Category Archives: Memories

April 10, 2012 · 7:00 am

Happy birthday Dad

My dad would have turned 80 years old today. It would have been nice if he could have reached that milestone, but not with Alzheimer’s.

He spent his last birthday at the assisted living facility. The staff bought him a McDonald’s meal as a birthday treat. My mom had visited him shortly before his birthday and I called from Atlanta. I have never felt so dishonest as when I mustered up whatever cheeriness I could find in my voice to wish him a happy birthday.

I knew there was no way that it would be a happy day for him. By his 79th birthday, Dad’s dementia, along with the increased medication being fed to him at the care center, had left him an emotionless shell. He wasn’t necessarily sad or angry; he just didn’t seem to be feeling anything at all.

But I always felt that there was this lingering despair that my dad somehow was clinging to, that somewhere deep below the fog of Alzheimer’s, he was aware of his condition and how hopeless his future was.

I hope I was wrong.

Even when he was well, Dad never made a fuss about his birthday. A card, a small gift like cologne and dinner was about all he wanted. I think birthdays in his mind put him closer to death, which he always feared, so he approached the day with trepidation, instead of a spirit of celebration.

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April 9, 2012 · 7:00 am

Dad worked many holidays

I was talking to my mom on Easter Sunday and she reminded me how many holidays Dad worked as I got older. When he became a security guard, he worked weekends and countless holidays, as property always needs to be protected regardless of whatever day it is on the calendar. My dad never complained about this, it was just what he had to do to support his family. Maybe he would have preferred a 9-5, Monday-Friday gig, but he was never the type to hold down a stuffy office job. He preferred working outdoors (and the automatic smoking breaks!)

Once my Dad retired and my parents moved to New Mexico, they would usually go out to eat on a holiday, nothing fancy, usually Denny’s (senior citizen discount) or Pizza Hut (where they would always order pasta, never pizza.) Still, these mundane outings gave my parents great pleasure. Now Mom, all alone for the holiday, ordered delivery from Pizza Hut. She was going to set at the dining room table and burn a candle in memory of Dad.

Old habits die hard and holidays always make one think of loved ones now gone.

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April 8, 2012 · 11:41 am

Memories of Easter

As a kid, I enjoyed Easter quite a bit. Mom and I would make an Easter basket together, filling the pastel-colored plastic eggs with jelly beans and chocolate eggs wrapped in foil. We would also color eggs with various dye and decoration kits.

Dad would usually go to church. Mom and I didn’t usually attend church service with him, but I do remember as a small child carefully holding a palm leaf in the back seat of the car, cradling it as if it was a rare piece of china that might shatter at any moment, so I did attend Palm Sunday service with Dad at some point. I also remember asking one year why Dad had ashes on his forehead and being given a simplified definition of Ash Wednesday.

Dad usually avoided eating eggs, fearing their high levels of cholesterol. (I always found this ironic, since he was a lifelong smoker.) But Mom could usually coax Dad into having one of the brightly dyed boiled eggs for Easter Sunday breakfast. I would place the eggs in the little cardboard holders, labeled “Mom” and “Dad.” I usually picked out a green-colored egg for Dad, since he was Irish. We usually had something sweet with the eggs, like cinnamon rolls or blueberry muffins.

Easter memories for me are warm and bright, just like the spring season.

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April 7, 2012 · 12:14 pm

What Dad didn’t die from

I always thought Dad would die from some form of cancer. If I had put a morbid bet on it, I would have picked lung cancer. My dad had smoked since he was 16, a two-pack a day habit for good deal of his adult years, then he slowly tapered off as he got older. He only stopped smoking when he was admitted to the hospital for his gallstone surgery, where they placed a nicotine patch on him. He never returned home after that, and continued to wear the nicotine patch at the care center. As far as I know, he never smoked another cigarette, though he continued to ask for them until he passed away. Despite the growing memory loss, he never forgot how he loved to smoke.

He also started having issues with his prostate, like many older men. However, Dad, like many men, hated going to the doctor, despite pleas to have tests done to rule out prostate cancer. With vague complaints of abdominal pain and growing issues with urination, I feared the worst. I even made special pleas directly to Dad, but he refused to go to the doctor.

There were of course concerns about the condition he actually had been diagnosed with, which was COPD (emphysema). This disease is what earned the top spot on Dad’s death certificate.

