It's Really Good to See You

February, 2011
I have two brothers.  Do I feel jealous that I'm the one who has to deal with my father's Alzheimer’s? 

No.  Not really.  Not yet at least.  Here's why:

First of all, my parents simply deserve to be taken care of when they need it.  If no one helped two people like my parents at a time like this, the stones would cry out.

Second, it's not like I'm stuck with this job because my brothers refused to step up.  When it became apparent that my dad had Alzheimer's, there was no question that one of us was going to help in this way if it became necessary.  In fact, my other brother who lives locally would not even give me his "blessing" to move forward with taking mom and dad into my home until he had a chance to investigate the practicality of doing so himself.  I just happened to be in the best position to help, and that’s how we decided who would offer this assistance.  This situation is a very difficult thing, but the decision was easy. 

The third reason is that often blessings come with the difficult path.  My father still has small moments of relative lucidity, which I get to experience, little moments in time when I have my father back from the grave, as it were, before the static noise of Alzheimer’s comes rushing back.  My brothers do not experience these moments.  The stresses of talking on the telephone, or being a visitor in someone else's home, or having visitors in one's own home bring out the worst behaviors, not the best, in someone with Alzheimer's.

I've had a pretty bad cold for the last few days, and so to avoid keeping my wife awake all night with my coughing, I have been sleeping on the couch.  This morning, in the early quiet of first daylight, I awoke to find my father kneeling beside the couch, his face a foot from mine, staring intently at my face.


"Sethy" he said.  He has never before called my Sethy; so I knew the extra 'y' was the Alzheimer's talking.  But the "Seth" part was my father talking, and this was the first time in days he had shown any indications of knowing who I was.

My father patted my shoulder like he used to do when I was a little boy.  "Where have you been?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

"Oh, I've been around," I replied nonchalantly.  "I've been sick with a cold recently."

"It's really good to see you," he replied, still patting my shoulder.  "It's been such a long time!"

A bedroom door opened and another family member entered the room, admonishing my father to let me sleep.  POOF!  The moment was gone.

But it still happened.  For a brief moment, my father was there, knowing I was his son and expressing his approval of me.  So actually, that moment will never be gone.