My Dad Has Dementia

It is time for school to begin.  My husband and I, at our different employment areas, are back preparing to open the doors to students this week.  My son is preparing to take his driver test so he can drive himself to school his senior year. (When did that happen? I need to lie down a moment.)

But my father has dementia.  It's an affliction that older people get. The brain starts to focus on activities such as walking and not so much on remembering. My dad was born a few days after Pearl Harbor, was in Vietnam, left the military after 28 years and worked in the medical field for almost twenty more years before he finally hung up his white coat.  He said that his intention was to pester my mother. He has achieved that goal.  They are both in their 80s, but my mother has her bowling teams, and she has her errands to run, and the house to clean, and laundry, etc. What she has been doing her entire life. Her routine, now that she does not have children in the house, has been a well-oiled machine with nary a hiccup, just how she likes it.   

My dad does not have a bowling league. He does not have errands to run. He just sits. He did try to clean the house to help my mom, but he didn't complete the task correctly and was shooed away. As I said, my mom has a routine.  My father did like to complete woodworking tasks, such as creating bookshelves and entertainment centers made of Oak that will survive a nuclear explosion and put your back out if you try to move it. But when he had his heart valve replaced, that all seemed to go away due to the long recovery.  All that equipment sits now, covered with dust and a few deceased wasps. My dad used to like to work in his garden and spent a lot of time outside, but now he "falls down out there". He says that he is watering every day, but the condition of the plants tells the story.

My dad used to pick up my son from school.  He would get into his humongous Ford 350 truck, roll down his windows and play old-timey country music very loud while in the car pool lane, because he enjoyed annoying people (his words).  Then he started to get lost while driving, so he was only allowed to drive around the block and secretly buy beer for homeless people.  My mother wanted to know why my dad didn't buy food for them, but he said that it was his money, so she let it slide.  Except when my dad was talked into driving one of those homeless people to his house over by Mission Concepcion, and he didn't know how to get back home. My brother "borrowed" Nelly the truck, and it sits in his driveway now.  My mother drives both of them.  For now.   

What my dad LOVES to do right now is talk to people. When we go out to eat on Sundays, my dad stops at every table to say hi and to tell a joke or two.  Most individuals are gracious and accommodating while my father tells one of the two jokes he remembers, and stands there while they try to make small talk in return.  Both of his jokes are slightly off color, so there's always a chance that someone will be offended.  My father is no longer allowed in one of the local libraries, for example, to my mother's horror. When I try to get him to move along so we can sit down, he gets irritated with me and tells everyone that I am "no fun".  I agree with him.  It is no fun chasing your dad around like he's a toddler who has wandered into the kitchen and wants the treat of someone's attention.  And he won't remember any of it ten minutes later. 

It has been hard watching my dad.  The guy I used to go to for answers about everything (because he was Dad, and dads know everything) doesn't remember my name. He doesn't remember a lot of names.  He does remember that I am his daughter, and that will have to do for now.  We could all wear nametags or buy shirts with our names on them, but given the number of people in the family and their fashion preferences, there might be a brawl. Fortunately we all live close to one another. My brother has started to come over more to visit my parents, and we have spent time over there during the summer talking, sitting, and walking with my dad so my mom can go to church and have a little respite.  They've installed cameras and alarms, so that my mom knows when my dad decides that he is going for a walk and leaves the house.  And we have spoken to my mom about options for her to consider, such as hiring a caregiver to help her.  She's the decision-maker now.  

The Day My Dad Angered Elvis' Ghost

My parents are at that age where they can just pick up and travel when ever they want, and now that there are no kids in the house, they do just that.  My parents have been to some pretty cool places over the years, as a result.  They may head off for Quincy, Illinois, to visit family, then jaunt over to Branson so my dad can indulge in his fishing.  Other times, they just drive. Sometimes they send us pictures from the road, like that time they found a Bigfoot BBQ joint and had to take a picture for Zane.  But most of the time, it's just the two of them.  And for some reason, one day earlier in the decade, they decided to hit Graceland, the home of Elvis.

