Don’t worry if you act strangely, no one will notice.
When I look back at photos of my father taken just one year ago, I see him staring blankly. Looking off into the distance. Disengaged.
Previously, a starched gentleman wearing England’s finest bespoke attire. A dapper and courteous physician, psychiatrist and pilot.
Suddenly, or so it seemed, my father stopped caring about his garb. His perfectly polished Oxford Brogues were scuffed. He could not fold his French linen cuffs. Inserting his silver cufflinks was more puzzling than a Killer Sudoku. He stopped wearing shirts with more than 6 buttons, resorting to stained white undershirts.
Despite leaving obvious clues, a trail of breadcrumbs to his brain, no one noticed. Except me. I lived with them. My siblings dropped by the house every few months for a visit lasting an hour. More if it was rush hour. Less if there was a sale in the mall.
Thus, no one thought that my father’s increasingly bizarre behavior was more than an eccentricity. Sitting on the porch in his Fruit of the Loom white boxer shorts. Relieving himself by a Maple tree whilst visiting the family’s grave site. Conversations filled with non sequiturs. Sentences which changed tense. Lost credit cards. Erratic mood swings. Missed
appointments. One of his patients complained about his repetitive and random questions.
All the while, the family made excuses for him.
“He is tired.”
“His patients are so draining.”
We waved off the bowel incontinence.
The bed wetting.
His change of diet from strictly meat and potatoes to chocolate cheerios and ice cream.
Until, he was admitted to the hospital. They diagnosed the strokes, the damaged white brain matter. So, there it was, on his hospital record. This was unacceptable for Dad and most of the family. After all, if we had maintained the facade of normalcy for 5 or 6 decades, why change?
However, my mother embraced the diagnosis. Finally! Time for revenge. A chance to pay back all the abuses of their marriage. She told everyone. And anyone. But, no matter how many times she told Dad that he had dementia… he forgot.
It was a bit of a let down.
Their nasty, mutual pecking has not gone into remission. In fact, it has escalated. They know each other’s triggers so well. The diagnosis brought new insults for my mother’s arsenal. But, my father does not react to her slights. He does not seem to remember.
Unless he does.
Then, when my mother is out of the house, he sits by me and confides. “You know; your mother says I have dementia. I do not accept that diagnosis. These young doctors are not trained they way we were. They don’t know what they are doing.”
My father’s instructional TEDTalk is accompanied with hand signals, head shaking, and spittle. And a firm, unshakable belief in his mental facilities. Despite any intrusions from reality.