3 Months

So much has happened in the past 3 months. The world has changed so dramatically. 
The Middle East and North Africa protests with the Tunisian government falling after 23 years in power followed by the riveting Egyptian People's Revolution and the nightmare of Sudan. The earthquakes in New Zealand and the 9.1-magnitude earthquake and subsequent tsunami east of Japan, killing over 14,000 and leaving another 11,000 missing. So many changes. So much emotion. Almost too much. 
Just before Christmas I was told the time had come for my father and that would be wise to book a flight to come out and say goodbye. I knew this was going to happen. The specialists told us that Dad would probably be gone by the end of December. But you can know something all you want...having it become a reality that you don't want to face, is another story all together.
I had been waiting for this call for 6 months. 6 months of tears and anguish, anger, helplessness, frustration and compromise. Well you can't really call it compromise because you don't get to make deals with Alzheimer...it doesn't care. It will just do what it always does. Take. 
Something happened. Something magical. Just before my flight my mom called to tell me that my dad had to go to the hospital because he had an infection caused by his catheter. While he was at the hospital the doctors noticed that his hemoglobin levels were low. They gave Dad a blood transfusion and in return gave me the best gift I could have ever asked for. They gave me back my Dad. Just for a little while. 
The blood transfusion imbued my dad with a new lease on life. Within 3 days of my visit my dad was out bed. His cheeks were rosy and he had a wonderful smile on his face. Best of all he was able to dig deep and communicate. He was able to focus. What a beautiful thing. Those eyes of his, those beautiful beautiful eyes sparkled again.
I was tired, broke and worn out from 9 months of crying, but none of that mattered...I had my dad back. He was out of his bed and back in his chair. He was smiling and alert. I was so so grateful. His advanced stage of Vascular Dementia meant he couldn't really talk but was able to say simple words like yup and ya. He had to dig deep to do it and I had to wait for him to form the word...but it was like Christmas every time he was able to express himself. 
This blog is about my Dad and his fight for dignity in the face of Alzheimer Disease and my fight to remember the man who loves me. I struggle with inserting my personal problems with this fight into Dad's Alzheimer Diary, but I haven't blogged in such a long time I feel I need to explain. 
In the face of my Dad's small victory I was facing many personal changes. Completely strung out, emotionally exhausted, physically depleted I was informed by my employers that they were changing formats at my radio station and that my morning show would be moving down the hall and down the dial. That when I returned to work in the new year everything, with exception of my two co-hosts, would be changed. The change of venue was a good thing, but it wasn't what I wanted. The only sure thing I had in my life was the fact that, as I was running back and forth between Edmonton and Winnipeg, I could show up to work and it would be normal. What I did for a living, where I did it and who I did it for was the only thing I could count on. After I got off the phone with my two bosses and my two co-hosts I had a massive meltdown. Completely different from the other meltdowns in the past. Those meltdowns were because of my complete sense of helplessness and anger over my Dad's Alzheimer Disease. This meltdown was "all about me". I had reached my breaking point. I was desolate. I was tired of being brave. I just wanted my Dad back. 
​My ritual has always been Starbucks for coffee and the free wi-fi then a 10 am date with my Dad. Sometimes I would spend all day with him. Other times I would leave him around 2 pm and return after supper and spend the evening with him. But one thing never changed....when I was with my Dad it was all about him. This day it was different. My eyes were swollen and puffy and I had hit an emotional wall. I just could not pull it together. My dad was in his big Gerri-chair when I came in to see him. It was always so special coming through his door...he lit up when he saw me and it, in return, lit up my life and gave me courage and strength. Not today. Dad could tell something was wrong. He reached up and touched my face and I'm ashamed to say that I couldn't hold it together. I burst out crying and did something I haven't done in years....I let it all out. I let it go and I cried and cried and cried. I told my Dad everything. How tired I was, how broke and hurt and angry and scared and lonely and frustrated I was and how now, with all these changes at work, how unsure I was of everything. I felt destroyed. In my self involved selfishness I told my Dad, my poor Dad who has spent the past year in a diaper in a chair fighting for every moment, that I was lost and that I needed his help. What do I do Dad,,,please tell me. What do I do.
My Dad has always been a man of few words, but those words have always counted. He rarely missed his mark. After I had put all my problems into my Dad's lap I sat in front of him a total wreck of a person....wretched.... wondering what had I done...ashamed of my weakness. He had turned his head away from me and I felt horrible for handing all my problems over to him. Inside I was being eaten up. It took only a minute before my Dad with his beautiful grey eyes looked back at me and said three words that would change my life forever. "Go get it".
Go get your life back. Go get your bills and pay them. Go get some sleep. Go get the vacuum and clean your house. He looked at me with such a steady gaze it was if he was willing me to understand that he was giving me permission to not pour everything I had into coming out to see him every 2 weeks. At that moment I honestly physically felt the weight of the last 3 years lift off my shoulders....now my tears were tears of relief mingled with such an appreciation for the wisdom and strength of my father. My beautiful beautiful father. I will never forget the gift he gave me that day. So we made a deal. I told him that it would be 3 months before I would be able to be back to see him, that I would get my life back in line, paperwork done, pay my bills, get out of debt, but that I would call him every day.....yup, yup, yup he said, understanding every word I said. 
I will never forget that moment as long as I live. This blog has always been a desperate grasp by me to honor my father's life before his story slips away. He has so many stories that I've learned from. But now I realize that, much like the world over the past 3 months, my life has changed dramatically with so many changes. So much emotion. Almost too much.

