January 27, 2012 · 3:09 pm

A favorite family meal

My mom cooked many memorable dishes over the years that my dad and I would devour eagerly, but when we wanted take-out, we gravitated to Pioneer Chicken. I have such vivid memories of the simple joy of sinking my teeth into the extra crunchy batter, which seemed to have a hint of nutmeg, and letting the greasy coating and the meat almost melt into my mouth. The quirky logo is forever burned into my brain, and the heavenly smell and taste of that fried chicken is one of my fonder childhood memories.

My mom would call the order in and my dad would go to pick it up. My stomach would be growling with anticipation. We would always order white meat and breasts and drumsticks, no pesky wings. There were fluffy rolls and mashed potatoes with gravy, but they were easily forgotten. After a brief supper prayer, all hands descended upon the golden chicken and a series of slurps, smacks and chewing ensued.

But the best part of those fried chicken meals was the fact that my dad was always worried about his cholesterol, despite being at least a pack-a-day smoker. So he would “discard” his crispy chicken skin onto a plate in the middle of the table, and my mom and I would help ourselves to those greasy, calorie-laden bits of yumminess. Afterwards, we would rip open the lemon-scented hand wipes that came with the meal and erase the grease from our hands, while we enjoyed the lingering effects of our food comas.

Alas, “real” fried chicken will forever be a memory for me, as I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease years ago and have to be on a gluten-free diet. And I have naturally gravitated to a more vegetarian diet over the years. But as a child, Pioneer Fried Chicken was the ultimate junk food. I definitely preferred it over a McDonald’s happy meal. Food can definitely bring a family together.

And if I’ve whetted anyone’s appetite for the Pioneer Chicken experience, The franchise was sold in the 1990’s and most locations were converted into Popeye’s stores. But there are still a few Pioneer locations open in California, though I’ve heard some are not offering the authentic fried chicken recipe. Where can you find the real Pioneer Chicken? In China, where the chain goes by the name, “California Chicken.”

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January 26, 2012 · 3:25 pm

Trips with dad to Liquor Barn

It may seem odd to have happy childhood memories about hitting the liquor store with your dad, but I do have fond memories of our trips to Liquor Barn. I did a Google Search and was surprised to see that the chain still exists, albeit not anymore in Southern California where I grew up. The store was a giant warehouse stocked floor to ceiling with adult libations. This was not the sleazy, bars-over-the-windows shack that some people associate liquor stores with. It was very clean, quiet and frequented by a polite suburban clientele.

My dad was mainly a beer drinker, though he did like a nice glass of brandy now and then. We went to Liquor Barn to find the imported beers he couldn’t find anywhere else. I loved looking at all of the colorfully-labeled bottles, and the way the sun would glisten off the clear bottles filled with gold, amber, emerald and sapphire colored liquids. I remember dad being happy when he could find a rare import, instead of being stuck swilling Michelob or Dos Equis.

Near the end of his life, when dad was still living at home, my mom would “allow” dad to have a half a beer at night, hoping it would help him sleep through the night, as the dementia caused his internal clock to go haywire and he would often get up and roam in the middle of the night. Honestly, I probably would have let him have the whole bottle, as long as it wasn’t going to have a negative interaction with any medications he was on at the time. My dad was a simple man who enjoyed simple pleasures, and in the end, Alzheimer’s robbed him even of those things.

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January 25, 2012 · 1:45 pm

Dad wanting to be a movie star

On a recent trip home, about a month before my father passed away, my mom brought out a few shoeboxes of old family photos. Most I had seen before, but there was one photograph of my dad that stood out to me. It looked more like a headshot than a candid pose as most of the other photos were. When I showed it to my mom she said that it was the photo dad sent to the Hollywood movie studios, to try to get into the movies.

I knew dad had a lifelong love for the cinema, having escaped war-torn Belfast as a child by becoming a fan of the silver screen. Among his favorite actors were Humphrey Bogart and Jack Nicholson. If I had a dollar for every time I remembered dad watching “Casablanca” I’d be a wealthy woman by now. I just watched “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” again, having seen it several times before. This time, I viewed the movie from a slightly different perspective, as there are some similarities that I noticed of the mental health facility depicted in the movie and the care center that my dad was placed in at the end of his life. There’s always the issue of medication and its use in controlling patients’ behaviors, the staff’s handling of patients, how patients get along with one another and the level of freedom provided to the patients. These facilities are filled with moments of humor and tragedy, just as depicted in the movie.

