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.