Forget Me Not

Recently I had a run-in with my dad's Alzheimers. Mostly my mom has to deal with it and my brother and I are spared. For the most part I see my parents when I go out to their house for laundry and a visit, and my dad cheerfully greets me with "The anagrams are ready when you are," meaning he wants to play anagrams with me as soon as I'm done putting my laundry in. I love that he always wants to play with me, because it's just about the only thing we do just the two of us. You know, bonding. I've become quite good at anagrams and while he used to be extremely good, I can tell anagrams, just like many other things in his life, is becoming more frustrating. His temper has shortened and he's become much more sarcastic. He hates losing to me. He's never been one of those fathers that lets their children win - he's not evil or anything, he doesn't rub it in your face - he just likes to keep us on our toes. My dad is impressed at how well I can play anagrams now, and he must think sometimes that while his daughter is getting smarter he's getting dumber, and thus his sense of self-worth must take regular hits to the gut. Like when he forgets how to get to a friend's house that he's been driving to for 30 years. Like when my mother has him help her with her scrapbook like he's an intern. Honestly, that's how my mom treats him lately. If he's not working he'd better do something besides nap, and she now has him helping her with silly projects and she's taken away most of his decision-making. She is coping the best way she knows how and I really can't blame her. It's probably the hardest thing she'll ever have to deal with, and really, when you're over 60 and your kids are self-sufficient you must think to yourself "now comes the easy part, the twilight years, the years when we retire and relax." Except there will be no relaxing for her. She will be his babysitter until she can't take it anymore and then, for her own sanity, she will put him in a nursing home. He is well aware of this. She already talks about taking up golf because she'll need activities in her life "when she's a single woman." I was totally aghast when she said that to me. My dad was in the other room, and I'm sure he heard it, and I'm sure it's not the first time. No wonder he's become more sarcastic. He probably feels like a rotting piece of fruit just waiting to be noticed and thrown out.
Well, as I said, my brother and I don't really see all the ins and outs and all the ways their lives are affected. While I can see my dad's increased frustration and temper, I had yet, until recently, to really see what can happen when the disease takes over.
For my birthday my parents gave me a generous gift certificate so I could replace my sad tennis shoes with new ones, because that's what I asked for. (Anything that promotes/hints at me getting exercise is cause for great glee with them.) I promptly lost the gift card and asked my mom for the receipt so I could attempt to still use the credit. Somehow my dad got assigned to bringing me the receipt before meeting my mom and some of their friends for dinner. In preparation, I called my dad and gave him exact directions to my house from the Botanical Gardens, which is where he'd be coming from. Not hard, right? About a mile away. Nevermind that he's actually been to my apartment about 4 times. With Alzheimers, it's like a clean slate every time. I didn't even flinch when he asked for directions because I understand that. Friday night passed and there was no receipt in my mailbox. I called my parents' house on Saturday morning and my dad answered, and this is how our conversation went:

Me: Hi Dad! How are you?
Dad: Oh, fine, fine. How are you? What's going on?
Me: Not much! I was just wondering what happened...I thought you were going to bring me that receipt mom gave you.
Dad: (silence)
Dad: The receipt. Hm. Well, I'm not sure.
Me: Ok...um, did Mom forget to give it to you?
Dad: Well, let's see...I don't know.
Me: Were the directions to my apartment hard to follow?
Dad: I don't really know what you're talking about. You'd better ask your mother.
Me: Ok, Dad. It's ok. I'll talk to her later. No big deal.

My dad remembered nothing about the receipt. I don't know if he tried to find my apartment or not. It was the oddest conversation I've ever had with anyone - he just didn't comprehend anything I was saying. Later when I talked to my mom I told her how odd he was on the phone and she said "You know, I had a very strange conversation with him a couple days ago. It must be some sort of rough patch for him," which I think was her way of consoling me, because she knows I'm not used to him being so scatterbrained. Everytime I visit them she tells me another thing he can't do or another factoid about Alzheimers, and I rarely want to hear about it because it's too fucking painful, which is very selfish because I believe she shares these things with me to unload some of the burden from her shoulders. She wants to keep us abreast but she also wants to keep herself sane. I don't believe he has rough patches. I believe I am losing my father. You don't even know how vividly I can imagine walking into his nursing home room in 10 years (8 years? FIVE years?!) with a child on my hip saying "Hi Papa!" and him looking over at the both of us like "Well aren't you pretty! Who are you?"

I recently read an article about dealing with people with Alzheimers when their spouse has died. These people wake up everyday and want to know about their wives and husbands, they ask When are they coming to visit me? And everyday the nursing home staff battles with whether or not to tell them that their loved ones have passed away. Do they tell them the truth every day, making every day the worst of that patient's life? Or do they placate them with "Oh, your wife is visiting tomorrow," knowing that they'll have to recycle that lie for all the tomorrows to come? I honestly don't know what I'll do if my mother passes away before my father. She is, was, and will continue to be the solid rock of our family. But perhaps that responsibility is too great. I need to do more, but I have no idea where to start.