Anyways, my dad’s glamour shot is a keeper, even if he never landed a film role. He was lucky enough to have kept his pitch-black hair most of his life, and while typically shy, his personality shines through in this image. It’s always interesting to see one’s parents as they lived before they became mom or dad, to get a glimpse into their hopes, dreams and ambitions. In the end, I’m glad dad didn’t become a movie star, because then he may never have been my dad.

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January 24, 2012 · 3:11 pm

Dad’s obsession with the $20

Well after my dad lost the ability to make change at the store or pay for a meal, he became obsessed with money. In particular, it was always $20 that someone owed him, usually my mom. She would play it off and say she was holding it for him. He became increasingly distrustful and paranoid. At one point, he started carrying around a huge wad of bills (mainly dollar bills) that would precariously jut out of his shirt pocket, ready to fall to the ground at any moment. He also would carry multiple wallets (he ended up losing most of the contents in those wallets over time.) My dad was never that organized but now he was a mess.

The altered relationship with money is a common manifestation of Alzheimer’s. I can only fathom dad was desperately trying to stay in control of something in his life, even if it was only reclaiming an imaginary $20 bill or carrying about a sweaty, crumpled wad of bills all the time. Even when he moved to the assisted living facility, he still talked about that $20.

On my last visit home while dad was still living there, he was fixated on collecting change. He would “count” it, or at least arrange it in various formations before putting it back in his pocket. I remember sitting in the guest room, listening to my dad’s mind unravel in the bedroom next door, the constant jingle-jangle that my mom tried to drown out with the radio as she cooked dinner. I wanted to go to dad, talk to him, take his troubled mind off the obsession with change. But I felt uncomfortable and awkward in the face of such odd behavior. So I left him alone, and the tense house continued to be filled with the maddening sounds of dimes and nickels and pennies and quarters colliding with one another. I regret not attempting to ease his distress, even if just for a moment.

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January 23, 2012 · 3:22 pm

Dad’s love of all things ‘Titanic’

Many reports of the recent cruise ship tragedy off the coast of Italy have drawn parallels to the Titanic. 2012 also marks the 100th anniversary of the Titanic’s sinking. That made me think about my dad’s obsession with the Titanic. The ship was built in his hometown of Belfast, Northern Ireland, and was a source of pride for the working-class people of that city. The Titanic set sail on its ill-fated maiden voyage on April 10, 1012; my dad was born April 10, 1932. Of course, the ultimate tragic fate of the legendary ship has been recounted in numerous books, movies and documentaries. While my dad of course mourned the massive loss of life, he could still appreciate the mystique of the story, with the lavish accommodations, the eclectic mix of passengers, the feeling of adventure those must have felt embarking on such a trip.

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

If there wasn’t a massive tome about the Titanic on my dad’s bedside table, then he was watching a PBS documentary on the subject. He loved to relate the details of the voyage that he learned about, as if he had been a passenger himself. I think it was like a fantasy world he delved into, long before his mind was ever crippled by dementia.

And how do I know that my dad didn’t retreat to a fantasy world just like that once the dementia did take hold. Maybe the real world increasingly became an irritating distraction to this alternative world he was slipping into. If so, I hope it was all champagne and caviar and song and dance, with no icebergs in sight.

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January 22, 2012 · 3:00 pm

Dad’s bad luck with cars

Maybe it was dad’s European roots, but he was not obsessed with cars like most red-blooded American men are. I barely remember the lime-green LTD that my parents had when I was a baby and toddler. It was the typical late 1970’s gas-guzzling boat. Eventually it broke down and when I was about five or six we went car shopping.

I don’t remember much about the process. What I do know is that we ended up with a new car, albeit the cheapest car on the lot: a white Chevrolet Nova with burgundy-colored vinyl interior. It was a lemon from the beginning. I don’t know if my dad even made it home before the car broke down. When he returned the car to the dealer, the mechanics told him the flywheel had been put in backwards, a very unusual occurrence, according to the technicians. Looking online now, there seems to be much debate as to whether that is even possible. At any rate, after the delay, we were finally tooling around town in our symbol of mediocrity. It didn’t have air conditioning or power controls for the windows and doors. I remember at one point, the passenger side door just wouldn’t open anymore from the inside, so my dad always looked like the perfect gentleman, as he had to open the door for us.

