Category Archives: Memories

June 9, 2012 · 6:19 pm

Dad’s campaign against car thieves

Dad always leaned towards the paranoid and suspicious side, long before dementia pushed these tendencies to an unhealthy level. The other day, I saw an older, run-down car with The Club on it and immediately thought of my dad.

I don’t even remember there being a rash of car break-ins in our neighborhood. One day, Dad appeared home with a bright red device called The Club. He was dead-set on keeping thieves away from our old piece of junk car. I was a pre-teen and thought the ugly device was unnecessary. Who would want our old car? In fact, I was hoping someone would steal it, so Dad would be forced to get another car.

Photo credit: AutoBarn.net

Well, our car was never broken into, so I guess The Club worked in that sense. Unfortunately, we ended up spending a lot of time locking ourselves out of the car as well. I don’t know if it was user error or a faulty device, but we had a heck of a time getting the thing off sometimes. This would send Dad into a cursing-under-his-breath fit, with my Mom scolding him for using that kind of language. Finally, Dad became so frustrated with the thing that he stopped locking it. He hoped the appearance of the device alone would keep thieves away.

Too bad we can’t secure the mind from the memory thieves as well as we can protect our car from robbers.

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June 8, 2012 · 8:39 pm

Alzheimer’s goggles

With the Japanese “diet goggles” being in the news this week, and reading a touching blog post about another dementia patient who’s experiencing visual disturbances, I couldn’t help but think about my Dad. I’ve written before about the strange things he would see as his dementia progressed, from black dogs to babies in the woods behind my parents’ house.

It makes me wonder, what do Alzheimer’s patients really see? My dad could look straight through my mom and ask where she was in the next breath. What did he really see? Did he forget that quickly, or did he see something else in place of my mom? He would think I was on one side of the room when I was on the other. When he looked at me, what did he actually see?

It’s almost like some kind of Halloween gag that never ends. A cruel virtual reality that’s created by the brain, not by technology.

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June 7, 2012 · 8:23 pm

If coffee could prevent Alzheimer’s

I was reading today about a study that suggested drinking coffee could delay Alzheimer’s. My first thought after reading the article was that it didn’t do my dad much good, and he drank coffee morning, noon and night.

But then I thought about it in another way. Wonder if all of my dad’s coffee drinking (I did a rough estimate based on his habits and age and estimated over 85,000 cups in his lifetime) delayed the disease by years? Dad was in his mid-seventies when he started to show signs of dementia. Maybe his love of coffee (he would drink it with anything, pizza, pasta, you name it) held off the crumbling of his mind for a few years?

Unfortunately, there’s no way to know and hindsight is 20/20. If we knew what was to come, and that his coffee habit was keeping Alzheimer’s at bay for a few years, perhaps we would have lived our lives differently. Sadly, I doubt we would have changed a thing.

Other than a cigarette, a cup of coffee is the thing that reminds me of my dad the most. Even the last time I saw him alive, he asked for a cup of coffee.

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June 6, 2012 · 8:33 pm

A ride to remember

With summer fast approaching, there’s so much talk about the latest amusement park attractions. I’ve written before about our Disneyland experience. When I was a bit older, probably a pre-teen, we went to Knott’s Berry Farm.

A retro look at the Log Ride from the 1970’s. Photo credit: Stevek at wdwmagic.com

The Log Ride was the hit of the day. Well, at least for Dad and I. Mom was not a fan of the big dip (actually, I think she was worried about getting wet and her makeup running!) I am not a roller coaster fan and Dad never showed much interest in amusement park rides of any kind. But for whatever reason, the stars aligned right that day and Dad and I had a great time together on The Log Ride. We went back a few times, enduring long lines just for the thrill.

As I got older, I experienced less and less special moments like this with my dad. Who would have thought that a silly amusement park ride could still bring a smile to my face after all of this time.

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June 5, 2012 · 8:43 pm

Being quiet in the tunnel

As a kid, one of my favorite family rituals was the rule about being quiet when we drove through tunnels. I don’t know who or why we started this rule, but I was adamant about everyone obeying it.

Usually, my parents would oblige. My mom would usually hush Dad up as we approached the tunnel, then I would let out a big “Shhh!” just as the light faded as we entered the dark tunnel. I got such a kick out of the silence and the darkness.

I remember one time, Dad started whispering while we were in the tunnel, just to get a rise out of me. I got really steamed but Dad tried to play Mr. Innocent, saying he was only whispering, and not really talking. I remember pouting for quite awhile that day!

I had not thought about the “tunnel rule” in ages but I was reading something recently that described Alzheimer’s as entering a tunnel that you never come out of. It is an accurate description. The disease is like a long tunnel that gets darker and darker, forcing you to stumble around lost and frightened, with no end in sight.

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June 4, 2012 · 7:04 pm

Visit to the local museum

I had not thought about this weekend ritual in ages, but there was this tiny art museum located in a park in the town I grew up in. Mom would always drag us in every time there was a new exhibit. At one point they started charging a nominal admission fee (like a buck or two) and I remember Dad grumbling under his breath.

Dad loved certain forms of art with a quiet passion, such as classic films, music from the crooners like Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, and literary works. Visual art was not his cup of tea. I remember Dad high-tailing it as quickly as he could through the several small exhibit rooms before hitting the door with relief and heading for a long cigarette break under a shady tree. Mom would linger on and on, to the point where the museum staff (usually a retiree) would start flickering the lights to politely shoo us out.

I was somewhere in-between the extremes of my parents. I was not into the abstract modern art as much as I was into portraits. I liked inventing stories behind the faces painted on the canvas.

