January 17, 2012 · 10:53 am

Dad’s trouble with the shower

My mom possibly fractured some ribs getting out of the bath the other day. It’s so easy to slip and fall, especially when you are older. My mom is extra careful, because she’s still nursing a broken shoulder from a year ago. The doctor checked her out and she should heal with rehab, but I couldn’t help but think of the irony here. Our family seems to have trouble with baths and showers.

Dad’s last moments alive were spent in the shower. The assistants at the care center he was at were helping him get a shower when he slumped to the floor, most likely from a cardiac arrest. He passed away just minutes later.

Photo by Scott Adams, http://www.vulchinteractive.com/

I also think back on how dad began to lose his ability to groom himself, as the dementia took a tighter hold on him. My mom would have to assist him in the shower, which must have been terribly difficult considering their impossibly small bathroom. I remember my mom telling me how she instructed dad to put shampoo on his hands and then lather up his head. He did so dutifully, then turned to her with a mountain full of suds atop his head. “Now what,” he asked, like a lost child who had never completed this task before.

But there are happier memories I have of bath time. I remember my dad singing in the shower, usually a medley of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby tunes with some Irish favorites mixed in for good measure. I remember loving the bright color of soap he used, which sometimes was Irish Spring, sometimes Dial. I remember racing into the bathroom after my dad had showered and swirling around in the steamy mist and breathing in the clean soap scent.

I’m also going to be extra careful in the shower myself from now on in an attempt to avoid this unusual family curse.

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January 16, 2012 · 10:12 am

Remembering dad’s descent into dementia

For those that have watched a loved one’s memory falter as dementia engulfs them, it’s usually difficult to pick an exact moment when you realized that there was something wrong. While certain forms of dementia may manifest more suddenly, it seems that with many Alzheimer’s patients, it’s a gradual decline that can sometimes take years until it’s to the point where that person needs help.

For my dad, there was one incident in particular that stands out in my mind as being a huge warning flag. I call it the burrito incident.

My mom would send my dad out on errands, which included things like getting money orders and mailing out bills, picking up a few groceries at the convenience store and buying lottery tickets. Mom always wrote everything out in detail on a sticky note. This one time, as we saw signs of dementia become more apparent, everything went wrong.

He was still driving at the time, so he pulled into the convenience store parking lot. He picked up a couple of burritos for dinner as was on the note and picked out the lottery tickets that my mom wanted. Then he walked out without paying for anything. The clerk made a big scene and yelled for my dad to return and pay for everything. He thought he had and an argument ensued. At this point, dad was in denial that there was anything wrong with him so it must have been a humiliating experience, as he was always a very honest person.

My mom was called and the order was paid for properly. Dad came home with the burritos, not that either one of them was hungry anymore. And the lottery tickets? That night, dad couldn’t remember where he put them. The next day, he found the tickets … in the trunk of the car.

It’s small incidents like these that illustrate how dementia steadily chips away at the mind until you hardly recognize the person left behind.

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January 15, 2012 · 1:28 pm

Dad’s love of books and libraries

The most time I ever spent with my dad one-on-one was as the library. We practically lived there every Saturday, arriving in the early afternoon and staying until closing. All of the librarians knew my dad by name, and didn’t mind special-ordering books that he requested.

Photo credit: City of Downey, Calif.

Visits to the library evoke good memories for me. When I was younger, dad and I would go our separate ways upon arrival. I would head to the children’s section and dad would head to the periodicals, where he liked to peruse newspapers from around the country and the world. As I got older, I joined him on the adult side of the library, and would often bring homework or research projects with me to complete in the quiet, peaceful atmosphere that the library offered.

I also remember my dad and I collaborating at the library to find a way to ease mom’s nerves as she battled menopause. There was a gift shop in the library, and my dad would give me money to go buy her a trinket. We’d also agree to tell her how good dinner was multiple times that night when we got home. Our plan usually worked, much to our relief, as both of us shied away from emotional outbursts.

Those lazy Saturday afternoons spent in that soothing hush, and bringing home a tall stack of books to devour at my leisure, those weekly library trips are a treasured memory for me. I think they were for my dad as well. In fact, at my parents’ home, two books still reside on my father’s nightstand, gathering dust, awaiting to be read.

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January 14, 2012 · 1:28 pm

Memories of weekend outings with my dad

One of my earlier memories of an outing with dad was going to get gas on our assigned day during the gas shortage crisis of the late 1970’s. We would putter down the road in our boat of a car, which I believe at the time was the emerald green LTD. Then we would wait in a long line of frustrated motorists to fill ‘er up. If I was a good girl, dad would buy me an Orange Crush soda.

