Forward

Lovely September mornings are a dime a dozen in Colorado. Perfect days, followed by perfect nights. And this was yet another one – a Wednesday. The switchboard was lit up like a Christmas tree, and I was completely “in the weeds”. Eighteen lines, all with clients on the other end with important insurance questions, issues, problems or concerns. One right after another, I answered, “Good Morning! Manor Insurance – how may I direct your call?” And then I heard the voice I never expected to hear. My father. “Debbie?” “Dad?” “We lost momma this morning.” He said it with no emotion; as though he were telling me that he'd just bought new tires. “What?” “Your mother has died.” The phone fell from my hand.

And with those words, lives were changed. Many lives. It had less to do with mom passing, and more to do with dad.

Dad and mom had been married 58 years. We all lived in Oregon for three decades, at least, until my husband and children and I moved to Denver, Colorado. Now, dad was alone in Oregon.
I called him daily after mom passed. All through September, October...and I kept getting that niggling feeling that something was horribly wrong with him. He couldn't keep a train of thought. He couldn't communicate well at all! I thought it was losing mom that was causing his change of personality. I thought it was loneliness, or grief. I tried so hard to excuse it away. But I think I knew. I also think I was being a coward.

Finally, the middle of October, he told me that he had walked to get the mail, and returned home, opened the door, sat down at the dining room table, only to realize that he was in someone else's home. It wasn't his house at all. Dad was showing outward signs of dementia.
A family council meeting was called. My husband, 18 yr old son, 9 yr old son and 26 yr old daughter all collectively decided that grandpa needed to be here in Denver. With us. Post haste. Of course, dad said “NO!”. Every day. The same answer. “NO!” Then, just like the call I received on September 10, 2004, another emotionless call. “I've called Bekins. They are arriving on Saturday to pack my stuff and hitch up my car. They will move me on Sunday.” What? That was five days away! We have nothing arranged! No apartment – no house – wow. Now what?

That situation notwithstanding, Jodi and I flew from Denver to Portland Oregon to bring grandpa to his new home. When we arrived at his home, I could not believe what I was walking into. The house was packed, and he was sitting amongst them, watching a football game on TV. He greeted me as if he had just seen me twenty minutes before, with little emotion. He seemed “flat”. Definitely not himself. His storage shed was untouched. Nothing packed. Jodi and I went out there to see if anything needed packed, and were stunned to hear dad say, “Nuthin' there I want.” Oh? We found boxes with his and mother's wedding license. My grandfather's things. Baby pictures. MY baby pictures! Clearly, it all needed boxed up, and Jodi and rolled up our sleeves and got to work. Meanwhile, we quietly discussed the changes we were seeing in my father.

Dad stood stoically by, silent. We took him to our hotel room that night, and flew out the next morning. The more time I spent with him, the more sure I was that this was the right move, and that he was clearly – absolutely – definitely not all right.

The plane landed on time in Denver, and as we navigated the airport, I became aware that he had no idea what to do next. He was physically exhausted, mentally terribly confused, and yet had a child-like curiosity about the airport.

We were “home” within the hour, and with that, the story begins. Or maybe, it begins to end. I still don't know. I'll let you decide that.

Join me – join US – as we share our stories about our loved ones. Our mothers, our fathers, our husbands and wives. We will look into the lives of those that we hold most dear, and into our own lives as they are forever altered and amended to include the words that we live with each and every day: “Alzheimer's” and “Dementia”.

You will read stories that are so tragically sad that you weep for people you have never met. You will meet us – the caregivers - the incredible men and women that give their time, their unending love, their money, their actual LIVES to care for those afflicted with a cruel, tragic condition.

And most importantly, you will gain a peek through a window usually curtained securely and acquire insight into the mind and the life of a dementia patient. Not the kind of view that most books will share – but a real life insight into how they think, what they feel, and how they live.
None of us are doctors, nurses or “professionals” in the field of Alzheimer's or Dementia. None of us can garner $250 for a 15 minute consultation. We are simply the caregivers that live, feel and see the slippery slope that our loved ones live on. The doctors see our loved ones for a few minutes a year. The rest is up to us.

To all the contributers of this book, I applaud each of you. You are amazing. No one will ever know just how incredible you are.