#alzfdn

Recently, while my dad was visiting, he saw a few pictures on the refrigerator of my dogs.  He said they looked familiar, but wanted me to tell him their names: Mosby and Puppy (Patzcauro).  For some reason he became fixated on Mosby, a pill of a Weimaraner who I adored.  "Where are they?"  "Dad both Mosby and Puppy passed away."  "Oh." He kept tracing his finger on the the pictures as if that would somehow enlighten his memory of them.  Then out of the blue dad said while pointing at Mosby, "He pushed me out of the bed." He seemed surprised, and I laughed because it was one of the funniest stories my mom ever shared of the many Chuck puppy-sitting adventures.  

All our family pets LOVED my dad; my dad did not always return the sentiment. In their eyes, he could do no wrong.  In his eyes, they were a nuisance that we inflicted upon him as our built-in Grandpuppy sitters.  My mom 'loved' all the four-legged fur babies that came into the house.  While puppy-sitting, my dad was their servant who fed and walked them everyday.  My mom was the warm lap and treat giver.  My parents served important purposes in the eyes of our fur babies.  

As my brother lived within a few miles of my parents, he did not use their puppy-sitting services as much as I did.  I always lived out of the area and travelled extensively.  So my parents would fly down to dog sit or the dogs would be brought to my parents house for the puppy sitting.  Dad did most of the day-to-day caretaking, while my mom would tell the dog stories each night when I called to check in.  My mom could weave a tale like no other, especially when it involved the dogs and my dad.

Mosby was spoiled to no end.  He slept each night in our bed so he of course expected the same with my parents.  My mom was clear that that was not happening while Mosby was staying with them. So they tried everything to get him to sleep on the floor with treats and his baby on the cushy dog bed.  Mosby was having none of it. He crawled as quietly and softly as a 70-lb Weimaraner can manage in between my parents on their queen-sized bed.  Mom would tell him 'No' in her most forceful voice.  Mosby would move back down to his bed for all of 10-15 minutes: rinse, wash and repeat.  

Dad was so frustrated that he said he would go to my brother's old room in the twin sized bed and bring Mosby with him.  I know there must have been much grumbling on the part of my dad and his nuisance grand-puppy.  Dad laid down on the twin bed,  Mosby began on the floor right next to the bed.  Sometime during the night, Mosby did Mosby and crawled into the twin bed with dad and maneuvered his way in between the wall and my dad on the bed.  As Mosby would sleep, he would begin to spread out by pushing out his legs.  Somehow he spread out enough that my dad, in a dead sleep, would move to try and accommodate the pushing.

My mom heard a loud 'thud' and a loud voice.  She jumped out of bed and ran into my brother's old room.  My dad was laying on the floor looking up at Mosby who was cocking his head and standing on the bed looking down at my dad.  Mom said a few choice swear words came out of my dad's mouth as he realized Mosby had effectively pushed him out of the twin bed.  That is when dad gave Mosby the nickname "Devil Dog".  

Yes, that is a Wonder Bread bologna sandwich with Hellmann's on Chuck's TV tray, a staple in his diet.  On his TV tray, one will always find the following: crumbs (from previous meals), a TV remote, a crossword or other game book, a grocery ad from three weeks ago, a date book, and his glasses which he refuses to wear and can never find.

The TV tray, no longer a staple in many homes, is a wonder of the world in my dad's mind.  At any time, he can have two or three tray's carefully situated around his barcalounger, and all the trays are in play at any given time.  In my small home, I gave him a limit of one TV tray while he was staying with me. (The trays are a left-over remnant of when he and mom owned the cottage.) So his overflow went onto the side table next to the couch.  "I can't find my 'fill in the blank'".  "Did you look onto the side table next to your TV tray?"  "Oh, there is the dental floss."  He grabs it and begins to floss his teeth right in the living room while filling in the crossword puzzle.  "Oh hell no Dad.  Floss your teeth in the bathroom, not the living room. Gross."  Chuck waves his hand at me and replies:  "If it is in front of me, I remember to floss my teeth.  Otherwise I forget."  How do I fight that logic?  

"Guess what I found in the side table?  That's where I left my fork from dinner last night." Chuck holds it up like a trophy. Swear word, swear word swear word.  "Dad you can't leave used utensils or plates on or in the tables as I will have a pest problem."  Normally, I am vigilant in doing a 'check' on his area of tables each night after he goes to bed to clean and make sure there is not hidden food, etc. I stupidly didn't even think to look in the drawer of the side table for his dirty fork.  Damn.

