the day before and the lack of sleep caught up with me; I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I had planned to stay awake to make sure that my father was alright throughout the flight, but I couldn’t fight off my lassitude. I blinked once and woke up when I heard the captain announcing our descent into Atlanta. In Atlanta, we exited the plane and headed for the gate for our flight to Dallas. If my father had been bothered at all by the flight to Atlanta, he showed no signs of it. He talked happily about planes and working at the airport in New York when he was younger as we walked to the next gate. The flight to Dallas went exactly the same as the flight to Atlanta, from my perspective. As soon as we sat down, my father asked where we were going, I told him and then I fell asleep.

I had driven my own car to the airport the day before, but Mike and the kids came to the airport to meet us and help with the bags. Not knowing what my father was going to be like on the trip, Mike wanted to be there to help me if there was a problem. To anyone watching the gathering, all they would have seen was a normal reunion between a wife/mother, grandfather and family. There were no outward signs that there was a hidden problem in this congregation. The kids ran to me and gave kisses and hugs and then went to my father and did the same. Mike and my father met and shook hands. We all grabbed bags off the conveyer belt and headed out to load up Mike’s car. The only thing out of the ordinary that happened was as we were getting off the plane my father turned and asked me if I was still together with my “wife” what’s “her” name? I told him yes I was still married to my “husband,” Mike and that he would be meeting us outside.

After loading the kids and the bags into Mike’s car I told him to go ahead to the house. I wanted to stop at the store on the way home with my father and buy him some socks and underwear since I never found any. My father and I went to the parking garage and found my car and headed in the direction of my house. As soon as we got on the road my father commented on the fact that my car was a stick shift. He seemed really impressed. He went on and on about how it had been a long time since he had seen a stick shift car and then proceeded to tell me how he used to drive them years ago. I know you used to drive them, Dad. You were the one that taught me to drive a manual transmission. Seeing him in awe of the manual transmission I figured at least there would be no chance that he would try and drive my car. We stopped briefly at Costco and bought my father several pairs of socks and underwear and then headed to my house.

As soon as my father and I walked in the door at my house, Ian was on my father like a sock with static cling. He grabbed my father by the hand and dragged him into the living room talking nonstop. He wanted to tell granddad everything and anything he could think of. I went into my father’s room to put his clothes away while both boys got my father down on the floor to play Pokemon Yahtzee Jr. My father seemed to really enjoy being in the company of the kids. Things couldn’t have gone better. This is exactly how I hoped things would go. We’re going to be fine. I had no idea that this family harmony would be short lived. I did enjoy it while it lasted.

As I unpacked I noticed a funky smell coming from my father’s clothing. The smell was strong and sour and familiar. It took me a few moments to remember where I had smelled the odor before; then it came to me. His clothes smelled like Mama Moore. Now faced with the smell in my own home, I realized it wasn’t just the normal “old person” smell, there was something more. Maybe it was the typical old person smell combined with the sulfur water from Florida. The odor was now not only imbedded in my father’s clothing but hung in the air like a wet blanket. The smell was so strong that as I was unpacking, Dayton walked past the bedroom and asked what the weird smell was. I tried washing a load of clothes to get the smell out, but could tell as soon as I pulled the first item out of the washer that the smell was still there. Ugh! This makes the litter boxes smell like roses. What am I going to do? I can’t have my house smelling like this. I decided to try a teaspoon of bleach in the wash. I hoped that it would be enough to deodorize the smell without ruining any of the clothes. Thankfully, it worked and I was able to wash everything but the sports coats. I hope Febreeze works on the sports coats cause the smell is seeping out of the closet

Laundry aside, it turned out to be a very nice first evening. My father remembered that Dayton had been taking Karate and violin lessons. This made Dayton feel good even though he had recently quit both. Ian had someone who would listen to his endless chatter, like only a grandparent can. My dad seemed to be reveling in all the attention the kids were showing him. We had a pleasant meal together talking and watching the news.

