the little things

remembering when he was forgetting. my hope in sharing these stories as i look back at living alongside dad's memory loss, is to help someone live a bit more easily with alzheimer's

I saw Dad today. The idea now, is to show up and be with whatever comes. Or remains. You see, he has dementia. I have come to delight in telling him stories about himself, to keep the memories alive for us both.

This week, a childhood friend wrote. He lost his Dad years ago. He told me that of all of the “parent group” folks, my Dad remained a favorite. He recalled his coming to their home in the middle of the night, to help delivery their puppies. Dr. Neil, I joked. Dad worked in pharmaceutical advertising and his medical knowledge always had him just a smidge away from our family doc. He asked that I share with Dad that he was sending love, and to give him a hug. Dad’s eyes lit at the story.

We walked to Lange’s Deli, where everyone knows him like they know you at Cheers. They still ask after his dog and sidekick Max, and ask if he is thinking about another. Mr. Lange adds our tab on the back of the brown paper bag. Two sandwiches, two Dr. Brown’s creme (I remind him it is a favorite). They pack up our sack, and the owner says, “ya know, maybe you should get a pony.” They giggle and Dad offers “be well”. He guides me back across the street like a kid. “Watch that car, they are turning in”. He’s got his hand at my back.

I leave him at the corner as I dash to mail a letter. He waits. I sneak his photo. We finish up the short walk to his condo, and I steal some video. His gait is signature. He walks a bit on his toes, those familiar peppy strides. At 83, with a new haircut and Levi’s he is so seemingly young in spirit. I try hard to look for the good in all of the loss we are experiencing before our eyes.

He points out flowers newly planted on the condo grounds. Pansies, mostly yellow and some with purple centers. The daffodils and forsythia too. Naming them all for me. I wonder where in the brain that is stored. Dad has always liked a well-manicured lawn and admires how it is cared for each time we talk by phone.

I sort through his clothes. We have two baskets outside the closet on a small table, because they need to be out for him to remember. I swap some new favorites into the rotation. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes it in. His easy-going, mid-west nature is so baked into his DNA. This is Dad. His wise counsel missing, but the heart of who he is remains.

I cream Dad’s hands. We take in some TV. I choose a cooking show now, easy to follow. He loved to cook. My kids adore “Grampsy’s Special French Toast” among a few of his signatures. I place my hand on his and photograph them as he takes in the show. He tells me about his recent trip to the Barber. He thinks the trim is a bit short. I think it is cool and modern. I call my Uber and as it pulls up, Dad takes his position on the porch. We hug and kiss “I love you Dad.” And as he always says, “love you more.” He adds, “thanks for everything Bub”. He waves me off.

I remind myself, a little is a lot. A little is a lot.

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ANTICIPATORY GRIEF

Thanks for the space to honor the loss of my Dad and some of the pieces I wrote from the middle of our life alongside this loss. Dad, aka Gramsy, died this past January after living with memory loss for nearly a decade. My sibs and kids and I learned a lot as his caretakers, and my hope is that some of our stories may help others.

This is a kind of grief that begins before the goodbye.

You may find yourself mourning the person they used to be, their memory, their humor, the way they said your name. You may feel invisible in your grief, because others see them still living. But you know, something is shifting, slipping….slowly.

This kind of grief can feel like sadness, guilt, relief and confusion. It deserves, like all death and non-death losses, to be named, honored and held.

What I learned in this kind of loss is to practice presence. This was a life lesson Dad was teaching me alongside his memory loss. He could not recall much of his past, nor plan his future and I learned being with him right there in our visits was my medicine.

Do find grief support in other folks that are living alongside this kind of loss. It helps to be able to share how disorienting it is to love someone who is here and also, no longer here in many ways.

This disease has been called “the long good-bye”. I never wanted to think about this while we were learning to live with this loss. Gathering the moments that still existed, even as it was changing, was the way my family learned to navigate and continue to reorient as caretakers.

I am always open to talk to families who are experiencing this loss to share our resources and learnings. This too helps me to honor my Dad and would certainly make him proud.