There’s quite a few studies that suggest smoking is a risk factor for Alzheimer’s disease, so Dad’s lifelong vice probably did contribute to the crumbling of his mind. It was sadly ironic that his body, despite the abuse, kept going for as long as it did, despite the destruction that was taking place in his brain. If Dad had not had Alzheimer’s would he have ended up being one of those people carrying oxygen with them everywhere?

Perhaps. Dying is not about being pretty, whether a person suffers from a mental or physical condition. Even if I could go back in time and change things, I would not wish for Dad to have a clear mind but suffer from a physical condition long-term. One just has to learn to accept dying and death as it comes to us.

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April 6, 2012 · 1:42 pm

Dad and Bruce

Today, we said goodbye to our 17-year-old dog. If death comes in threes, then this should be it for awhile: Dad, my cat Michigan and now Chloe.

Dad met Chloe once, many years ago. He said she reminded him of an old family dog named Bruce. Now that I know Dad’s grandmother had a farm, I guess Dad and Bruce enjoyed plenty of romping around the grounds.

Chloe. R.I.P.

When Dad’s dementia began to surface, he would talk longingly of getting a dog just like Bruce, who had been a Labrador Retriever. He talked about how animals can provide one so much comfort and companionship.

Little did he know how much of both he would need in the coming years, as the dementia turned his world upside down.

He also suffered from hallucinations. I remember on one visit, Dad pointed out the window and said, “Look at that black dog out there. It looks mean.”

There was no dog to be found, but I told Dad that it seemed like a nice dog.

Like Chloe.

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April 5, 2012 · 12:32 pm

Dad’s unfinished novel

When Dad was in his twenties, he started writing a novel about a boxer. He said he wrote about fifty or so pages, before abandoning the project, throwing the pages carelessly into a dresser drawer before eventually tossing the words spun from his mind into the trash can like so much rubbish. I always was disappointed that the ending of the story was never created, having been rudely terminated with my father’s lack of drive.

Of course, many people at that age tackle fleeting careers as writers, artists, musicians. A few lucky and talented souls are able to exist on that charmed path for the rest of their lives, while most of us are forced to step onto a more realistic, humdrum path of responsibility. My dad was no different than the rest of the world, taking a stab at a fleeting dream.

Still, I wonder about the story. Who were the characters that my dad was fleshing out and bringing alive in his unfinished book? Was there a character based upon his brother-in-law, a fairly well-known Irish boxer by the name of Dixie McCall, whose boxing career was cut short by a drowning and burial at sea, never to be seen again by his family?

The novel’s characters are mere ghosts now, just like my father.

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April 4, 2012 · 10:48 am

Life in the dementia ward

I finally had he chance to see You’re Looking at Me Like I Live Here and I Don’t, a PBS documentary by Scott Kirschenbaum. It’s the first documentary filmed completely from the perspective of a person with Alzheimer’s. It’s a powerful, heartbreaking film and reminded me so much of my dad’s experience in a care facility. It’s highly recommended viewing.

Like Lee, who tries to relate the fragments of her life that are forever escaping her, my dad resided in the “memory unit” of an assisted living facility for the last year of his life. He resided with a small group of other residents who suffered from dementia, in a secure wing of the facility. As the documentary shows, Alzheimer’s affects people of all kinds, and having a group of strangers who are suffering from a mental condition live with one another is a challenge. My dad, like Lee, kept mainly to himself, though he did have a roommate he got along with initially. The two would talk about “breaking out” and heading to the Midwest. Like Lee, Dad would set off the alarm on the security door. He knew he wanted out of the facility, but he did not remember where home was.

Dad and I at the assisted living facility, March 2011.

My visits to the nursing home where my dad lived were similar to what is portrayed in the documentary. The staff try to make residents comfortable, but the disease is not easy to manage. Available medications can put residents in a constant slumber, but without some medications, residents might be a danger to themselves or others. Yet there are also moments of humor and heartbreak, which are so tenderly depicted in the documentary. This is life in the dementia ward.

And just as I wondered about all of the other residents at the care center my dad was living at, I wondered about the other residents at the facility depicted in the documentary. Who were these people before Alzheimer’s took over their lives? What are their stories? I hope their families have recorded their memories in their own special way so their stories are not forgotten.

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April 3, 2012 · 1:33 pm

Ice cream trip fail for Dad

One of my earlier memories is a fragment of a hot July day in Southern California. I was around two and being fidgety on the lime-green vinyl in our submarine-shaped LTD.  The stifling heat had us all gasping for breath and patience.  