Mike and I had spoken to the kids beforehand to explain my father’s illness as much as we could. We wanted to make sure that they weren’t disappointed or confused when my father couldn’t do something that they would expect an adult to be able to do, but things went well the first evening. They even included granddad in their nightly bedtime song, asking him to join in. When my dad told them that he didn’t know the song, Ian took it in stride… “That’s okay, Granddad, you can just listen to us sing,” and that’s what he did, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a huge grin on his face. After the boys went to bed, my dad joined Mike and me in the living room to watch television. As we watched, I told my dad that I planned to get started the next day calling around to make appointments to get his benefits started as well as find a doctor who might be able to help him with his memory problems. He seemed excited about the idea and talked about wanting to get his Social Security and Veterans benefits so he could start a new detailing business.

Well I don’t think that’ll happen but I’ll let him dream. He seems really happy. I think I did the right thing bringing him here. The three of us sat up until about eleven o’clock watching TV when I noticed my dad dozing on the love seat, I got up and touched him on the leg and told him that Mike and I were going to bed. He said he was going to stay up for a little while longer. Mike and I said good-night and went to bed. Lying in bed, Mike and I talked about how well things had gone so far and what needed to be done next. Besides the things I told my dad I wanted to do, I also wanted to check into assisted living facilities close by and get as much information about Alzheimer’s as I possibly could. Even though my grandmother had been suffering from it for years and I knew some of the basics about the disease, I knew I had a lot more to learn.

The next morning, I got up as usual and got Dayton off to school and Mike off to work. Both Ian and my dad were still sleeping so I used the quiet time to make phone calls. By the time my dad woke up, I had already made most of the calls that I had planned for the day. I called the Alzheimer’s Association first to have them send me all the information they had. They gave me suggestions of low cost clinics that might be able to see my dad quickly. They also gave me the number to Safe Return, which is an organization who can help find loved ones with Dementia if they happen to wander off. They informed me that most local police departments also provide the same services and said it would be a good idea to have my registered with them as well. I called the Arlington Police Department and had them send me their Safe Return paperwork. I then called the Social Security office and made the earliest appointment I could to get my dad’s benefits started. I called the main Veteran’s office in Waco and found out the location of my local VA office in Ft.Worth. The man I spoke to was incredibly helpful and told me everything that my dad might be qualified for and what to ask for when dealing with the local office. I called the Ft. Worth VA office to make an appointment. The woman on the phone told me that an appointment wasn’t needed for the first visit and to come in whenever we liked.

My dad got up and I made him breakfast.  While he ate, I told him all that I had been able to accomplish that morning, excluding the Alzheimer’s and Safe Return calls. He seemed pleased. We spent a pleasant, but quiet day watching the war unfold on TV and playing with Ian. The next day, my dad, Ian and I went to the Ft. Worth Veteran’s Clinic. I got all the necessary paperwork to start his medical benefits. When I was done, I took the paper work to the counter explaining his situation. The man at the counter told me that since my dad had served for a month during war times that he might qualify for Aid & Attendance Assistance plus Household Assistance due to his illness, but he would need a C&P Exam, whatever that is. The only hitch was to qualify; my dad would have to be declared incompetent in a physician’s statement and could not show that he was capable to sign his name. I had to sign the paperwork for him with an X. I knew after trying to discuss his condition with him in Florida, that my dad would not like that one bit so I signed the paperwork without telling him. I hated keeping things from him, but it wouldn’t do him or anyone else any good for him to freak out about this and not get all the benefits that he was entitled to just because he doesn’t want anyone to think that there’s something wrong with him. I hope I’m doing the right thing.

After turning in the paperwork, we were told that the first actual clinic appointment that he could get wouldn’t be until the end of November. I set the appointment with the intent on trying to find an earlier one with an outside doctor. Once we got home, I made more phone calls trying to set a doctor’s appointment. I finally made one for the following week with one of the clinics given to me by the Alzheimer’s Association called the Agape Clinic, located about fifteen minutes north of my house. All there was left to do was wait.

Chapter 8

The first incident of note happened a couple of days after my father was in the house. Dayton came home from school and went into the bathroom. He came out complaining loudly about the bathroom smelling funky. I went to check it out and was met outside the door by that same odor that had clung to my father’s clothing. The bathroom itself reeked. After investigating, I figured out that the smell was coming from the shower curtain. I took it down and threw it into the washing machine along with a teaspoon of bleach. Man that smell must be seeping out of his pores to cling to the shower curtain after one shower. Why don’t I smell it coming from his body? Maybe I’ve just been around him too long to notice. Since Mama Moore smelled like this and now my father does, do I or will I eventually smell like this. God I hope not. The odor must have been caused by something environmental in Florida. I’m still not sure if it was from the water, or the air, or the food, or something else but for the next few weeks, I had to go through the same routine. Every time my father took a shower I had to take the shower curtain down and wash it in bleach to keep the smell at bay.