For those who weren't born at the time, Elvis was a big deal.  I cannot even find a equivalent for how big a deal Elvis was. When he died, in 1977, the world mourned. Many people still see him at the local Piggly Wiggly grocery store, they're so convinced that such a man could not possibly be dead.  Elvis was impossibly larger than life, and once he became famous, he was determined to build a nice house.  What he got was Graceland, which, for the seventies, was the height of decorative sophistication. 

If decorative sophistication was high on cocaine, that is. Elvis wasn't known for his interior decorating skills. This was the seventies, the time of the avocado and gold color combination, shag carpeting, mirror tiles, and disco.   It was all about loud and boisterous, not quiet and sedate.  Elvis had the money to buy all the things, but he didn't always stop to think that maybe all the things wouldn't look good stuffed into one house.

My dad was on his cell phone with my sister-in-law that day, chatting.  Denise asked how the tour of Graceland was going. My dad might have mentioned that the decor of Graceland was tacky, while he was walking around in Graceland.

I don't know if haunted houses are real, but I think they are. What I do know, based on my movie watching experience, is that you should be respectful of the deceased when you are in their house.  After all, you're a guest in their home, whether they are living or dead.  Come correct, as they say.

But no, my dad commented that Elvis' home was tacky, and the next thing my sister-in-law heard was a thump.  She was starting to wonder what was going on, when my mom picked up the phone, and brought her up to speed.

"Bob fell down the stairs," she said.  "He'll call you back." 

As Jim and Denise and their family walked into meet Larry and I for lunch, Denise told us what we knew. And we all waited for my dad to call us back.   What we did not know was that my dad was busy being bundled off to the ER, because he dislocated his shoulder when he fell down the stairs. It was my mother who finally called to let us know that; because my dad was likely doped up on pain medication, and also a bit embarrassed.   When I finally got to talk to him about it, he seemed a little chagrined, and I had to give him a hard time.

"Dad, you don't talk smack about Elvis in his own house! You're lucky that he only pushed you down the stairs."  I was happy that he was okay, but it was really hard not to laugh at the situation. So we did.  My father had gotten the attention of Elvis, I joked, although certainly not the attention that he might have wanted. 

A ghostly autograph would have sufficed to get the point across.






Update: My father insists now that he commented that he never knew that Elvis played handball as he and my mother passed by the Graceland handball court. That is not how I, or Larry, remember it.  I don't believe that Elvis would care about whether or not my dad knew about handball.  Elvis, as well as his Mama, would care deeply if someone thought that their house wasn't up to snuff.  It's a Southern thing.  My mom, ever the pragmatist, merely stated that my father should know better than to try to negotiate stairs while talking on the phone. 

A to Z: Parents Come In All Flavors

Perhaps I'm old fashioned.  I did grow up in a traditional household, with a mom who stayed at home and a dad who went to work.  A mom who cooked and cleaned and occasionally made things for me for various school activities.  Everyone I knew lived in the same sort of household.  No variation to the plan, all through high school.   

But the times have changed, and traditional has taken on an entirely different meaning. Parents come in all flavors, like ice cream.  In the traditional environment I grew up with, certain expectations seep underneath your skin, whether you like them or not.  Expectations about what moms are supposed to be, or look like, or sound like. 

I became a mother in my forties.  I am not a stay at home mom, either.  You would think that I should know better, be more accepting, but prejudices are like cockroaches, hiding in the shadows underneath the refrigerator.   I've had to get over a few biases over the years. Some that I didn't even know I had.    