Chevy Nova. Photo: CharJens/Flickr

As I was doing a bit of research for this post, I discovered that our family joke about our dumpy car was not based on fact. I had grown up hearing that the Nova cars didn’t sell well in Spanish-speaking countries because “Nova” in Spanish means “no go.” This site provides a detailed debunking of this urban legend.

Buick Skylark. Photo: McLellan's Automotive History

Well, the Nova proved to be a fairly dependable piece of junk, surviving until I was almost a teenager. My dad made sure to squeeze every last bit of life out of it before it went to the junkyard. He surprised us by getting another car, this time a used one, without letting us see it beforehand. We quickly found out why. He ended up getting a white Buick Skylark with burgundy interior, which looked like a clone of our Nova! I don’t think my mom ever let my dad live that one down.

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January 21, 2012 · 10:07 am

Dad doped up at the nursing home

I saw this article the other day about Johnson & Johnson paying out a $158M settlement over Risperdal. I took notice because unbeknownst to us, dad had been prescribed the generic version of this drug (Risperidone) at the assisted living facility he resided at for ten months. The drug is to be used in treating adolescents with schizophrenia and other mental illnesses. The FDA has not approved this drug for use in the elderly with dementia, but it is commonly used anyways, and is legal to do so. In these cases, studies have shown an increase in stroke risk and an overall increased risk of death. The list of common medications Risperidone can interact with is disturbing as well.

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

I’m sure nursing home staff would defend their use of such medications as a way to keep patients calm and safe, especially when aggression and violent outbursts can be a symptom of Alzheimer’s and related dementias. My mom never liked the fact that they could wander in and out of each other’s rooms, but what was the other option, lock them up like animals in a cage?

I clearly remember my first visit to the facility where my dad was living. It had a separate, secure wing that was just for dementia patients called the “memory care” unit. I’m not sure what I expected to see, I guess something closer to an asylum than a daycare. But what I saw was eerily comforting, a bunch of seniors just sitting around calmly, while workers scurried about, cleaning up bladder and bowel accidents and doling out the meds that no doubt kept these patients in some twilight state somewhere between being stoned and being in a coma. I’ll venture a guess that dad wasn’t the only one being given Risperidone on a regular basis.

When I first saw my father, I couldn’t help but think of a zombie. He was shuffling down the hallway, wearing a gray t-shirt which had a noticeable wet spot on it (later I learned it was from his constant drooling) and Scooby Doo pajama bottoms and canvas slip-on sneakers. At first, I could not believe it was Dad because Dad had never owned a pair of sneakers, and he certainly did not lounge around in boy’s pajamas festooned with cartoon characters in his former life as a normal person. But the bony frame, the steel-tinted shock of hair and the eyes, still emerald green but no longer gleaming, that mouth set in a tense slash of determination, those all belonged to my father. I walked slowly to him, wanting to run, afraid he would vanish into thin air, then chiding myself for wishing that he would, to be put out of this benign yet suffocating version of hell. Instead, I said, “Hi Dad,” as naturally as I could and as his eyes searched mine in some feeble attempt at recognition, I wrapped my arms carefully around his fragile and stiff frame, while whispering raggedly into his ear, “I love you.”

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January 20, 2012 · 10:53 am

Reflecting on my dad’s death, one month later

Today is the one month anniversary of my father’s death. Frankly, with all that is happened in such a short amount of time, it’s hard to believe that only one month has passed since I received that fateful call.

The last photograph of dad and I together, July 2011.

There’s of course a lot of memories and feelings associated with that day. One thing I cannot forget, and wish I could, is what exactly I was doing when I received the call that my father had gone into cardiac arrest and died at the assisted living facility he was at in Albuquerque. His official time of death was 10:10 a.m. MST on Tuesday, December 20, 2011. Here in Atlanta, I received the frantic, sob-filled call from my mom at 12:12 p.m. I was at work.

