I don’t like change. Wait. Let me rephrase that. Some change is necessary. Dirty diapers, blown lightbulbs, oil, underwear and so on. I’m talking about big change. Like the transition from high school to college, single to married, or how you felt after Glenn from "The Walking Dead" died but in a later episode it turns out he didn’t die (still totally blown away by this). It’s the kind that shifts the trajectory of how you live your life.
Change, no matter how necessary, is mysterious, uncertain, and uncomfortable. Who wants to be uncomfortable?
I changed my tune in 2012, the year my dad was diagnosed with mixed dementia. One week, he would be fine and have us wondering if maybe the physicians got it wrong. The next week, he would tell a room full of strangers that the night before he had to beat up Ross Perot because he caught him trying to rob a woman in the Kroger parking lot.
“She offered me money because I helped, but I said, ‘that won’t be necessary.’”
Change for someone in the throes of this disease is monumental. Routine is key. For nearly four years, we managed to keep his routine, his life predictable. Then at the end of 2015, we had to prepare him for something HUGE.
After in-depth cognitive tests at an area specialty center revealed dad lacked skills to operate a car safely, the state took away his driver’s license. Three months later, my brothers, sisters and I made the tough decision to sell his car.
On Christmas Eve 2015, I had to drive his car to the new owners. That morning, while everyone slept and the coffee brewed, I cried. I wasn’t crying because my kids didn’t want to leave cookies for Santa or because I miss my siblings who live on the west coast. I wasn’t crying because I can’t lose weight as easily as I could in my 20s. I was crying because Alzheimer’s had once again managed to steal something else from my dad.
More than anything, dad didn’t want to burden his kids. In his mind, losing his license and selling his car signaled the end of “independent Ralphie” and the beginning of “dependent Ralphie.”
We sold the car, and everyone survived. Of course, our routines were shaken up a bit, and it wasn’t easy.
Changes are getting easier for him. Like in 2018 when he moved to an assisted living facility. At first, it was hard on all of us. But soon, everything was fine. Dad found a new routine with new friends and loved his full social calendar thanks to the activities director.
Most days he can’t recall why he doesn’t drive or why he moved out of his condo. That’s a silver lining for him.
A few weeks ago, I was visiting dad and feeling especially melancholy about Jackson leaving for study abroad. So I talked to dad. And he listened. He shared stories about how he felt when, one by one, all six of his children grew up and left the nest. Dad did what he has been doing for 50 years with me. He made it better. Later that day I couldn’t help but stare at dad while he worked a crossword puzzle. I thought about how lucky we were that dementia had softened him. He’s always been kind but now his kindness is childlike. As much as I loved his more tender demeanor, I missed his bluntness and brutal honesty. At that moment, he looked up from his crossword and said, “You should take off that lipstick. People will think you’re a prostitute.” And that, my friends, is a silver lining for me.
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