I chaperoned a field trip last year with my son's class. One of the other moms had blue hair and several piercings.  I caught myself feeling...disapproval.  This woman didn't look like my expectation of a mother, and I got a little irritated about it.  Once I realized that I was being a bit of a jerk, I got even more irritated. At myself.  My bias was showing!  This mom was obviously very interested in her child.  She stayed with him as he walked through the pumpkin patch and helped out with some of the face painting.  If a mom loves her kid, is there for her child, who cares if her hair is blue?  The piercings I'm still having difficulty with, but I'm working on it.  I can at least smile at her without wincing. (those had to hurt! especially the eyebrow!)

I've been around many different flavors of families over the years.  Some are the traditional families, but they are becoming a rarity.  What I see most often today are single moms(and occasionally single dads) trying to raise children by themselves.  I've seen families with two moms or two dads.  I've seen grandparents raising their grandchildren, something that was completely unheard of when I was a kid.  What used to be the expected form of the family has changed.  What was, served a purpose, and that purpose no longer exists in this day.  It's time to accept that, and move on.  That includes me.

Different doesn't mean bad, no matter the flavor. There are too many children abused, neglected, or thrown away out in the world. Parenting is a thankless job, and it is not for the weak. Instead of castigating a parent because they are different, embrace them for the warriors they are.  If a person loves their child and is willing to do what it takes to raise them to adulthood?  It is all to the good.

The Hooligan In Our Family

Soccer is an extremely emotional sport, at least for its fans.  Especially for its fans.  We've all heard stories about the soccer hooligans in other countries, yelling racist comments and throwing things onto the field, fighting in the stands, stampeding, etc. The United States is not immune from such behavior, if the recent assault on a referee in Utah is any indication.  In the younger soccer leagues, the fans are the parents of the children playing.  We all say that we want our children just to have a good time, to learn good sportsmanship, a valuable life skill.  But secretly, we all harbor a fervent wish for our child to be the very best athlete out there, which is completely understandable. College scholarships are gold, and nobody ever says that they wished that their child were more average.  Soccer at that age, however, is ultimately played for fun.

Soccer parents are normally friendly, generous, pleasant.  But put some of them on the sidelines of their child's soccer game, and these same lovely people begin to behave in a manner that would frighten hardcore prison inmates. Sometimes things get ugly. The poor referees tend to get the brunt of the ugliness. My husband, a youth soccer commissioner as well as a coach, has gone to great lengths to emphasize proper behavior for the parents who attend the games. And he's emphasized to the players that the referees are to be respected, no matter what.  It's worked very well, and our son's games have been much more pleasant.

We decided to go to an older kid's soccer game a few weeks ago. It was a very competitive game, and the players were giving their all.  The parents from both teams were sitting along the sidelines. There was clapping and yelling of encouragement to the players, their teenaged children. There was one guy sitting near us, however, who spent most of the game yelling at the refs.  He felt that the referees were not officiating the match as well as they should, and he screamed his annoyance at them.  Every time it appeared that a call should have been made, this man hollered, made gestures, and suggested that the refs do things that are no anatomically possible.  We were appalled. Larry and I gave the man many nonverbal cues regarding his behavior, frowning at him and rolling our eyes.  Other people who knew him were doing the same thing, and a couple of them told the man to knock it off.  Finally, a coach walked from the other side of the field walked over, and he pulled my brother aside for a little chat. My brother was politely told that if he didn't stop his behavior he would be asked to leave. That finally did the trick.  The man sat down and didn't yell anything else for the rest of the game, while the rest of the family pretended that we didn't know him.

My brother isn't normally so verbally aggressive.  He is one of the more laid back people I know, and he's usually the calm one when there's a family crisis.  Something about watching his children play sports just causes him to go nuts. He's been thrown out of many of his boys' games because of his behavior. His kids are embarrassed.  His wife won't go to the games with him anymore.  People won't sit near him.  He knows that it's wrong, and that he should just shut up, and he does try to sit quietly and watch the game.  It never lasts.

My brother is a soccer hooligan.  I will just have to sit on the other side of the field from now on.

