CHAPTER ONE

I don't know when it all went bad. It was so slow, so insidious that there is no date that I can associate dad's decent into his own private hell.

For two and a half years, he was basically fine. Well, maybe not “fine” in the traditional sense, but he was still driving, writing his own checks and able to heat the food I cooked for him. Oh, sure – there were plenty of signs, lots of occassions where I would get that same gut-punched feeling that he was indeed, quite ill. But I am a champion “avoider”. And I would push all those frightening feelings down so far I would forget to even address them.

But one day in particular, it became crystal clear to me. He had a doctor's appointment. His first appointment with a new doctor. She is a beautiful woman, talented and kind, warm and understanding. She gave dad a physical, announced him the very picture of physical health, but said the words I was dreading: He was quite demented. There it was. There was an 800 lb gorilla in the room, and the fact was now unavoidable. She told me to take him home, keep an eye on him, and get used to the fact that my father was going to get a lot worse, never get better, and eventually die. He was approaching the end of his physical life span, but his mental life span was slipping away moment by moment.

We went out to lunch that day. He loves him some Applebee's, and I wanted to treat him to something he could enjoy. At the end of the meal, I asked for the check, and watched my father wash his fork in his iced tea. Odd. We went to the car, and he turned to me and said, “I need a kevner.” A what? He repeated himself. “I need a kevner.” I started the car, and second by second, his verbal skills dissolved. Within three minutes, he was speaking a language I had never before heard.

Straight to the hospital we went. I blew in the door like an ill wind, announcing that I believed my father was having a stroke, and was immediately surrounded by eight staff members that whisked my dad away. After a couple of hours, a diagnosis. He had had a TIA. A transischemic attack. A “little” stroke – one that resolves itself within hours. And that's just what happened. After a few hours, he was back to his old self. The doctor told me that a TIA is often a precursor to a major stroke, so take him home, keep an eye on him, and get used to the fact that he is going to get a lot worse. It seems as though I had heard those words earlier in the day. Maybe this was something I could not avoid any longer.

Clearly, I had to take his car keys. I also needed to take a look at that checkbook of his. I also had to see if the bills were paid. And one last thing – I needed to have a long, serious conversation with myself. I now knew that this was my baby to rock, and I had better get going.

The Temper

Today I did something I said I would never do. I called dad's doctor and asked for a prescription to be called into the pharmacy – some medication that I could use only as needed to calm this man down. He crossed the line today, and I need to have some chemical way to settle him, and maybe help him “sleep it off.”

Dad has always been a bit of a curmudgeon. It wouldn't take much to get his temper going, and now that he has dementia, it takes even less. In fact, it often takes exactly nothing.

He never did like kids. Didn't like me or my brother, especially, when we were kids. Therefore, he doesn't like them now. Actually, I think he hates kids. All kids. His kids. My kids. All kids.
That is an unfortunate state of affairs, as he lives with us now, and we still have a child at home.

Patrick is thirteen, but still qualifies as a “kid” in dad's book. The poor kid has been the recipient of many spewed epithets, thanks to dad. To make matters worse, Patrick actually has friends.
We are doing our best to make this situation with grandpa living with us as comfortable as possible for Patrick, so we still allow the neighborhood children to play in our driveway as we have the only basketball hoop in the area. Therefore, we are often inundated with as many as ten children playing in our yard and driveway, ranging in age from six to fourteen. Most of them, though, are around Patrick's age.

Last night, he could see a small group of boys shooting hoops right outside the dining room window. I could see dad buiding up a head of steam, and eventually, he managed a couple of words. “Little Bastards”. Jodi informed him that that was not nice at all. His reply? “Sons a bitches.” And with that, he held onto his cane and slowly shuffled his way to the back door. “Where you going, daddy?” “Out.” “What for?” Of course, I knew. He was going out to whoop some butt with that cane of his. I blocked the door, redirected him to the front room and a cup of hot coffee, but his temper did not abate. He was “loaded for bear” all evening.

Unfortunately, he awoke this morning in the same foul mood. Within twenty minutes, he informed Patrick, “You are a son of a bitch. That's what you are.” Well, first of all, I was impressed with the continuity of speech! Two complete sentences! Patrick told grandpa that he didn't appreciate that, and dad countered with “I want your head.”

Soon, dad went outside, much to Patrick's and my relief. But of course, there was no relief to be had. Dad felt it necessary to rearrange the lawn furniture, and Patrick made the mistake of asking grandpa if he could help him in any way. The floodgates opened, and dad took a fibile swing at my son. Of course, it was easy for Patrick to duck out of the way, but then dad picked up a plastic chair and took a couple of pokes at the boy. Patrick came in and informed me of the latest developments, and out the door I flew.

Again, all he needed was redirection, and coffee usually does the trick. He took his coffee, stomped - as best as he could- off to his room, slammed his door, and took off all his clothes and went to bed. He slept for four hours.

I took this opportunity to jump online and chat with a friend who is going through the same thing. She told me that this behavior is actually a chemical problem...it's physical, and all part of the deal. Wow. Now THAT was good to know.

But physical or not, I can't help but feel a little better with some medication available. Now. If only I could staunch the guilt. I said I would never medicate him. I said I would never “snow” him. I said I could deal with him.

So why am I speeding off to the pharmacy?