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?