The Driving Curse

When I drive, idiots seem to come out of the woodwork, from the lady yakking on her cell phone while she drifts into my lane to the car full of people with the rear axel hitting the road.  I certainly cannot let them hit my vehicle, and I can't psychically pull them out of their vehicle and slap them silly(which gets my vote for the best possible superpower to have).   My one recourse in these cases is to curse at them, and that is what I do.  I curse long and usually quite loudly...unless Zane is in the car.  

When my child was born, and we brought him home from the hospital, my husband and I made a concerted effort not to curse anymore, at least not in front of the boy.  I have had nightmares about my son yelling profanity in the middle of Mass, confirming what my great aunts the nuns all said about me years ago.  I was determined that those nightmares not come true.  I've been pretty successful over the last five years, I'd like to think.  With the exception of a few slip ups with the s*** word, I've been able to keep Zane from acquiring new words that would get him kicked out of Catholic school.  Until this weekend.

Zane and I were heading to his last soccer game when a truck with a trailer changed lanes in front of me.  Or rather the truck changed lanes, then the trailer decided to stick with the truck.  It was a chancy thing, and I don't think that the trailer really wanted to go with the truck.  I was in the lane where the truck arrived; he not only cut me off, but his trailer almost tipped over onto our car, and I had to slam on my brakes.  My heart was racing because I panicked and I was furious at the driver AND his trailer. I checked on Zane in the mirror to make sure he was okay, but otherwise I continued driving.

"Mama, what's a f***er?" came a voice from the backseat. 



My heart dropped into my stomach.  My brain did a quick rewind, and yes, I DID say that word, and yes, my child DID notice.  That's what children do. They pay attention to exactly what you want them to skip over.  Their brains are little tape recorders, and my son has an uncanny auditory memory, which is why I didn't want him to hear Larry and I cursing in the first place.


I almost said another curse word, this time to myself, but it was time to accept the consequences, and I could not erase the last minute.  I sucked it up and did the adult thing.  I apologized to Zane for saying that word in front of him.  I told him that I was very scared about that truck, I wasn't thinking, and I said something that I should not have said.  I emphasized that the word I used was not a nice word, and that it was not a word I ever wanted to hear him say, because it was a very, very bad word.  I think that I got through to him.  He hasn't mentioned it since. 


Maybe I dodged that bullet for now.  Or maybe I will be getting a phone call from the school this week or the next.  I don't remember reading anything about the penalty for calling your teacher a bad word, but I am sure that it involves something horrible.


How about you?  Anyone else ever cuss in front of a child?  How did you handle it?

Now I've Gone And Done It

I try to read the paper every day. Mostly just the funnies. Some days, however, I have more time to leisurely read while I have my coffee. And so it came to pass that I read a particular article. While I read it, I became incensed.

I never become incensed. Irritated, perhaps, but incensed? Never.

The people in the article were obviously idiots, I immediately thought, and what they were doing was completely stupid. I read further.

It was a crime against humanity of epic proportions.

I finished the article. I was incensed!

I just could not sit idly by and allow this to continue.

Something must be done!

So I wrote a letter to the editor of the paper. Well, given the technology of the day, I sent an email. But still.

I'd like to say that I got this streak of blatant activism from my parents, but that would just not be true. My parents are as apolitical as they come.

They don't belong to any political party.

They don't read up on government and civics in their spare time.

They don't vote.

They didn't even vote for Nashville Star, and they actually watched that show.

They certainly would never write a letter to the editor of a newspaper!

Somewhere in my DNA, however, must be the missing link to my recent spurious activity. Someone in my family, at some point, must have decided to take a stand on a particular issue in this particular fashion.

I can picture some distant relation, scribbling on parchment with a quill, denouncing the fact that the price of butter had gone up.

The good news (for me) is that even if my letter is published, most people that I know don't actually read the part of the paper that has the Letters to the Editor in it.

I think I will just stick to the funnies from now on. It's safer that way.