From Darkness Into Light
As a child, I was afraid of the dark. Night after night, I cowered under the covers, waiting for some imaginary monster to crawl from under the bed. Tentatively making my way down the tiny corridor that led to my parents' bedroom, I felt as if I was stumbling through a maze of unfamiliar terrain.
Years later, as I watched my father's memory slip away as a result of Alzheimer's Disease, I remembered my childhood fear. Sensing Daddy's growing confusion, I realized he must have been fearful and uncertain-just as I had as a little girl. Though he was having trouble recalling things that happened just days, or even weeks, before, I believe Daddy was aware that something was not quite right during the early stages of the disease.
Despite developing a closer relationship with him during his final days, I can't recall a single, tender childhood moment with Daddy. He was often abusive and mean spirited. Yet as his memory faded, there were times when I saw a warmer side of him.
As Daddy began to lose his short-term memory and recall events of long ago-the hallmark of Alzheimer's-I learned about the young man and little boy he was before he became a husband and father. My grandmother died when Daddy was 12, leaving him in the care of an abusive father. When I asked about my deceased grandparents, my father refused to talk about them. But as Alzheimer's Disease stripped him of the ability to recall what he'd had for breakfast just hours before, he became a family historian for me, sharing bits and pieces of his childhood.
My father was a Navy veteran and sailed the freezing North Atlantic Ocean. Until he became ill, I knew nothing about his military history. Yet, once the dementia set in, he told me such interesting stories of his stint in the military. He recalled watching whales off the port bow and washing his uniforms in sea water. He told me about making the cameo for my mother-a beautiful yet primitive heart-shaped piece of steel topped with black onyx with the lady's head from a silver dime in the center. And for the first time, I saw the pride on his face for having served his country and the bittersweet recollections of being in love with a woman he'd lost twenty years earlier.
Coping with the disease from the caregiver's perspective requires a significant change in attitude. There were days when Daddy's actions were traumatic-he was combative and on one occasion, he didn't recognize me. But amidst those horrible days, there were some humorous moments that lightened the mood. Other dimensions of the disease actually changed Daddy's demeanor and presented a softer side of his personality. Those times helped me deal with the ups and downs from one day to the next.
When my father was hospitalized in the early stages of the disease to try to ensure a definitive diagnosis, I witnessed one particular event that still makes me laugh. Once Daddy had been poked, prodded, and tested for every imaginable cause of dementia, the hospital moved him to another unit for the transition from acute care to a more independent environment that would prepare my family for life after he was dismissed from the hospital. The day of the move, I was so worried about how this change would affect Daddy since staff shift changes caused terrible bouts of confusion for him. I agonized over whether I should ride in the ambulance with him or just meet him at the new unit. While I was in my useless quandary over what to do, the EMTs moved Daddy and his belongings to the transitional care hospital, so my reluctance to make a decision had solved the problem for me.
When I arrived at the transitional care unit, the nurses were helping Daddy settle in. He had discovered the combination television remote/nurse call, and was fascinated by the technology. When he saw me, he said: "I pressed this button, and here you are!" I laughed and replied "Isn't that amazing?" Still interested in his new toy, my dad, a former police officer, continued to test the various uses of this fascinating invention. He pressed the button to call a nurse, and received a quick reply. "Can I help you?" asked the male nurse manning the station.
"Yes! I need a pick-up for an arrest down on 4th street," Daddy said with great urgency into the device that strongly resembled the police radios he had used during his days on the force. Without missing a beat, the nurse replied, "10-4, good buddy!"
After hours of stress and worry, the humor of the moment took over! I laughed so hard that I had to excuse myself into the hallway where I uncontrollably wet myself from my bout of hysteria.
One of the most precious moments I shared with Dad was during a visit to him over lunch. For as long as I can remember, Daddy's cursory blessing at meals was: "Lord, make us thankful for these and all other blessings. In Christ's name. Amen." That day, when he took my hand to say grace, I was surprised to hear this heartfelt prayer: "Lord, I can't remember much, but I know I haven't been the kind of husband and father that my family deserved. I want to do better, Lord. Please forgive me and give me a chance to make it up to them. Amen."
While I lost a piece of my father to Alzheimer's Disease, I received a precious gift amidst the many struggles associated with the illness. Daddy's departure to an earlier time revealed a gentler side of him that helped me forgive his shortcomings as a father. By sharing his darkness, my life was enlightened from knowing the man God desired my father to be.