Beers and Buzz

Its nap time for my Dad right now, so I’m hanging out at the Rosslyn Hotel having a beer and a steak sandwich….the hotel is all cleaned up now and is called the Rosslyn Inn, but back in the day it was a wonderfully scuzzy, nuthin fancy, local hotel that used to rent rooms to misfits and vagabonds.  The “Roz” was extra wonderful because, way back then, they never asked for ID.  It was a dark, dank place so I doubt very much if they could even see our grade 12 faces as we sat in the corner praying not to get caught.  The area I grew up in was far smaller than it is today….the whole north end of the city has blown up….the old Airforce base has been turned into an upscale housing development, there is the mother of all strip mall areas just down the road where the old drive-in used to be, and the corner of 97 and 137th is a nightmare.  But somehow, sitting here at the Roz, everything seems okay.

 This has been an incredibly difficult visit this time around.  I thought I had a strong grip on my feelings but it is clear to me that I simply do not.  The light of recognition has gone from my Father’s eyes and every fear I have ever had over the past 9 months is welling up and spilling out of me.  I feel paralyzed with emotion.   

Earlier this summer, when my Dad was still able to communicate in a way where you knew he was active and engaged, I wheeled him out from his care center to The Roz for a beer.  My Dad loved having a beer or two.  He totally enjoyed a good beer buzz and if you know me you know I love a good beer buzz too.   If I could go back and change one thing about the past, I would have gone to the pub with my Dad more often.  We always looked forward to our third beer of the evening together and we both thoroughly enjoyed getting loud and becoming the funniest people we knew. I have such vivid images in my mind right now.  Snap shots of the look on his face when I wiped the pool table up with a couple of big burly guys.  I have no idea how I won that pool game…I just kept sinking ball after ball and I suck at pool…I just remember my Dad telling them not to mess with me “cause she may be tiny, but she’s no pushover”.  Or the time when we both knew the punch line to a joke some guy was trying to tell us…and we blurted it out at the same time.  The look on his face was precious.  I can still see it.  Then there was the time some guy was trying to pick me up and I ended up having to tell him that I was here with my Dad and that I wasn’t interested in what type of car he drove.  Ever.  Dad bought me another beer and told me he was proud to know me.  I could listen to him tell me that he was proud of me a million times and it would never be enough.  Our favourite part of the night was walking home from the pub singing at the top of our lungs… loudly and badly.  It was magic.   I felt like I was with my very best friend, doing silly very best friend things, knowing that you were very safe and that everything was okay because you just got along that well together.  There was never any judgement….just two people who thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. I wish I had done that more. 



Summer 2009.  Outdoor Pub.  Calgary.



When I brought my Dad to the Roz earlier this summer he could still hold his beer glass.  He would get confused when it was time to put the beer glass down and pick up a french fry but that can happen to the best of us.  We talked about the time he caught me at the Roz.  There was an old fella who ran the bar in the afternoon…either he was as blind as a bat or just didn’t care….either way it was a bonus for us  because we got to sit in the corner and have a beer.  One afternoon we were sitting at the back where the pool tables were.  We had been there most of the afternoon.  It was around 4 pm and I knew it was time for me to get home…I headed out the door and walked right into my Dad.  Literally turned right and smashed into him.  At the exact same time we both asked “What are you doing here?” “Nothing !”  we both said…….my life flashed before my eyes.   “Listen,” Dad said “don’t tell your mother you saw me” …..”uh, okay Dad”.  “Now go home” he said.    My friends thought that my Dad was the coolest person on the planet that day.  I was stunned.   I got home and nothing more was ever said about it.  I guess neither of us were supposed to be at The Roz that day.  I stayed away for 30 years.