There was also an odd occurrence that actually lasted the entire time my father lived with us. The bedroom that we gave my father was located at the back of the house, directly across from the bathroom. The back of the house is set up with two bedrooms next to each other that share a wall. The very back bedroom shares a wall with the second bedroom. All three rooms open into a small hallway, for lack of a better word. From my father’s bedroom, it was literally two steps across the hall from being inside his room to being inside the bathroom. The bedrooms can be clearly seen from the living room. The only thing preventing someone from seeing into the bathroom from the living room is the built in linen closet that makes a small protrusion into the hall from the doorway of the bathroom. No matter what I did while my father was at the house, he could not find his bedroom or the bathroom without help. My father would head towards the hall and then stop in the middle of the three doorways and turn this way and that until one of us asked him if he wanted his bedroom or the bathroom and then point him in the right direction. Most of the time, he would laugh and say something about the house being so big and getting turned around. There were other, sadder, times when you could see the frustration on his face at his inability to maneuver.

It was kind of bizarre, in the beginning, unless my father was trying to find his bedroom or the bathroom, you wouldn’t even know that there was anything wrong with him. Every day we would sit and watch the twenty-four hour war coverage on satellite and talk about it at length.

My father was also unusually hungry. I would make him a full breakfast every morning of several eggs and bacon, with toast or three or four pancakes. He would eat them and within two hours he would be wandering around the kitchen, which I came to realize meant that he was hungry again. I would get him a snack, and then make him a big lunch. Usually, I would make him another snack when Dayton got home before dinner. If he didn’t head off immediately to bed after dinner, it was a given that he would snack at least once, if not twice before going to bed for the night. My gosh, he must have been starving at his house. He’s eating more food now than I think I have ever seen him eat in my entire life. Whenever we went grocery shopping, we took my father along and told him to let us know if there was anything he wanted. Our grocery bills doubled. My father had developed a sweet tooth in the years since I had lived at home. He asked for cakes and cookies and ice cream. I need to have them check to see if he’s a diabetic like his father.

One thing we had to be careful about was my father wandering off in stores alone. He would see something that he wanted to look at and wander off while Mike and I were dealing with one or both of the kids and we would lose him. One time in the Albertsons by our house, he became separated from us and wound up out in the parking lot alone. Luckily, I had seen him go out the door so I was able to catch him before anything bad happened.

One afternoon, I needed to go shopping and my father decided to come along. Shopping went well enough without much fanfare; that was until we got to the checkout line. There is a woman who works as a bagger at the local grocery store who is, shall we say a bit on the strange side. She has a habit of following you through the store talking loudly and incessantly about nothing in particular if she happens to catch you coming into the store. She is also a very touchy-feely person who invades your personal space to the depth of a used car salesman. Not wanting to be rude, I’ve always tried to be cordial to her when she has caught me off guard with some strange offhanded comment or stream of nonsensical conversation. Truth be told, after several bizarre verbal assaults from her, I now make it a point to visually locate her as soon as I enter the store and then shop in an evasive maneuver pattern that will avoid all contact. Even my children, who are friendly to the point of abandon, hide when they see the “Crazy Bag Lady” coming. I finished shopping and went to the checkout line with my cart. While I put the groceries on the conveyer belt, my father went to stand at the end of the counter. Midway through check out, the cashier got on the intercom and called for someone to come and bag the groceries. The Bag Lady was the one to respond. The Bag Lady and I exchanged a polite greeting and then I went back to talking to the cashier as she scanned the rest of my items. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that The Bag Lady was trying to strike up a conversation with my father who was looking at her, confused. I’m still not sure if the look was a result of the Dementia or if it was actually brought on by whatever The Bag Lady was saying to him. After several moments, the cashier and I were shaken out of our conversation by an explosive cackle from The Bag Lady. We turned to look where she and my father stood at the end of the counter. My poor father looked frozen to the spot; a mixture of confusion and terror. The Bag Lady was cackling crazily over and over again like a deranged cross between Fran Drescher and Woody Woodpecker playing on a never ending loop. The cashier and I exchanged looks then she hurriedly finished my transaction. With the last bags in my cart, The Bag Lady stopped laughing long enough to ask if I wanted help out to the car. The answer was a resounding “NO!”  My father positioned himself behind the cart to push it to the parking lot and we began to leave the store. As we walked, the Bag Lady yelled, “Good-bye” and began to cackle again. The disturbing sound followed us all the way to the stores exit. Once out at my car, I opened the trunk and my father and I began to unload the groceries. While we loaded the car, my father stopped, turned to me very seriously and said, “Is that lady okay? I think she’s not right in the head.” It took me a full two minutes to stop laughing.