Chuck has a grocery store addiction.  While on the grand scale of addictions: gambling, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, etc, a grocery store addiction may not seem as terrible.  Maybe this is a common addiction among the elderly; I have no idea. I just know my dad is off the rails deep into this addiction.

While visiting me for the month of June, Chuck asked to go to the grocery store every single day.  I am not exaggerating.  Where did my dad want to go? Chuck is nothing if not egalitarian in his choice of grocery stores:  Wal-Mart, Costco, Aldi's (loves this place), and Meijer (regional).  He is equal opportunity in spreading the love of his grocery store purchases to everyone.  But he has a $25 cash limit at any and all stores.  If the bill goes over that number, the debit card comes out and he swears he will never return to that store again.  "It's too damn expensive.  It's highway robbery."  He can be very dramatic at times.  I live in an area outside of a bigger town.  So I love my local grocery store; while more expensive, it is a nicer, quieter shopping experience.  Chuck had a fit at my local grocery store and was crabbing, very loudly, about the prices.  It was so embarrassing as everyone knows everyone.  Ugh.  

I would call my poor brother and just vent.  While spewing venom, I began to realize that dad would ask to go the grocery store everyday because he wasn't remembering that we had just visited a grocery store the day before.  "The Daily Memory Wipe" occurred, and the experience was already gone.  So he completely forgot that he bought day old donuts and pastries; he forgot he bought a few bags of unbranded candy and snacks.   In the grand scheme of Chuck's life should I care that he is a trans fat junkie?  He's 80 and is in pretty good health.  It is such an internal battle for me.

"Can I have some brown hot liquid, you know, the stuff that goes in that cup?" "Dad, do you mean 'coffee'?  "Oh, yeah, I forgot the name of the stuff."  This happened a week ago while dad was visiting.  My dad, an experienced coffee drinker from an early age, forgot the name of the 'brown hot liquid'; it made me sick.  He followed it up by, "Can you put some of that white frozen cream on top?"  I pull out a container of Cool Whip he brought with him for strawberry shortcake.  "Did you mean this?", pointing to the Cool Whip.  "Yes, that stuff."  

The loss of words is becoming more 'normal' over the past months.  Everyday words are becoming lost in the deep recesses of dad's mind.  For now, Chuck remembers immediate family members names and faces, but beyond that he is having more difficulty.  I can see the frustration on his face.  He will put his index finger to his temple and tap it.  Somehow that activity seems to make sense to him.  So he will begin to describe the person or a past event that he can remember involving the person in question.  I will offer a few names like a rolodex, and then 'bam' he points at me as in 'yes, that's the name'.  While I have friends who have parents with physical issues in their late 70's and early 80's, sometimes in my selfish moments, I think the mental issues can be tougher to handle.

The part that makes me ill is the understanding that on this Alzheimer's journey my dad will even forget me at some point.  That is the cruel and devastating path that is still before my brother and I.  I cannot even imagine the toll on my dad.  Will he be obliviously happy?  Chuck won't know he doesn't remember us or care what connection we share.  Or will he be buried deep below the surface of his memories?

My dad is developing a horrible habit.  He is finding shiny objects on the ground and picking them up.  He treats it like 'treasure hunting', except that he is conducting the hunt in 'fill-in-the-blank' grocery store, drug store, bank or one of his favorite places like a parking lot.  He finds all kinds of treasures and brings them back to his house.  He has them stuffed in all kinds of places. Then when there is a family get-together, he tries to give them to my poor nieces as gifts.  He doesn't even lie about it.  "Look what I found for you.  Isn't it pretty? Shiny?  I thought you would like it."  God bless them, they just smile and say thank you.  Dad doesn't see the eye rolls and head shaking.  It's GROSS.

The other day, I was in visiting and Chuck and I were going to see my aunt. When we arrived, Dad said "Oh. I forgot."  He pulls something out of his pocket and jams it on his pinky finger.  What???  I do not get a good look at it until we are in my aunt's home.  Chuck actually starts flashing it around.  My aunt, cousin and I cannot stop looking at his pinky finger.  My aunt asks politely, "Chuck where did you find that ring?"  "Oh, I have had it for awhile, but I forget to wear it."  "Dad, it's ugly and missing a stone." First I get his attempt at a death stare (which never works), Grumble Grumble Grumble, my full name comes out and then, "It's a shame.  I think the stones might be worth something."  "Nope, it's glass.  They are not diamonds.  Dad, seriously?"  My cousin who has some precious stones knowledge agrees, but does so in a nicer manner.  "Chuck by the look of the missing stone and breakage, it does look like glass."  "Oh." He is completely deflated by this news.  "Well, I still like it." Nothing more is said.  