Later on one of the stories my Dad would tell me about growing up in Nanaimo BC in the 1940’s was about how, since he was an underage working man, he used to drink in the same pub as his parents did.  My Dad quit school to become a logger, so he figured he was a grown up and entitled to drink with the men. He always hung around the back door though….if his folks came in the front door he could slip out the back.  One Friday evening he saw his Mom walk in the pub so he grabbed his jacket and snuck out….right into his Dad who was waiting for him outside the back door.  Dad thought he was a gonner.  My grandpa, his Dad, dragged him back into the pub and sat him down at a big table and proceeded to round up all his buddies.  All my Grandma and Grandpa’s friends were seated and treated to an open tab that night.  My Dad had to pay for everyone’s drinks.  It cost him two weeks wages.   I never got tired of hearing that story.  I was always in a rush to grow up.  I think my Dad was the same way.  There is a great big beautiful world out there waiting for us and both my Dad and I were in a hurry to get there and see it all before it disappeared.  Well now I am sitting at the Roz and I can tell you that it has disappeared.  There is no big beautiful world right now because it doesn’t hold my father any more.  No more beers and laughs with him.  I just cannot imagine a world without Buzz in it.

My Dad will be waking up soon.  I’m going to sit and watch an old movie with him and hold his hand.  He keeps reaching out to touch my face today.  Maybe I’ll tell him the story about how much he and I loved going for beers together.  About how much fun we would have, how loud we would sing and about how he was so proud of me.

10 Days with Dad

Dad 1966 Phantom Lake Manitoba

Why is today so hard.  I feel so heavy and so sad.  I’ve flown out to spend the 10 days before Christmas with my Dad but, for the first time since he fell down and began his aggressive decent toward stage 7 Alzheimer, I feel hopeless.  I’m starting to think that it’s okay if my Dad dies now.   I am burned out and in debt from flying back and forth every weekend.  My life is jammed up behind me.  I have neglected my friends, the people I love and my co-workers and I can’t remember the last time actually felt happiness.   I see my Dad and I know he doesn’t know who I am.  Who I really am. I know that I am a familiar face, like the lady who brings in his clean towels…but I am afraid that I have become just one of many faces in his life.  My Dad is always smiling and many people pop in to say hi to him.  But for the first time in 9 months I'm afraid that I may no longer be special to him.  I know that other than a look of recognition I've become just one of many.  I can’t remember the last time I exhaled. 

I’m sitting beside my Dad as I write this.  I just broke down and started crying…I truly feel lost right now.  My beautiful Dad just handed me his little quilt, saying “here”.  I guess he felt I needed comfort.  He's right.  I wish I could ask him if he knows me, but I could never do that to him.  I never want him to leave his warm cocoon of comfort.  I never want him to be reminded of the fact that he can’t remember.  He can’t remember and I can’t forget.

I work very hard on making sure I write only about my Dad….the incredible person that he is, the amazing life that he had and how special he is to me.  I try very hard not to turn everything into something about me, but today I feel nothing but weakness, sorrow and selfishness.  As I sit here I am trying hard to lift myself out of this feeling, but I can’t.  My Dad and I are watching Band of Brothers, and HBO mini-series box set that my Dad got for Christmas a few years back.  He absolutely loves this series….he knows the name of it, nods his head when I mention things about the show and is completely enraptured by it.  Every once in a while he’ll notice me, smile and say….”There you are” and then go back to the show.  This is what it has come to.  This is who we are now. 

It’s cold in my Dad’s room today.  I put an extra blanket on his lap.  I checked his feet to see if they are cold too. Because he has restless feet the staff at Dad’s care center put padded booties on his feet so he won’t get sores on his heels.  Bed sores are extremely hard to treat.  They are like open ulcers and rarely heal.  For most of his later years my Dad’s feet have caused him trouble. He had a couple of botched surgeries on them when he was in his late 30’s and they never really got sorted out.  But that never stopped him from doing all the things he wanted to do.  He golfed every day that he could and he played lots of baseball.  My Dad has all sorts of scars on his feet from his younger days in the Airforce baseball league.  He was quite the serious baseball player.  First base and catcher.  When you play serious baseball you wear serious cleats and serious cleats leave serious scars on the feet of the people trying to tag you out.  My Dad was proud of his scars.  He loved playing baseball.  I vividly remember the very first time he gave me his catcher’s mitt to throw the ball around with.  I remember how heavy it was and how funny it looked, but I didn’t care because it gave me a reason to be with my Dad.  I started playing ball when I was 8 with a catcher’s mitt that weighed more than I did. I continued playing community league ball every summer until I was in my mid-30’s.  My Dad played ball until he was in his late 60’s. 