As I got older, I remember my dad having this odd habit of only filling up the gas tank by a quarter or half a tank. I never quite understood the logic behind this, I just assumed he was trying to pinch pennies, though we were never so bad off that we couldn’t afford a full tank of gasoline. Maybe he had been permanently scarred by the gas shortage.

Michael Brown/Critiki.com

We would also go see the waterfall at a place called the Tahitian Village. It was a kitschy Tiki-themed mini-resort, with a hotel, lounge, restaurant and coffee shop all rolled into one. I guess it was kind of a poor man’s version of Trader Vic’s. The over-the-top decor could be found on the exterior as well, and that’s where I remember walking on a bridge while holding my dad’s hand, to see a waterfall. It was especially refreshing on a hot summer day. Tahitian Village had its heyday in the 1960’s-1970’s and has long since been torn down.

Looking for photos of the Tahitian Village led me to a whole collection of photos of my hometown, Downey, Calif. on Flickr, that really brought back a lot of memories. So many places that I associate with my childhood have either been torn down or are on the chopping block, all to make way for another strip mall. It should be of no great surprise, as not many small businesses survive 30 years or more in this world anymore. Still, it’s a bit sad to see that all I have remaining of my childhood landmarks are captured in photos or in my memories.

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January 13, 2012 · 8:45 am

Remembering dad’s voice impressions

As a child, I can remember my dad keeping me entertained by doing spot-on impressions of Woody Woodpecker and Donald Duck. I remember having giggling fits over his quacking ability. It was these moments that made me close to my dad when I was a small girl, but at some point we drifted apart. For the life of me, I can’t remember around what point that began. I think it was gradual, perhaps a girl bonding more with her mother as she approaches adolescence. At least I can still remember these warm moments with my father from my childhood before my dad drifted away in another sense as Alzheimer’s consumed his mind.

As his dementia progressed, there was one more impression he did that sticks in my mind in a bittersweet way. He was at the point where he could still communicate, if not always coherently. But he was trying desperately to hold on to his sense of humor, that core of his personality that made him human. So he mentioned something about Johnny Carson, and how much he had loved him. (That part was true. He always worked the swing shift and would get home in time to enjoy a late dinner, a beer and some late-night television.) He then began doing an impression of Ed McMahon’s famous introduction: “Heeere’s Johnny!” As repetition is common with Alzheimer’s patients, he continued to repeat this refrain throughout the evening, in inappropriate moments while we were out in public. My mom would try to hush him but I could see a look of delight light up his face that both pained and warmed my heart.

About two months later, my dad had a medical emergency that sent him to the hospital for two weeks. During that time, his life was saved, but his sense of humor, along with the rest of his personality, was extinguished. He never returned home after that, and was on a series of medications at the nursing home that sapped any remaining vitality out of him.

So I hold on to these precious memories of my dad. Alzheimer’s can claim so much of a person, but it can’t take their past, because that was also experienced by their loved ones.

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January 12, 2012 · 6:09 am

Dad’s final trip back to Ireland

As I write this, part of my dad’s ashes are soaring across the pond, headed to Belfast, Northern Ireland. He never made it back for a final trip to his homeland, so this will have to suffice.

Dad with his sister and nephew in Ireland, circa late 1960's.

His last trip back to Ireland was well before I was born. He was recuperating from a life-threatening illness. It was the last time he saw his mother alive and I know he was happy he made the trip back for that reason alone. I’m sure he talked about this trip in detail many times as I was growing up, but the specifics are hazy for me now. I wish I could remember more details, where he went, who he visited and what he thought of his homeland after he had spent time living in New York City and Los Angeles.

He always talked about going home when I was growing up, but he never made it back. He hated flying, and the expense of the trip was daunting.

I did find this photograph of my dad as an adult in Ireland, standing along the coast, with his sister and her young son. He looks happy, confident and at home. I hope he feels that way now.

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January 11, 2012 · 8:01 am

My dad’s love of ‘The Three Stooges’

Yesterday was a dreary, rainy day, so I put on my ‘Three Stooges’ hoodie as I headed to work. It was the first time I’d worn it to work since I had received that fateful phone call from mom during the middle of my shift, telling me through tears that my father had died. So I couldn’t help but think about dad and how “The Three Stooges” was another bonding moment for us, much like those college bowl games were, but this bond was deeper and longer-lasting.

Every Sunday afternoon, “The Three Stooges” would air shorts for an hour on a local network affiliate in L.A. It just so happened that it was the time my dad would sit down for a cup of coffee before heading out to church. I don’t remember how it started, all I remember is that for years, watching “The Three Stooges” together was a Sunday ritual that had more meaning to me than any church service.