Chuck is vain.  Yes, I just wrote that.  He thinks he looks better without his glasses, so forgoes wearing them as much as he can get away with it.  Furthermore, Chuck doesn't believe he needs his glasses while driving around town.  Point of fact:  he does.

A week ago, my brave sister-in-law was riding in the car with my dad to an appointment.  We all let him drive short distances to constantly gauge his driving skills.  The sun was shining, so dad tried to put on non-prescription sun glasses.  My sister-in-law, rightly, told my dad, "Chuck, you need to wear your prescription glasses for driving.  Your sun glasses are not prescription.  We will schedule an appointment and get you some new sun glasses."  Nice.  Easy.  Non-confrontational.  " No I don't.  Since when do I need glasses to drive?"  He is so damn stubborn.  This went back and forth and my sister-in-law told him she would be happy to drive in his place if he refused to wear this prescription glasses.  He finally relented because NO ONE drives Chuck's car but himself.  But the incident didn't end there.  Nope.  Chuck loves proving everyone wrong.

Chuck heads to his local police department.  He shows them his driver's license and asks:  "Am I required to wear glasses while driving?"  The very nice police officer said "No Sir.  You are not required to wear corrective lenses according to your driver's license."  Chuck, all puffed up and technically proven right, heads over to the house of my brother and sister-in-law to tell them 'whats what.'  Hhmmm.  So there.  Nah Nah Boo Boo.  He is right, and she was wrong.  Keep in mind, Chuck has been wearing glasses since middle school.  However, somehow dad passed the vision test at the Secretary of State's Office a few months earlier and thinks it is the gold standard of vision tests.  Grrrrrr.  His eye doctor and primary care physician would disagree. Both state Chuck must wear prescription glasses for everything.

The rubber-banded wallet is my dad in a nutshell.  The use of the rubber band made more sense when it was wrapped around his George Costanza-sized wallet with receipts ready to explode out of the ripping seams.  But the habit was set, and Chuck immediately wrapped his new wallet in the same rubber band.  So instead of it just holding everything in the wallet, the rubber band gets caught within the fabric of his back pocket.  When he tries to get the wallet out, it gets stuck every time.  So Chuck grumbles, groans and maybe throws an expletive out, each and every time he has to remove the wallet from his back pocket.  It is painful to watch.

Rubber bands are everywhere in the house.  Chuck saves them all, has saved them for decades.  So you can imagine how many are stuffed in every corner of the house, his car, the basement and in the garage.  What can he do with all the rubber bands?  Chuck is nothing if not resourceful, and he can MacGyver them into all kinds of useful purposes.  He couldn't find a 'j' hook, so he used a rubber band in place of it.  The Tupperware lid won't stay on, so a rubber band was used to keep the lid on, kind of.  If he has run out of chip clips, his treasure of hidden snacks in the front closet will stay fresh once Chuck uses a rubber band.  The toilet 'thingy' chain breaks, a rubber band will save the day.  The rubber band should be a superhero.

"Dad, why all the rubber bands stuffed in every nook and cranny of the house?" His answer is always the same, "Because of The Depression.."  In his world, this alone explains everything.  As I have shared before, Chuck was born after the depression; however, there was obviously some residual effect for my dad and his siblings from Lena, my dad's mother.  Honestly, I do not know if her need to 'save' every possible piece of tin foil, plastic container, string and rubber bands ever ended during her lifetime.  So, dad's obsessive need to save everything comes honestly and began with his mother.  

Chuck uses 'We' in every conversation both public and private.  "We need toilet paper.  We are out of milk.  We are hungry."  Who is 'We'?  When questioned, he merely shrugs it off.  When we are out in public, he will speak to someone: banker, restaurant server, or grocery store cashier and use the term "We."  So the people look at me as included in the "We."  I want to shake my head 'no', but feel like I am being a traitor to dad if I do.  

I can only trace this use of "We" to when my mom was alive.  My parents were a "We" for over four decades.  So Chuck does not know how to be anything but a "We", and yet, it still irks my brother and I when every conversation is about "We.."  As my dad lives alone, there is no "We" anymore.  My mom has been gone for 12 years and is missed everyday.  But I did not think my dad fully realized this fact.  By using the royal 'We", she is still in the conversation.  So mom cannot be really gone.

When I came home recently, there was a note posted on the refrigerator. 'Megan has been gone since 2010.'  Dad's handwriting is almost illegible, but at the bottom of the note was a sad face 😢.  It took me by surprise and I teared up realizing dad wrote this note to remind himself.  He is no longer a 'We' but an 'i'.  Another gut punch.