When I was about 11 years old my Dad coached my little league team.  I was a pretty good little ball player and, during a practice game, managed to crack the ball into left field. The throw went to home plate where my Dad was standing.  I decided to go for it and try to round second on my way to third base.  My Dad must have thought he was making a run for the pennant, because he threw the ball at the second baseman like he was playing in the World Series.  I remember distinctly seeing the second base-gal cover her face with her baseball glove……just as the ball whistled past her.  Instead of my Dad’s throw connecting with KiKi’s glove, it smashed into my face stopping me cold.  Legend has it that I actually did a flip in the air when the ball hit me.  When I woke up there was my Dad bent over me asking me if I was okay.  When I told him I was alright he let out a huge sigh of relief and said “Listen” (He always said “Listen” when he had something important to say) “Don’t tell your Mother I did this and I’ll buy you a Banana Split after every game for the rest of the summer. “. I agreed instantly.  After we got home from the first of many Banana Splits that season, I kept my promise and never told my Mom what Dad did.  I had a goose egg on my cheek for months and when I smile you can actually still see a bit of a dent in my cheek right under my left eye. It was a heck of a bruise.  I should have held out for more than just a Banana Split, but frankly…it was hanging out with my Dad that meant more to me than the ice-cream.   Last year my Dad gave me his baseball glove and asked me to take care of it for him.  He was worried it would get thrown out. It had a baseball tucked into it and was wrapped up with an old band of leather.  He told me not to give it away because he would probably want it back.  I wish that was true. 

Dad's Quilt.

I am always in awe of the people who care for my Dad.  It takes a special person to do that type of job.  Some are better than others.  Some don`t care enough.  Some care too much.  We are blessed with three women who care too much.  Quintina, Shirley and Emma take care of my Dad every day and every night.  They get him up, feed him, make sure he`s clean, they turn him every few hours, they tuck him in, they change his diaper. Most of all they treat him with dignity and respect.  They sit and hold his hand when they have a few extra minutes.  They hold the phone to his ear when I call him every day at 10 am.  They watch out and care for him.  These women care deeply about each and every one of their wards.  They are angels.  They are also immensely over-worked and horribly under-paid.  The Alberta Government….the richest province in Canada….. should be ashamed of the way they are treating their senior citizens.  The generation that built that province is being abandoned in their greatest time of need.  It does not matter whether it is a private or public care facility; cut backs have left senior’s care centers running on bare bones.  Alberta, Canada….the world is woefully unprepared for the incredible tsunami called ``Dementia” that is headed our way.  In my Dad’s ward there are two nurse’s aides, during the day, for 26 residents.  That is one aide per 13 residents.  Two overnight staff are responsible for a whole floor.  80 people.  40 seniors each.  This is not how we are supposed to honor our elders.

I started many blogs while sitting by my Dad’s bed but could never seem to finish them.  Every day, every hour, every moment is different.  Unlike Alzheimer where you “fade away”, my Dad’s Vascular Dementia  rips chunks of him away from us. One moment Dad and I would be holding hands pointing out Robert Mitchum on TCM…. the next, he would be fast asleep in a toothless snore.  Next he would be wide awake…. body moving back and forth staring at an old golf photo of himself.   Some days a large chunk of time was spent simply holding his hand while he slept.  I used to sit by my Dad’s bed and make deals with God. Please let me have one more moment like the last time when he smiled with bright beautiful eyes and held his arms out for a hug. Or when he asked to see my iPhone saying “I always wanted one of these…do you like it?” Or when he was able to tell me he loved me.  I no longer live for those brilliant moments of lucidity, instead….if they happen….I am simply grateful for them. I am grateful for him and all that he has brought to my life.  I’m just happy to see him, whatever capacity he is in. 