After a few days my dad and I got into a routine. He would get up, I would make him breakfast, we would watch the news until lunch time, I would make him lunch then he would say that he wanted a newspaper, so we would jump in the car go to the corner store to get him one, then after we were home, my father would read me articles that he thought were interesting and we would talk about them until it was time to pick Dayton up at the bus stop; all the while Ian ran in and out playing. Once Dayton was home, while I dealt with homework and dinner, my dad would watch more war news coverage by himself or with Mike if he was home. Smooth sailing.

The day came for the appointment at the Agape Clinic. Mike was working, so again it was Ian, my dad and I who went to the appointment. My dad actually seemed kind of excited about going to the clinic. He talked most of the morning about what great shape he was in and how the doctors would be impressed with him. There are actually no doctors at the Agape Clinic; it is run by registered nurses. The clinic is a low income facility which renders services on a sliding scale rate of pay. When we got to the clinic, my dad went and sat down in the lobby, Ian went to play with some of the children in the waiting area while I went to the registration desk to get the necessary paperwork. We waited for about an hour before they called my dad’s name. Once they brought us through to an exam area, a medical assistant weighed my dad and I was astonished to find that he only weighed 136lbs. My GOD! He really was starving because I’m sure he’s put on weight while he’s been at the house. I bet he hasn’t been this little since high school. The assistant then asked my dad how tall he was but he couldn’t answer. He then turned and asked me and I told him that he had been 5’11” but he seemed to be shorter to me so they might want to measure him. When he did we found that he had shrunk to 5’8”. Man, I had always heard that you shrank as you got older, but I never realized that you could shrink so much so soon. If he keeps this up he’ll be shorter than me in a year. After checking my dad’s height and weight, the assistant took his blood pressure. The wide eyed look on the medical assistant’s face said volumes.  All he actually said was, “MMm Hhmm,” and sent us into the examining room to wait on the nurse.

While we were waiting on the nurse, Ian had to go to the bathroom. We left my dad in the examining room and went to look for the restroom. I was glad to be away from my dad because I wanted to catch either the nurse or the medical assistant before he was officially seen to voice some of my concerns.  I found the medical assistant and explained the situation. While I took Ian to the bathroom, he went and got the nurse who would be examining my dad and brought her to me in the hallway where I was waiting outside the restroom door. I told her briefly what had been happening with my dad and asked if she could check for Alzheimer’s. She told me that she could not check specifically for Alzheimer’s because the only way to truly diagnosis the disease was in an autopsy. She said that she did have a test that she could go over with my dad to determine Dementia and its severity. She went to her office to collect the paperwork for the test while I went back to the examining room to wait with my dad. The nurse came in a few moments later. She began with the standard questions about general health. My dad beamed telling her how fit he was and how he was as strong as an ox and how he never got sick and hadn’t even taken an aspirin in over ten years. The nurse nodded and “Mmm Hhmmed” a lot, looking over at me knowingly every so often. The exam was going well until the subject of my dad’s blood pressure came up. The nurse informed my dad that his blood pressure was incredibly high and that she was surprised that he hadn’t already suffered a stroke. My dad looked at her confused for a moment then went into a rapid reprise of his earlier dialogue about his superior health, ending in a wide grin. The nurse listened patiently to my dad. She then explained again that he would need to change his diet, start to exercise regularly and would probably need to go on medication to control his hypertension since it was obviously not being brought on by obesity. Again my dad looked as if he hadn’t understood, then went into an excited speech about how he exercised all the time and how he could run circles around me. The nurse got ready to try and explain the severity of his condition again, but I stopped her with a small shake of my head. I could tell from my dad’s reaction that he was not going to listen so there was no point in her continuing to try. All that would come out of her pushing the issue would be my dad getting angry and storming out of the room before she could finish the exam. I decided to change the direction by asking the nurse to check out a couple of health issues that my dad had actually complained about. First, I asked her to check my dad’s hands. He had been complaining nightly since coming to Texas about them hurting. She asked my dad some questions regarding the problem. He had difficulty telling her exactly what was wrong, other than they hurt around the joints in his pinkies and ring fingers when he flexed his hands. After having him demonstrate and feeling the joints for a moment the nurse said it seemed that my dad had a touch of Arthritis. Hearing this, my dad once again went into his declaration on his fine health. The nurse ignored him this time and turned to me and said that the problem wasn’t severe and that the pain could be easily managed with Advil or Aleve.

