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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March 31, 2012 · 10:34 am

Dad trying to fix the car

One of the more pitiful memories I have of my dad as a kid was seeing him try to fix the car. He’d be in his weekend clothes (dress shirt and slacks, he never wore jeans until he was in the nursing home), hunched over the car with its hood open, muttering to himself, cigarette in hand. It was a bad combination: Dad’s tendency to buy old, beat-up cars with his lack of mechanic skills.

Car troubles were one of the bigger stress factors we had as a family. We’d be ready to run a weekend errand, and boom, Dad couldn’t get the car to start. Up went the hood, and Dad would poke the parts a few times before lighting a cigarette, having exhausted his limited skills as a car mechanic. Mom would yell at him not to smoke around the car, Dad would yell back that it didn’t matter, the engine wasn’t running. He would walk around the carport of the apartment complex, with smoke trailing behind him, hoping to catch the eye of a neighbor. Sometimes we’d get lucky and he’d run into Joe, our next-door neighbor who knew a thing or two about cars. Like magic, the car would start, but there was a catch. We had to keep the engine running or it might stall out on us.

Buick Skylark. I'm sure these were fine cars when they were new, but the one we had was on its way to the junkyard. Photo: McLellan's Automotive History

So instead of a lazy Saturday or Sunday strolling the mall, running errands became a hurried, tense ordeal. Dad would wait in the car and keep the engine alive while we dashed in from store to store. On more than one occasion, the car died on us anyways. Then we would have to rely on the kindness of strangers to help push the heavy heap of junk to the side of the road, while my dad called the Automobile Club.

Dad also took a lot of car advice from the guys he worked with. I don’t doubt they knew more about cars than Dad did (that was kind of a given) but their remedies didn’t necessarily work all the time. Dad was out of his element, knew it and it frustrated him.

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March 30, 2012 · 10:45 am

A followup to Fonzie

Yesterday, I wrote about how as a toddler, I thought my dad looked like Fonzie from “Happy Days.” Well, I now present photographic evidence that my adoration of Dad/Fonzie went beyond just that cardboard cutout in the store.

Yes, it’s the Fonzie bike. I’m sure I thought I was the coolest kid on the block riding this bright red contraption. And I’m sure for once, Dad didn’t mind shelling out the dough for a kid’s toy, since I had paid him such a nice compliment in the grocery store.

I love how my outfit matches the bike’s color scheme! The bike had decals on it with “Happy Days” catchphrases, including “Sit on it!” and Fonzie’s favorite expression, “Ayyy!”

Eventually I ended up with a Powder Puff big wheel cycle, decked out in pastels with floral decals and plastic streamers flowing from the handles. It was pretty and I enjoyed it, but it didn’t have the same cool factor as the Fonzie bike.

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March 29, 2012 · 12:53 pm

Dad as Fonzie

When I was about two or three, the TV show “Happy Days” was quite popular. I remember watching some of the later episodes as they aired and then caught up on the older episodes during reruns. The character that epitomized cool, Fonzie, became the focal point for commericals and related merchandise. His trademark expression, “Heyyyy …” became part of the American lexicon at the time.

Fonzie. ABC photo.

Dad, his "Hollywood" shot.

There were advertisements for the show all over the place, including at the grocery store, where there was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Henry Winkler as Fonzie, with leather jacket, slick-backed hair and upturned thumbs. My mom was wheeling me around the grocery store in the shopping cart when my eyes locked on to Fonzie.

“Dada, Dada, Dada,” I cried out excitedly. I guess I thought Dad was a pretty cool character when I was a toddler. He loved telling the story about how I thought he was Fonzie, as it gave him reason to puff up with pride and indulge in a bit of vanity, which he didn’t do very often.

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March 28, 2012 · 12:47 pm

Bundled up and snuggling

I came across this photo recently while going through a box of family photographs. I was struck by how Dad is holding me so protectively, in a tender yet fierce grip. His eyes closed, it’s as if he’s trying to sear that moment into his memory and heart forever. I hope he was able to, and to recall it as the darkness of dementia swept over him in the last years of his life.

Another thing that struck me about this picture is … what the heck am I doing in that outfit? You would have thought there was a blizzard outside, but in fact it was Southern California, where it’s always 70 and sunny (give or take a few degrees.) I don’t look quite as content as Dad does in this photo, bundled up to the gills in heavy clothing. The outfit may have been a gift from my grandparents in Ireland on my father’s side, or from my mom’s family in Tennessee. Those respective climates would find a baby’s outfit like this more useful.

Despite my apparent discomfort, I still love this photo, a fleeting moment of sweetness and innocence caught on camera.

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