Yesterday he was looking at a big photo of himself, the one where he is in mid-golf swing and I told him the story of how he used to golf every weekend when I was a kid and how he golfed every day after he retired.  I had a difficult time with curfews when I was in high school.  All my other friends used to be able to stay out much later than me, so I used to sneak out my bedroom window and stay out all night.  Well, not exactly all night.  I would have to be home to sneak back into my bedroom by 5 am before my Dad woke up to go golfing.  One night it didn’t quite work out as planned…just as I was rounding the garage to beeline for my bedroom window I saw my Dad was up and in the kitchen.  Busted.  My bedroom was right under the kitchen….he would totally hear me.  Having the sense of genius that only a delinquent 16 year old could have, I thought I would outsmart him by pretending I had slept in the hammock. So, like the genius I was, I crawled into the hammock and promptly passed out.  For about 10 minutes.  I woke up to water dripping onto my face…my Dad was standing over me holding a soaking wet washcloth.  Get up, he said….you’re caddying for me today.  I was still wearing the clothes I had on from the night before….smeared makeup, teeth not brushed….and still rather drunk.  I really thought I was in major trouble, but my Dad didn’t say anything.  He actually bought me some McDonald’s breakfast on the way out to the golf course.  I kept waiting for the “you’re going to grow up and rob banks if you keep doing this” lecture but it never came. He had me yard his clubs out of the trunk of the car and explained how he liked to have them…he sat me down outside the clubhouse and had me clean his cleats while he went in to meet his buddies.  He must have told his buddies that he caught me trying to sneak into the house because all I remember was that they said hi to me and that was it.  My dad explained what a caddy did and I spent the rest of the day, in the boiling sun, wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt, walking 10 paces behind him, sweating out the booze.  18 holes.  All day.  When it was over I sat outside the clubhouse while my Dad and his buddies went in for a beer.  I had to clean all their clubs and their cleats.  By that time I had been awake for about 32 hours.  On the way home my Dad thanked me for caddying for him and told me I did a really great job.  He never once mentioned the fact that he caught me in a huge lie.  He did ask me if I knew why he had me caddy for him and I said yes. Nothing more was ever said.  When I got home I went straight to my bedroom and slept until the next day.  I never stopped sneaking out but I did start sneaking back in earlier.  Once or twice more my Dad woke me up with the dripping wet washcloth and informed me I was caddying that day…busted again, but he never ever made me feel like I was a terrible person for sneaking out.  I think he always understood that deep down I was a really good kid who liked to have a lot of fun…..just like him when he was my age.  Just like him period.  He understood me and he tried to foster a safe environment between us.  One where I could screw up and still know that I had his love and support.   It seemed my Dad believed in punishing the act, not the child.  Very wise.

I know that because he stood by me when I was a lost little girl I will stand by him and hold his hand.  I no longer care what I get from him…just being next to him is good enough.  I want him to know that even though he’s not at his best he is alright by me.  The threat of renal failure has subsided…on one side of his bed is a urine catheter on the other is an IV drip.  He has padded boot things attached to his feet so he won’t get bed sores from moving around.  They prop his legs up with pillows. His skin is as thin as tissue paper, but he has never been so beautiful to me. 

Dad's Quilt

When I reached out to the Alzheimer Society in Manitoba they offered a small quilt made of many different textured materials.  My dad has had that with him since he first fell down and became a ward of the Province.  He knows the blanket is from me and he never lets it go.  Only at night does the staff take it from him…and even then he fights them for it.  I can’t be with him every day but it makes me feel better knowing that he is holding onto something from me as hard as I am holding onto him.  Some people say I should let go…I say, not yet.  When my Dad lets go of that blanket for the last time I will let go of being there for him.  Until then I will keep calling him, keep visiting him and keep telling his story.

A Promise.

It’s been a while I know.  More things to sort out.  More compromise too.  There is nothing easy about this. I am grateful to my friends who are out there watching over me.  

Recently I had someone question why I was flying out to see my Dad so often.  To paraphrase;  “One day is just like the next for him and, really, he has no concept of time….shouldn’t you just take care of yourself and have a regular life?”  I thanked the person for their concern and told them I would visit my Dad as often as possible until he goes.  I can always recoup the money, I can always regain my life…but I can never have another Dad. When Dad takes his last breath…..I will let go.

About 3 years ago my Dad and I made one another a promise.  And I intend on keeping it, even if I have to light the world on fire. 

When my Dad was first diagnosed with Vascular Dementia there was little or no follow up from the doctor.  Sure they booked the next appointment, but no one reached out to council, educate or prepare him for what lay ahead.  To put it bluntly he was basically told “Buzz, you have Alzheimer Disease, thank you very much for coming in.  We’ll see you next time.  Have a good day.”  My parents were sent home with no outreach or resources to pull from.  My Mom was cut loose and my Dad was abandoned.   My Mom trusted that the system would provide and my Dad sat on the couch watching Turner Classic Movies.