Next, I asked if she would check my dad’s hearing. I explained that my dad hadn’t been complaining of hearing loss, but I seemed to have to repeat myself at least once, every time I spoke to him. He could be looking right at me, but often I would get no response. She had us follow her into the hallway where the hearing testing equipment was located. She had my dad sit down and explained the test to him. It was like the hearing tests done at school when I was a child. The nurse told my dad that he would need to place the headphones on his head and then there would be a series of beeps either in his left ear or his right and that he should lift his right arm if he heard a beep on the right and his left arm if he heard a beep on the left. My dad said that he understood, sat down and put the headphones on with a little help from me. The test was short, lasting about two minutes. When it was over, the nurse said that my dad’s hearing appeared to be fine. My dad beamed at hearing this, explaining again to both of us how he knew there was nothing wrong with him. As we all walked back to the exam room, the nurse whispered in my ear that what was manifesting as hearing loss might be another sign of the dementia. Back in the exam room, I decided to finally get to the real reason that we had come. I asked the nurse if there was anything that she could do because my dad seemed to be having problems with his memory. She asked my dad a few basic questions about what was going on. He was a bit reluctant, but did tell her, with help from me when he could not find the words, that he was having a little trouble remembering things and was losing stuff on occasion. She told us that she had a test that could help determine what the problem was, but she didn’t have it in the office with her. She said that if we made another appointment for the following week she would remember to bring the test to help my dad find out exactly what was going on. My dad agreed, we thanked the nurse and left the exam room. I paid the bill and set another appointment for the following week. Well that hadn’t been as bad as I thought it might be. I can work on my father’s diet without saying anything to him so that shouldn’t be an issue. I don’t know what I’m going to do if they give him medication…but I’ll worry about that when the time comes.

Over the next few days we went back to our routine with a few slight variations. When my dad wanted a newspaper, instead of driving to the store, my dad and I would walk to get him exercising. I had also been calling the nursing home in Florida to check on my grandmother every other day or so. I was told each time that she was doing well and would convey this to my dad after each call. The longer this went on, the more uncomfortable he seemed to get whenever I brought up his mother; so I did continue to call, but stopped mentioning the calls to him.

Before knowing that I would have to bring my dad home so soon, I had booked myself to do a comedy show on the Friday after my return in Killeen, Texas which is about two hours south of my home. I didn’t ask my dad to go. I guess I should have, but I was a little afraid to take him with me. If something were to happen with my dad while I was performing, there would be nothing I could do and I just wasn’t comfortable risking it. So I left my dad home with Mike and the kids and did the gig. On the ride home, I was exhausted and starving so I did my normal gig routine of stopping at Whataburger to get a Whataburger Big Breakfast. Performing always seems to make me hungry. And I don’t know what Whataburger does to their coffee, but it is the best coffee on the planet. I stopped at a Whataburger about five miles from house, which is not my normal Whataburger, but they are all about the same.

I went through the drive-thru, ordered my food and planned to eat as soon as I got home. When I got home, it was about 2:30 a.m. All I wanted to do was put on my pajamas, stuff my face and crawl into bed all warm and full. I walked into the kitchen from the garage and turned on the light, my dad immediately came out of his bedroom and into the kitchen fully dressed.

“Hey, Dad, what are you doing up?”

“I heard you come in and thought we could talk.”