As an adult, I go occasionally to the big city museum and enjoy the exhibits. But I do feel that impatience of my Dad stir within me. Not because I need a cigarette, since I don’t smoke, but just the pull of work demands and life. There’s always somewhere to rush to, something that has to be done. We rush so much that we barely see the beauty before our eyes, even when we are standing still in front of a piece of art.

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June 3, 2012 · 6:30 pm

The scent of the departed

I just talked to Mom, and she’s still missing Dad a lot, which is understandable, since he has been gone less than six months. Everyone’s grief process works a bit differently. I have a feeling Mom will grieve herself into her own grave. She is good about getting out of the house so she can interact socially with other people, which is very important.

But she admitted to me that she had not been able to go through any of Dad’s belongings yet, other than what had come from the nursing home. She keeps most of her clothes in a separate closet, but she says when she does have to open their shared closet, she feels like she can still catch a scent of Dad lingering in the clothes that haven’t been worn in well over a year.

Scents of people are a funny thing … they linger in the memory. I’ll always remember my dad’s scent of cigarettes and aftershave.

It makes me think about how many people’s scents I’m hit with on a daily basis, going to work on the subway. Perfume, cigarettes, alcohol, sweat, babies … it runs the gamut of human experience.

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June 2, 2012 · 7:18 pm

Saturday night supper, revisited

I’m getting ready to have dinner and was thinking back on some popular family dinners from my childhood. I’ve written before about how Mom’s homemade chili was a huge hit. A rare dip in temperatures here in Atlanta has me thinking about hearty casseroles. Like a lot of moms, my mom would scour the newspaper, can and box lids for recipes we might like. The one she found on a can of Campbell’s soup was by far our favorite.

I don’t remember the name of it surprisingly, but it was basically shredded chicken (sometimes my mom would cook chicken breasts and shred them, sometimes she would just buy the chicken chunks in a can), dressing (or stuffing, depending upon your preference, anyways, that yummy stuff served at Thanksgiving) along with cream of chicken soup. You layered the chicken, dressing and soup and baked the mixture in the oven.

It was so simple, but it was so delicious! Sure, it wasn’t the healthiest of meals but it was a great comfort food dish. And none of us had a weight problem, so we could indulge in dishes like this now and then without too much guilt.

Dad and I always had second helpings of this dish. I don’t remember there ever being leftovers. Dad, who sometimes was absent-minded when it came to compliments on Mom’s cooking, never failed to say, “That was good!” when this chicken casserole was on the menu.

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June 1, 2012 · 6:59 pm

Trying to escape old age

Like a lot of people, my parents had their daily regimen of vitamins. As far back as I can remember, there was a tiny cup of various capsules, some hard and chalky, others clear and filled with liquid. As a child, the colors and textures fascinated me. My parents were pretty lucky in that they were not dealing with any chronic diseases that required daily medication. These were simply supplements, vitamins and cod liver oil and whatever else my mom read was good for you. Dad had a thing about choking, and he would balk at the horse pills Mom would offer up sometimes. He would demand the ones that were coated in something smooth. He also would complain about the fragrant belches that were a side effect of the garlic capsules.

As for me, I had one tiny chewable vitamin each day to take. My favorites were the Flintstones and the Bugs Bunny varieties. I can still remember the distinct taste those vitamins had, kind of like a sweet tart with a mineral aftertaste.

Who knows if those handful of pills my parents swallowed daily did any good. Perhaps they helped keep my dad alive all the way to 79 years of age, even if his mind failed him the last few years. It is pretty impressive he dodged both cancer and heart issues despite his almost lifelong smoking habit.

Mom still has nice skin, is at a healthy weight and only takes medication now once a week for her osteoporosis. Perhaps the supplements have kept her healthy for the most part as well?

I’m on the fence about all of those supplements. Plus, just like Dad, I’m not a big fan of swallowing pills. I do take acidophilus pills daily and a multivitamin when I remember. And funny enough, I take an allergen-free gummy vitamin, because it’s easier for me to digest. So it’s like I’m a kid all over again.

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May 31, 2012 · 7:27 pm

Life in a box

I found out today that a former co-worker of mine has died. I had no idea he was ill, as I did not keep up with him after he left the company we worked together at. What I do remember of him was his white shock of hair, a warm smile and an easygoing spirit. Apparently some of his friends were having a life legacy box created for him. An organization has members who are woodworkers donate their time to create beautiful wooden boxes, which can be personalized. They can then be filled with mementos, letters, photos, etc. to honor one’s life. These boxes are delivered to those in hospice. The box is passed on to family members once the person passes. I think it is a beautiful concept.

It made me think about how Alzheimer’s, and I’m sure many other diseases, can overshadow one’s legacy. Years of decline, both physically and mentally, can strip away so much of what makes a person unique. What’s left behind is this shell of a person, who often seems numb and distorted from suffering and the medications designed to ease the suffering. But to allow those final images to dominate our memories allows the disease to win.

I thought about what I would put in a box for Dad. Definitely something green, probably a symbol of a shamrock to represent his birthplace. Maybe some rosary beads since he was Catholic. A picture of my parents when they were dating. A picture of Dad holding me as a baby. I would include a photo of the Titanic, because he loved to study the history of that ship. I’d probably put a cigarette in there, because so many of my memories of Dad include him smoking. (My mom still hasn’t thrown away the last pack of cigarettes that Dad had at home.) Can’t put a pint of beer in a box but maybe a Guinness coaster or ad, since that was one of his favorite brands. Maybe a tiny bottle of Old Brut, the cologne he wore the most. I’d throw in a Bing Crosby CD.

It’s kind of funny how my memories of Dad are a distinct mixture of virtue and vice.

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