 Just around the time my Dad was diagnosed I was moving down to Calgary to start another radio job.  The highway between Edmonton and Calgary is horrible to drive in the winter and since I was busy starting a new life I never visited my parents until early spring.  I assumed my Mom would be proactive and have my Dad in classes or courses or therapy by then.  I never for a moment thought that she might possibly be scared of what the future would bring and may not want to know the answer.  Hell, that’s a lot two drop on two people…..especially seniors.  My Mom may simply have thought that, as most people might, the sheer force of her will could circumvent the inevitable.  By the time I visited them my Mom was frazzled and frustrated.  No one had counselled her on how to live with a loved one afflicted with Alzheimer.  How his sleep patterns would be changing, how his feet would start shuffling, that he would probably not be able to complete sentences sometimes or that he would start dozing off more.  No one had reached out to tell her of the resources available or to facilitate contact with a support group.  It’s not her fault she was so discouraged….her generation, frustratingly, never asks for help.  My Dad was incredibly depressed.  He felt he was being a burden.  It was painful to see. 

In order to give my Mom a break it was agreed that every 6 weeks or so my Dad would come down on the Greyhound bus and spend 10 days with me.  I have always loved hanging out with my Dad so I looked forward to his visits.  Not long during his first visit I noticed just how hard he was on himself, calling himself stupid and saying he was useless.  I realized quickly that my Dad needed a champion, someone to believe in him.  I have all the patience in the world for my Dad so it never mattered to me that he would take a long time to get his socks on or that he would get confused trying to take his slippers off.  I would encourage him when he needed it and guide him when I saw he was getting lost.  One day we were heading out to the mall.  My Dad got his shoes on but was struggling with his coat.  He couldn’t figure out how to put his arm through one of the sleeves.  He dropped the jacket and looked at me with those beautiful eyes…so sad, so hurt, so very…..indescribable.  He looked like a man who, every moment of the day, was living with the very real fact that he was losing his memory.  Can you imagine knowing that about yourself?  How do you go about your day?  It struck me to my soul.  I didn’t know what to do with my Dad standing there looking so lost, so I took the coward’s way out.  I pretended that there was nothing wrong, helped him get his coat on and shuttled him out to the car.  We were only about a block or two away when I noticed he looked totally defeated.  I asked him what’s wrong and he replied “nothing”.  I reminded him that we had made an agreement to tell the truth at all times and that I would never judge him.  Without looking up he simply said “I should know how to put my coat on”.  That was the first time I died a little inside.  It broke my heart to see my amazing father like that.  I asked him if anyone has explained how things are going to unfold for him.  He didn’t look up. He didn’t say anything.  I decided it was time he knew the truth.  I told him that I would explain everything to him when we got back to the house and he said okay.

Being a morning radio announcer worked well with my Dad’s internal Alzheimer clock.  We were both up very early and we both went to bed early too.  In the morning my Dad would either be awake before me or would get up when I did.  I would show him where his cereal bowl was and then sit him on the couch with a blanket and the Turner Classic Movie channel.  At night I would tuck him in bed….. and go down the rabbit hole after him. 

Gibson, Dad and Boone in Calgary.

The evening of the “I should know how to put my coat on” incident I decided to tell my Dad the truth about his disease.  We had a night time routine where every night I tucked him into bed with my old Yorkie Gibson, my big puppy Boone, and Tinker the cat. We would talk and I would give him words of encouragement.  That night, the night I decided he deserved to know the truth, I told him what I knew of the disease.  I told him it wasn’t his fault.  That he didn’t do anything wrong.  I told him that he was a good man and that I loved him and that, although there is no way we could stop this thing from taking him over, we were going to fight it off for as long as we could.  I explained how important he was to me and how much he mattered and that I needed him and that I needed him to fight. I explained how he needed to exercise and stay busy.  Join a group....get a physiotherapist or a personal trainer to work with him to keep his juices flowing.  No more sitting on the couch.  No more Turner Classic Movies. I also told him that the disease would eventually take him over…that I hated that this was happening to him and that I would never abandon him. I told him I would never let go of his hand.  I told him there would come a time when it will get dark and he will lose sight of the shore.  I told him always keep his eyes on me because I would be his light in the dark.  That he was to always keep his eyes on me. He promised me he would wake up every day and go into battle and fight this God awful disease.  I promised him I would never let go of his hand.  Little did we know that Alzheimer had different plans.  Little did we know that time was rapidly running out.  My Dad kept his promise and started going to a seniors program created for people with Alzheimer.  It took a while for him to get into the program because there are not enough of them.  In order for my Dad to get into a program someone else’s Mom or Dad had to die in order to make room.  This time last year my Dad was getting on the handi-bus and going to his senior’s group.  Today he is in a bed, dying.  Vascular Dementia has ripped away huge chunks of him and there is very little left.  But what is left is beautiful.  My Dad is still keeping his promise to me and I am doing the same for him.  After I post this I will take the last swig of Starbucks coffee and head over to his care home.  I don’t know how today will unfold for him and I.  But I do know that I will be keeping my promise.