As a kid, I enjoyed the zany hijinks of Moe, Larry and Curly. They are like children who never grew up. For dad, they held a key to a bittersweet time in his childhood. Having been born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, he was subjected to the aerial bombings delivered by the Nazis before he was a teenager. He remembered running to the bomb shelter with his family. And in between the fear of another bombing and the fear of another lashing across the hands from the ruler in Sister Mary’s iron fist, he and his school pals would escape their miserable childhood by going to the movie theatre. There, they would watch all of the movies that we consider American classics today. But each film would start with a ‘Three Stooges’ short, and I think that may have been the kids’ favorite part.

My love of the Stooges has not dissipated as I have become an adult, if anything, I appreciate their comedic talent more than ever. I’ve been watching the shorts over the past couple of months, as dad declined and passed away, and they offered me much needed levity and made me feel close to my father. Maybe dad is enjoying a few good “nyuk, nyuk, nyuks” and pies to the face with the Stooges wherever he is now.

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January 10, 2012 · 6:00 am

A birthday card by any other name

I just finished reading Joan Didion’s wonderful book about loss, “The Year of Magical Thinking.” It’s highly recommended for anyone dealing with the death of a loved one. One of the more poignant passages is regarding the last birthday gift her husband gave her before he died. This made me remember an incident that occurred as my father’s dementia was progressing.

My mother’s birthday was coming up, and I guess she had mentioned it to my dad in passing. Now even when my dad was mentally healthy, he was one of those guys that often forgot to mark special occasions such as birthdays and anniversaries. So my mom was certainly not expecting anything now, with dad’s mental state deteriorating.

She was surprised when she saw an envelope on the dining room table. She knew it wasn’t from me, as I was a couple of thousand miles away and she had not gone to get the mail that day. She opened it and out popped bunny rabbits holding baskets of pastel-painted eggs. “Happy Easter” was emblazoned in puffy letters across the card. My dad had signed the card inside.

I believe it is the last gift he ever gave my mom.

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January 9, 2012 · 5:56 am

Dad, the die-hard Notre Dame fan

I think dad was more enamored by the history of sports than by the action on the field. He loved to talk about the legendary baseball players like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio. His European roots meant he also enjoyed soccer, and would watch matches on the Spanish TV station to get his fix. My dad and I would giggle over the Spanish-speaking announcer, who would turn the word “goal” into a minute-long phrase. He also loved to follow his favorite college football team, which of course was Notre Dame, the Fighting Irish. What other team could he possibly root for? He would watch a game anytime one was on TV, and had plenty to say about the coach at the time, Lou Holtz, but he didn’t necessarily keep up with all of the stats and recruiting news.


We watched more baseball games together than football, but I clearly remember two bowl games in consecutive years that had dad and I on opposite sides. Notre Dame and Colorado met up in the Orange Bowl in 1990 and 1991. The first year Notre Dame won handily 21-6; the second year, Colorado managed to eek out a 10-9 victory. My mom still remembers the shouts that came from the couch during those games. It was one of the rare memories I have of a bonding moment with my dad.

As a typical teenager, I had to be the opposite of my parents, so I chose to root for Colorado instead of my dad’s beloved Notre Dame. I wish we had had the chance to go to a Notre Dame game together, I think dad would have been thrilled. Dad, I promise to root for Notre Dame this upcoming season in your memory.

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January 8, 2012 · 6:00 am

Dad the wanderer

Last night I had a dream that my parents and I were navigating some large place, like a mall or airport. We paused for a moment and I was keeping an eye on dad. He was there one moment, but when I turned around again, he had vanished. A stressful search ensued in my dream. Finally, he appeared out of nowhere, as if nothing had happened. There was great relief and the dream ended shortly after that.

Wandering is common with Alzheimer’s patients. When my father still lived at home, he would go to the bank on Sundays, even though it was closed. He would wander to the post office when he said he was going to the convenience store on the corner to buy a pack of cigarettes. While my mom went to the restroom at McDonald’s and told him to wait right outside for her, he was eventually found at the drive-thru window. A few times, the police had to be called to locate him. It got to the point where I worried about him just stepping out onto the front porch to smoke.

I bought a tracking device from the Alzheimer’s association, but dad got sick and went into the hospital before I convinced my mom to use it. I read on Twitter that they are developing shoes with GPS built in them. This sounds like a great idea.

Anyways, I’ve always wondered what Alzheimer’s patients are thinking about when they wander. Are they really intending to go to the place they end up at, or were they searching for something that only exists in their mind? I guess we may never know for sure, but I hope my dad has found what he was looking for on the other side.

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