HUH!?! I was in no mood to do any more talking, but he looked so excited I figured I could stay awake a little while longer. My dad and I sat down at the kitchen table and he started talking about some bar he used to go to. While my dad talked, I opened my bag to eat and realized I had been given the wrong order. Instead of my Big Breakfast, I had been given two breakfast burritos, which I hate.

“Damn it! They gave me the wrong food. I ordered eggs and bacon and I got a breakfast burrito.” I cursed at the bag throwing the food back inside.

“I’ll eat it,” my dad said happily.

I got the receipt out of the bag and then handed the bag over to my dad. As my dad ate contentedly, I grabbed the cordless phone from the kitchen and called the Whataburger to see if there was anyway to get my order corrected at my normal Whataburger up the street from the house. As I was talking, my cordless phone began to beep indicating that the battery was about to die. I asked the woman to hold on while I switch to a stationary phone in my bedroom. I left my dad in the kitchen and went into my bedroom to finish my conversation. Mike was in the bedroom asleep, so I picked up the phone quietly planning to drag it into the bathroom to talk. As I talked, trying to untangle the phone cord my dog, Austin, started barking wildly from his kennel on the other side of the bed. I turned to see my dad standing behind me in the dark at the foot of the bed saying something to me.

“Dad, you can’t be in here!” I whisper-yelled at him, trying to be heard over the dog without making any more noise.

“Why not?” he said in a normal voice, looking hurt.

“Dad, this is my bedroom! Mike is laying here asleep and you’re making the dog go crazy being in here!”

My father just stood there, for what seemed like forever looking confused while I waved my arms at him trying to shoo him out of the room. Thankfully, Mike can sleep through anything and did.  Mike sleeps so soundly that in our first apartment, I came home one night from work to find the building fire alarm, which was located just outside our bedroom wall, going off loudly and firemen running up and down the stairs yelling for people to get out. For some reason, they had let me go into the building. I think I yelled something hysterical about my boyfriend being asleep inside. Anyway, when I went inside, Mike was fast asleep and by the time I woke him, the alarm had stopped sounding and the firemen were giving the all clear.

After a few minutes, my father finally turned and left the room. I hurriedly finished my phone call, got Austin a Milkbone to calm him down and then went out into the living room. My father was just standing there in the middle of the room. He was staring at the dining room table, no real expression on his face. “Dad, you can’t just come in my bedroom at night if someone is sleeping. The dog sleeps in there and he doesn’t like anyone else in the bedroom.” I said gently as I approached him. As I came nearer to him, my father’s expressionless face changed to a face of fear. He turned and ran in the direction of his bedroom.

“Dad, are you okay? It’s me Leslie,” I said stopping in the middle of the room. My father stopped, turned and seemed to try and focus on who was talking to him. What the hell is going on!?!? I know the living room light is off but the kitchen light is still on. There’s plenty of light to see who I am. Besides he was just talking to me in my bedroom. Could he have forgotten that quickly? “Dad, are you okay?” I said again, taking a tentative step in his direction.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine. I didn’t see you.” He finished, the look of confusion returning to his face.

“Did you want to go to bed?” I asked walking towards him again.

“Ah, yeah, yeah,” he said tensing. I reached him and touched his arm. He seemed to loosen up slightly when I did. I guided him to the hallway, turned on the hall light and opened his bedroom door for him. My father went inside slowly, mumbled thank you and shut the door behind him. The next day it was as if it never happened. I told Mike what happened since he slept through it all and that was the only mention of the incident.