Photo: KimKardashian.com

And what was I doing at the moment my dad was passing away, halfway across the country? Well, I work in entertainment news, and was assigned to cover holiday content online, so I had just written a blog post about the Kardsashian family Christmas card. It’s the kind of fluff that is considered to be “page view gold” in this business. I was just about to post a tweet on it, when my cell phone lit up with my mom’s phone number.

And then my world shifted to a grinding halt. A death of a family member is like any other high-profile event. You always remember where you were and what you were doing when you received the news. So sadly, America’s most over-exposed family, the Kardashians, will forever be associated in my mind with my father’s death.

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January 19, 2012 · 12:32 pm

How family relationships come full circle

After a 2-week long hospital stay in November 2010, and with my dad rapidly declining due to his dementia, he was deemed by medical staff to be too fragile to come back home, so he was placed in an assisted living facility. The cost of those facilities is staggering, and many people find themselves being blindsided by all of the bills associated with such care, and how much Medicare does not cover. I know we were.

What was even more surprising was what that $4000 per month fee didn’t cover. We were charged for transit to and from doctor’s appointments. We were charged for hair cuts and manicures/pedicures. We had to pay for the adult diapers and Ensure drinks separately. At home, my dad had only needed to wear a diaper at night, because he was still ambulatory and could still attend to his own toileting needs (usually.) But once he was at the assisted living facility, he was in diapers full-time. It seemed more and more often, we would get that call from the facility, “Patrick is almost of out diapers.” At one point, I called and asked just how many they were going through a day. “Oh, at least a dozen or more.” I thought I was going to have to take a second job just to cover the costs.

At first my mom was trying to handle buying the diapers and taking them to the care center herself, but that was too much of a burden so I offered to research online and find the best deal, then have them shipped directly to the facility. It’s both humbling and depressing to spend many nights on the couch, surfing Amazon.com looking for great deals on diapers for your 78-year-old father. Briefs or pull-ups? I learn the pros and cons of the various brands: Depends, Attends, Abena, Molicare, TENA, etc. I spent hours reading the sometimes sad, sometimes humorous accounts of adults with incontinence problems and their personal reviews of these products.

My mom had another take on this task that I did for my dad. “When you were a baby and your father would come home from work late at night, and I would tell him you’d run out of Pampers, he would say, ‘Well, Joy has to have her diapers’ and would get right back in the car to pick some up. He never complained.”

When I went back home just after my father passed away, I was greeted in the spare bedroom by stacks and stacks of adult diapers that were left over from one of the orders I had placed. In a plastic grocery bag atop the tower of diapers were unused medications that had been prescribed to my dad. These things, a few clothes and one lone studio portrait of me as a chubby-cheeked two-year-old were all of the belongings my dad had with him at the end of his life. It’s a sobering thought for our materialism-driven society.

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January 18, 2012 · 1:28 pm

My dad’s near-death experience

Decades before my father passed away, he almost died after eating an apple. From what I gather after hearing the story being told repeatedly is that my dad suffered an intestinal obstruction. He had to have emergency surgery performed on him, and while he pulled through the procedure just fine, he ended up contracting an infection while recuperating in the hospital and it’s the infection that almost killed him.

The priest came to perform last rites, as the hospital staff thought he could die at any moment. But somehow, someway, he survived this close call and stayed in relatively good health until his mental and physical decline brought on by Alzheimer’s over the last few years of his life. I say relatively because he ended up with adhesions, a common post-surgery complication. The doctor told him that if he ever contracted food poisoning or the stomach flu, it would be much worse for him than for the average person.

I don’t know how much scientific evidence there was to support the doctor’s claim, but my dad did make multiple trips to the ER during my childhood, suffering from profuse vomiting and severe stomach pain. It would usually come on suddenly, and my mom and I would grow quiet as we heard and saw my dad suffering. My mom didn’t drive so my dad would have to drive himself to the ER, while doubled over in pain. There, they would give him the usual anti-nausea and painkiller cocktail, and send him on his way. He would return home, pale and weak, and we would always breathe a sigh of relief when he was finally able to fall asleep. He would usually recover pretty quickly, and then the incident would be forgotten until the next episode, which could be weeks or months away.

I often did not think of my dad as a particularly strong man, but remembering how he would drive himself to the ER, or insist on going to his manual labor job, while grimacing with stomach cramps, I see now that he had much more inner strength than I ever gave him credit for.

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