Many More Bridges to Cross



My Dad and I at my 12th (?) birthday supper.


I`ve come out to Edmonton to say goodbye to my Dad. Last week his sodium levels went through the roof. My Dad was in renal failure and the medical staff felt he was going to die so they thought it was best I come out and spend some time with him before he passes. Dad is in bed hooked up to an IV. He looks like a tiny bird under a blanket. My Dad will never leave this bed. This is where he will die. Turns out these next few days or weeks or months won`t be so much a race against him dying as it will be to see exactly what it is that he is going to die from. It could be pneumonia, or an infection, or renal failure or starvation. We just don`t know. This isn`t what I wanted for my Dad. This isn`t what anyone would want for a loved one. To see them tiny, vulnerable, and so terribly diminished. My father has always enjoyed the lime light, he had no problem sticking out in a crowd and even now during his last few months on earth he is doing things his own way. The doctors and nurses can`t believe my Dad survived renal failure. Apparently, his brain should have swollen up; he should have gone into a seizure and died. But he didn`t. Even his Vascular Dementia has everyone scratching their heads. It is so extremely aggressive. 7 months ago he was walking, talking, joking, laughing, and singing. I mean, we knew Dad had Alzheimer but this disease has taken him from us so fast that everyone is in shock. It is as if he went off a cliff.
I am sitting beside my Dad`s bed as I write this. His TV is on the Turner Classic Movie channel….Gunfight at the OK Corral with Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas as Doc Holliday is on. My Dad and I used to watch that movie all the time when I was younger. I love watching movies with my Dad. Old movies are a passion we both share. It was always something just for him and me. Even when I didn`t have time I would make time to watch movies with my Dad. I have lived in and out of Edmonton many times over the past 25 years and every time I came into town it was understood that Dad and I would be doing a movie and a burger at Red Robins. My dad always said that if he didn`t fall asleep and if he didn`t look at his watch he considered it a good movie. He especially loved the action films….anything with a high dead body count. My Dad`s eyes would get so bright and shiny when he watched movies. I would look at his profile when we were in the darkened theatre together and I would fall in love with him all over again. So childlike, so simple in his delight at watching the action unfold. Movies, to him, were like a ride….up, down, all around. When I got older I discovered foreign films. I`ll never forget the time I brought my Dad to The Princess Theatre to watch our first and last art house film together. The Last Emperor. It was a fantastic movie; it won all sorts of Academy Awards that year…very lush, beautifully filmed. Just when it got to the most important part of the movie and everyone was enthralled, a noise like a thousand chainsaws let loose…..I looked over and there was my Dad, his bag of popcorn tipped all over his lap, his head bent right back, his mouth wide open…..snoring like he hadn`t slept in 10 years. I whispered his name really loud and elbowed him awake….he snorted and swung his head around saying "what, what….is the movie over….lets go for a beer." The whole theatre, including the movie snobs, laughed aloud.
My Dad just woke up for a bit. I put a hot cloth and some cream on his face and then got him to drink a few ounces of thickened liquid. He isn`t eating solid foods any more. His only nutrients come from Ensure or Boost but it is too sweet and he makes funny faces. I tried to get him to have some soup the other day. He only took 2 spoonfuls. I told him that if he didn`t eat he would get sick and die. He looked at me with those beautiful eyes and said "I know." I died a little inside.
Dad is tired today. The nursing staff just came in and turned him. A pillow supports his bent legs. There is also a folded bed sheet placed between his knees to prevent any sore spots from developing. His skin is very delicate, like tissue paper. All his muscle mass is gone. All of it. He looks like a skeleton. His false teeth are too big for his mouth now and since he is not taking any solid food it is safer to leave his teeth out. Because of that his tongue hangs out of his mouth a bit when he is sleeping. He takes deep breaths when he sleeps. I love him so much.
This is one of those days that leaves me feeling so helpless. For the past 3 days my Dad had been alert and engaged. When I got here for the first time on Saturday I asked him how he was and if he was comfortable. He looked at me with his toothless grin and said `Everything is perfect just the way it is`. He even called me by my name. Today he is fast asleep. So weak that he can`t even lift his arm. I look at my Dad and I see the future and there is nothing pretty about it. We spoke to one of his doctors last night, trying to get some idea of how things are going to play out. No one can tell us anything because no one can predict what is going to happen. All we know is that the doctor told us we have many more bridges to cross. All we know is that Buzz will soon be dead. Every fibre of my being wants my father to stay strong until the dementia takes him completely. I do not want him to die from something like pneumonia or an infection. For the first time in this horrible disease, I want my father to fade away peacefully. He has been ripped from us so aggressively, please God….just let him have some peace.
My horoscope today says "We can't change what has happened, but we must now move ahead with a renewed sense of purpose." I am going to do that. My sense of purpose is to make sure my Dad knows that I love him more than anything and that there is nowhere else I would rather be than right beside him. I wish I could be beside him every day until he dies. I do not ever want to let go of his hand. I really do not want to cross any more bridges, but for him I will.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