That was the first of many instances of what I would learn is called Sun Downing. Sun Downing is a very common occurrence with Dementia and Alzheimer’s sufferers. Sun Downing occurs when the Dementia sufferer get their days and nights confused. They sleep a lot during the day and hardly sleep at all at night. In their evening wakefulness, the Sun Downer’s can do increasingly odd things and then have no memory of it the following day. There was many an evening when I woke up with my father standing in our bedroom throughout his time with us, especially in the beginning.  Once, I woke up and found him coming out of my bathroom; scared the hell out of me. On another occasion, Mike and I were awakened by the house alarm going off. We both sat bolt upright not knowing what was happening for several seconds. Finally, when we realized that it was the house alarm, Mike got out of bed to see if we had an intruder. All of the exterior doors were equipped with a kind of thick metal safety latch, like you find in hotels. We had to put them on after waking up several weekend mornings and not being able to find our oldest inside the house. After several panicked minutes, we were able to find him, naked and playing in the backyard. For someone to have gotten into the house they would have needed to break one of the latches, or jimmy or break a window and we hadn’t heard any glass. Mike went into the living room and found my father standing there, the French doors partially open. He had his hand squeezed through the small opening, sliding it up and down. Mike said that he went to my father and asked loudly what he was doing, since the alarm bells for the entire house sat directly above the French doors on the patio. He said my father had just looked at him and asked, “Does that tree always make that noise?” Since there was no tree in the back yard at the time, Mike said that he had told him no, pulled my father’s hand out of the door and closed it, then came back and told me to turn off the alarm with the remote while he took my father back to bed.

The most disturbing incident was the night that I woke up and found my father standing at the end of the bed staring down at us. That in itself was freaky enough, but what made it worse was all that he was wearing was a pajama top. Luckily, it had been dark so I couldn’t really see much, but I saw enough. The strange, consistent thing, when my father would do this was, if I spoke or moved towards him, he would take off running out of my room. I was always able to catch up to him once he hit the living room, because once there he would become disoriented and stop. Once the Sun Downing started, I slept very little and when I did, I slept very lightly. I can only liken the experience to new motherhood, when you first bring your baby home and no matter how exhausted you might be, you wake at the tiniest sound of movement from your newborn. I became similarly attuned to my father and his nocturnal habits. Because the house is shaped like an L, the master bedroom is situated east to west while the rest of the house faces north and south. The only window in the master bedroom looked out into the backyard and directly onto my father’s bedroom window. I spent many a sleepless night staring at my father’s window praying that the light would not come on, because when it did was when the roller coaster ride began.

Again, we fell back into a routine. The only real issue that surfaced was that my father would bring up daily how he was going to go “Home” as soon as he got his benefits started. He would bring this up usually while we were eating dinner. Mike and I would look at each other and then not respond. He would also talk about women he would go see, or the detailing business that he was going to start or something. Dad, you have no home to go back to. There are no women jumping up to volunteer to take care of you. I realize you love Florida, but this is your home for now. Heck, right now with all that we have already done, there is no way I can afford to take you back there right now and there is no way I can just stick you on a plane by yourself. You haven’t even gotten a complete diagnosis yet and you refuse to think that there is anything wrong with you. How are you going to take care of yourself!?!? I wasn’t sure what to do or say, so I generally didn’t say anything.

The day came for my father’s follow up appointment at the Agape clinic. My father was a little taken aback when I told him it was time to go. He didn’t remember the appointment and started to question the reason for it. I reminded him that the doctor (nurse) had asked us to come back so that she could give him a test to help him with his memory problem. When I said this, he looked as though he were going to protest again, but before he could say anything, I reminded him that he had been the one who wanted to find out why he had been forgetting things sometimes. That seemed to appease him. I was afraid that he might forget his appointment. I did remind him last night. He seems to remember less and less for shorter periods of time.

I hoped the nurse could suggest something that might be able to slow down the progression. Once we got to the clinic, my father sat down in the waiting room while I went to the registration counter. Because my father had already had his “official” appointment, we were able to skip the regular paperwork. It took about five minutes for the nurse’s assistant to call us into the examining room. The nurse came into the examining room, said hello to my father and then turned to me and said, “So what are we here for today?” What do you mean what are we here for today? You told us to come back.

At that moment I realized that all hell was about to break lose but I pushed forward hoping beyond hope that what I thought was about to happen didn’t. “We came back to have my dad take the test to find out what his memory problem might be.” I answered. I pleaded mentally with her not to say what I knew she was about to say next.

“Oh my, I forgot those papers again. You’ll have to come back in a couple of days and I promise that I’ll have the Mental Competency Test with me at that time.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see my father, who had been sitting placidly on the examining table completely change demeanor at the words “Mental Competency”. Before I could respond, my father jumped down from the table and headed for the door shouting. I didn’t catch all of what he said but I didn’t need to. I heard the key phrases, “I’m not crazy!” and “You people are gonna lock me up some place!” as he headed out the door. It’s going to be a LLLLLLOOOOOOONNNNNGGGGGG car ride home! UGH!” The nurse looked at me in shock as my father pushed past her out the door. I wanted to pummel her.

WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!?!? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?!?! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT IN FRONT OF HIM WHEN YOU KNEW HE DIDN’T THINK THERE WAS ANYTHING WRONG WITH HIM!?!? HAVE YOU NEVER DEALT WITH A PERSON IN THIS CONDITION BEFORE!?!? AND WHY THE HELL AREN’T THE PAPERS HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?!? LADY, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO MY HOMELIFE!?!?!

I wanted to jump on top of her and scream all the things I was thinking as I shook her until she couldn’t see straight. But there was no time for making myself feel better. I knew I had to take off after my father before he got too far on foot. So, I didn’t say anything; I just took off running after my father. I finally caught up with him as he walked quickly through the parking lot. He didn’t say anything to me when I caught up with him, he just turned and glared at me with a look that sent daggers into my heart. Oh god, now what am I going to do? I know my father well enough to know he is not going to forget this for awhile, Dementia or not.” And I was right. This incident changed things terribly between us and we would never completely recover. My father followed me to my car and got in without complaint. We drove home in tense silence. My father’s anger hung in the air in that car, trapping us both in forward facing positions. Neither of us willing or wanting to speak or look at the other. That all changed as soon as we got into the door of my house. As I walked into the kitchen behind my father, he rounded on me.

“You just want to lock me up!” he bellowed. “Well you lost! Now you’re gonna have to find someone else to say that I’m crazy ‘cause that doctor won’t do it! She knows I’m not crazy! She said I’m as healthy as a twenty year old! She knows not to play your game!”

“Dad, I’m just trying to take care of you, the same way you tried to take care of grandma.” I said trying to sooth him.

“Your grandmother hated you!” he screamed at me with an evil grin and stomped away to his room slamming the door. Yeah, tell me something I didn’t know. Now what am I going to do?

Out House asks THE GoToNegro

Dear TGTN,

I have a problem with my wife and don’t know how to approach it in a sensitive way. She is 5 ft. tall and when we got together 4 years ago she was about 115-120 lbs. Now she is pushing 160. I know that this is bad for her health and want her to lose, but how do I bring it up without sounding like a male chauvinistic pig? When ever she asks for workout equipment, I do my best to get it for her (i.e. elliptical bike, Wii Fit, etc.) but she won’t use them. Please help!

Somewhere between the pig pen and the dog house

Dear Out House,

Let me begin by commending you for your selflessness and humility. Not only have you been worrying about your spouse’s growing girth, you failed to mention your tireless efforts caring for the disabled. I am so proud of you for taking care of her, in this her time of need, without even hinting at what a struggle it must be. The fact that your wife has lost her lushiness in her newly acquired lard ass must put a strain on an altruistic Adonis such as yourself. Ad to that, your woman has also either become a vampire unable to see herself in mirrors, requiring you to do all the daytime chores and/or gone blind which puts even more of a burden on your shoulders. I am warmed by your willingness to stay with such a burdensome beast.

I truly hate to ad anymore tasks to what must be an extremely busy existence but since you did write me for advice I will do my best.

Your wife, like so many others out there, seems to be too weak and lazy to just quit a bad behavior, as they should, when told by those who know exactly what is wrong with them. Might I suggest tricking her into performing said activities. I know it will be a HUGE burden to you but your charity seems to have no bounds. You might tempt her into exercise by taking her out to do some type of exercise TOGETHER with YOU (i.e. dancing, roller blading, horse back riding, nature hiking, or a team sport {volleyball, kickball, softball} ect…).

I realize the public humiliation you will experience taking this monstrosity out in public will be almost unbearable but you strike me as being strong enough to handle it. She will never know that your true motive is to get her to shake her money maker off IF you play it right. Just PRETEND you would LIKE to spend a fun evening/day out. As dimwitted as she must be, she will never catch on. You can even tempt her with a healthy dinner/lunch before hand, which you know she won’t be able to resist.

If all else fails…And I shutter at the thought as I suggest it….You might have MORE sex with her. It does burn a whole lot of calories, will definately lull her into a false sense of security to bend to your will AND you won’t have to take her out in public. If that is somewhat difficult, just leave the lights off or watch porn while you do it.