Mom, forever the peacemaker, asked me if I would like some “cormy,” which in my infantile vernacular referred to ice cream.  That ghastly gas-guzzling monster slithered past the Fosters Freeze, which was closed, until I spotted heaven, golden arches included. What I didn’t realize since I was just a bratty toddler at the time was that McDonald’s didn’t serve ice cream back then. All I knew was that if I didn’t get my “cormy,” I was going to throw the mother of all tantrums.

Dad strolled in casually, arms swinging like oars, to and fro.  What seemed like an eternity later, he resurrected, without a miracle, his arms dangling limply like thirsty weeds.  As he slid dejectedly into the car, I flew on top of him in a demented rage, pummeling his chest and arms with my chubby doll-like hands.

At that point, Dad could have probably used something cold and frosty as well, but it came by the pint instead of the scoop. I don’t remember anything past the point of “beating up” Dad, but I believe Mom says we finally found a place open that had ice cream. I hope so for Dad’s sake. 

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April 2, 2012 · 10:52 am

Dad’s hometown gets media attention

As the 100th anniversary of the Titanic’s sinking takes place this month, I want to dedicate some blog posts in April to the Titanic’s history. As I’ve mentioned before, dad was a Titanic fanatic, on the same level as he was obsessed with the Kennedy family. He used to relay stories about the Titanic to us at the dinner table, and his knowledge of the ship’s fascinating and tragic history was impressive.

The Titanic leaves Southampton, England on her maiden voyage to New York City, April 10, 1912. File photo.

Dad had good reason to be interested in the Titanic. The ship was built in his hometown of Belfast, Northern Ireland. The city has opened their own homage to the ship, called Titanic Belfast. Shipbuilding was one of Belfast’s major industries at the time the Titanic was built. The famous shipbuilding company Harland and Wolff built the Titanic, beginning in 1909. The company is still in existence today, with a new focus on renewable energy. The ship was considered a technological marvel at the time and was designed to be the most luxurious ocean liner in the world.

Of course we all know what happened ultimately to the Titanic. The legacy of the Titanic in Belfast is met with mixed emotions. The shipbuilders felt shame at the massive disaster their ship endured, though many place most of the blame on the ship’s captain for not doing more to avoid the icebergs. But the people of Belfast are a proud lot, and they also reflect with pride on their ancestor’s contributions to a piece of history recognized around the world. I believe the latter is what my Dad felt as he immersed himself in Titanic history and lore.

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April 1, 2012 · 9:19 am

Playing an April Fool’s joke on Dad

When the California Lottery started in 1985, it was a big deal. The advertising campaign was massive, with the spin that lottery proceeds would help fund education programs versus encouraging people to gamble. My parents participated in the lottery fever. Most of their previous gambling experience had been on horses. They were never casino people. In fact, in Ruidoso where they retired, there are multiple casinos and a racetrack but while they went to the racetrack about once a year, they only went to the casino a couple of times over the years. (As a side note, Ruidoso’s racetrack has been making the news for all of the wrong reasons lately, as this New York Time investigation ranked Ruidoso Downs the worst in the nation for breakdown and injury rates.

Photo of first California Lottery scratcher ticket. Source: Everythingmustgo.org

But back to the California Lottery. My mom preferred the instant win scratcher tickets, while my dad liked to try his hand at the lotto drawings. My mom won a pretty nice prize on a scratcher, either $100 or $500. (This is when the amount of prizes offered were much lower than they are today.) Mom’s win was a big deal in our family. Dad was happy for mom, but more than a bit jealous. As April 1st rolled around, I was at the ideal age for being mischievous. Dad wasn’t one for practical jokes, he tended to be more on the serious side. With the recent lottery win still fresh in our minds, Mom and I doctored a scratcher to look like a big winner. I think it was $25,000.

Mom and I practiced what we were going to tell Dad and then approached him one afternoon, as he was sipping coffee and reading. Mom told Dad to look at the ticket, because she thought she had won a big prize. I backed Mom up with great enthusiasm. Dad was skeptical from the get-go. We tried our best, but finally had to break down and tell him it was just an April Fool’s joke.

Of course, Mom would get the last laugh, when she really did win a big $100,000 jackpot on a scratch-off ticket decades later in New Mexico.

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