Camping in Germany 1949

My Dad was always singing.  The three things I remember about him the most is his smile, his easy going nature and the fact that he was always singing.  My Dad’s three favourite things are cold beer, good laughs, old movies and (okay… 4 things) music

My dad was born in 1932, record albums were just beginning to become a part of society.  Rudy Vallee, Al Jolson, Bennie Goodman were all the rage. My father grew up listening to Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, The Andrew Sisters and Bing Crosby.  When he was in his 20’s my Dad was stationed in Europe and missed the whole Elvis thing so his musical passions were pre-rock and roll.  He loved big band stuff and, subsequently, so did I.  I grew up listening to him sing his music.  Loudly. 

I have so many memories of my Dad and his singing.  We had this old beat up yellow duo-tang with the lyrics to all sorts of songs from the 50’s.  Beer drinking songs.  We would sing loudly and badly from that book all the time.  Christmas Eve was always a great time for my Dad and me.  We would go to midnight mass and sing at the top of our lungs.  Ode to Joy never had a chance. 

 Both my parents always had music playing in the house.  My Mom had a radio in every room and my dad had his stereo and his record albums.  Later it was CDs.  When my Dad began to comprehend that he really was losing his memory he gave me all his CDs.  He asked me to take care of them for him.  It is not lost on me just how much it must have meant to him to give me all his music.  I can’t imagine what it must be like to become conscious of the fact that you will soon forget everyone and everything and that you must leave your most precious items with those you trust and love.  During the last year of my Dad’s life he was compelled to give me the things that he knew I would appreciate and cherish.  His beautiful Pentax camera with all the attachments (my Dad took incredible photos), his Airforce medals and badges and about 100 CDs.  Vera Lynn, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Etta James, Tommy Dorsey, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee.  I have them all and I will keep them all.  Every single one of them an inestimable reminder of my beautiful Dad and his great love of music and of life in general.  

When I was a little kid, my Dad and I chummed around a lot.  He liked hanging out with me and I always felt good around him.  I always felt accepted.  It never really mattered to me where we went I just liked being in his presence.  He was always laughing and joking and, of course, singing.  One day we were coming back from somewhere and a song came on the radio.  The Lion Sleeps Tonight.  The song has been around since the 1930’s and many of my Dad’s favourite singers had covered it so he knew it very well….Tommy Dorsey, The Weavers, The Kingston Trio, but the version we were listening to was by a group called The Tokens.   My Dad and I had sung it together many times.  Loudly. And Badly. And with a great deal of joy in our hearts.

I am trying now, as my Dad slips away, to remember as many things about him as I can.  I have this need to capture every moment.  To keep it and hold it and never let it go.  I have so many memories of his easy going nature, his relaxed way of taking in life, his beautiful spontaneous smile.  Funny, I always go back to that summer day, sitting at the lights on the corner of 97 Street and 132 Ave, in his wicked yellow Dodge Challenger with black racing stripes.  Windows rolled down. Singing along to The Tokens’ The Lion Sleeps Tonight.  Loudly and badly and with a great deal of joy.  It felt like we were the only two people in the world.

The last time I visited my Dad it was clear to me that I was losing him. His essence is still there, his peaceful nature is still immanent but he is slipping away.  He tried to communicate but words just came out garbled so mostly we sat and looked into each other’s eyes until it was time for me to catch the plane back to Winnipeg.  I absolutely hate leaving him.  It rips me to shreds.  I am always gutted when I have to say goodbye.  I would much rather be saying “I’ll see you tomorrow”

The last time I left him it was very difficult for me.  I was filled with fear and hurt and sadness and overwhelming sorrow.  I barely got to the car before all my tears poured out of me.  I sat in the car and sobbed like a baby.  I cried until I had nothing left and then I sat there some more.  I had to go and catch my flight so I put the key in the ignition.  As soon as I started the car the radio came on.  The song that was playing was The Lion Sleeps Tonight.  The Tokens. Our song. 

I still don’t know what to do with that moment.  I don’t know what to think of it.  Someday, maybe after all this pain and sorrow has passed, I will pick up that moment and look at it and try to figure it out. But for now I’d rather think of my handsome, easy going father and remember him singing his songs.