After getting Dad into his recliner for an afternoon nap (usually about 3 hrs.), I got on my knees and gave him a big hug.

“I love you , Dad.”

“I love you, too.”

I could tell he was anxious.  With apparent dismay, he seemed to be trying to say “I can never do that again.” But I was never sure what “that” might be.  My guess was that he was feeling sad about another recognition of lost capacity, even if for just that moment. He seemed almost ready to cry (though I’ve never seen him cry during the entire period of his illness), and he reached out his arms and wrapped them around me and pressed his face close to mine.

He said, “I just love you so much. I am so glad you are . . . I love you . . . my Daddy.” He often calls me Daddy, especially when he is upset or needs something.  Starting a few months back, when my hair was rather long, he often told me I was a “good girl,” despite my beard. But he also calls me “Momma” some of the time.  And my favorite is when he says to me “You’re a good little dog”–one of his most over-learned phrases from having a much-beloved chihuahua for many years. Of course, I answer to all of them.

“I’m so glad you are here, Dad. I am so glad to see you every day. You make me happy.”

“Oh, thank you. Bless your heart.”

After a long hug, I helped him lay back as Mom covered him with a light blanket.

“Have a good rest, Dad. I’ll get you up when dinner is about ready.”

I reached to hold his hand, and he grasped it firmly. I held his hand, stroked his shoulder for a few seconds, and started to rise, but he strengthened his grip.

“Don’t leave me.”

There was a real urgency in his voice. I sat back down, briefly thinking about the work I would leave undone for a while.

“I am not going to leave you, Dad.”

I sat with him a few minutes, and he began to relax. I told him again that I would get him up for dinner and that we would have a nice meal together. His grip loosened a bit. I pulled my hand from his and instead grasped his hand from the back of it, so that I was holding his hand, but he couldn’t hold mine. He seemed content with that. He kept talking for another couple of minutes–I couldn’t make out what he said, but the emotional tone still seemed to be sad and frustrated, but calmer. I gave him a kiss on his forehead and slowly slipped my hand away. I knew he would be asleep in a matter a minutes.

I always feel a special sadness when he calls me his Daddy.  Many years ago he told me of the abuses he and his mother had suffered at the hands of his alcoholic father. He even intervened by brandishing a loaded rifle when his father threatened to burn his mother with a hot clothes iron. When not drunk, his father seemed to be a kind person. I never knew my grandfather very well. He died early, of emphysema, the result of a lifelong tobacco addiction. When I was a child, Dad never seemed to want us to get close to his father. I don’t think his scars have ever healed.

More and more I tell Dad that he makes me happy. A few times during the day I might say “I am so glad to see you today” or “Dad, thank you for that sweet hug–it makes me happy when you do that.”  Letting someone know that they make you happy,  just by being there,  is one of the greatest joys you can ever give.  It restores their worth, at least for that moment, even if they have  no possessions, are helpless,  and cannot even remember their own name. These are the best moments of our day, for both of us. Try it and you’ll see what I mean.

My father’s illness began to take hold of him about eight years ago, so much of what I will write about here happened some time ago.  When time is relevant, I will usually give some indication in the post. But a large part will be current, reported more or less on the day or within the week of occurrence.  Dad will turn 92 in a few days, so he has been on this path for nearly 10% of his life. My mother is 87, still reasonably healthy and alert, though beginning to struggle with her memory recently.  My older brother, after a life deeply troubled by psychosis and alcoholism, passed away suddenly from a stroke in November.  He would have been 58 this month.

I am 53, not married, living in my parents’ home for the last year, helping mother manage father and sister. I moved back to their home in southern Florida from Maryland where I’d had a job in publishing. Before those 8 years in publishing I worked in hospitals and private practice as a Psy. D.  Prior to my return to FL, I spent 3 years flying back and forth from Maryland every six weeks. I gave up my apartment in MD and resided there in a small hotel with reasonable rates,  putting my household in storage for all that time. Eventually, I had to spend more time in FL than the publishing company liked (though they were marvelously tolerant for a very long period), and I was laid off when the financial crunch came.  I’ve  been living off savings since then, and fortunately my expenses are low. I’ve looked for work but, now in a small town, and in the current recession, there are very, very  few jobs in this area.  This is not an easy life, but I felt early on that the right thing to do was to help my family, and I still believe that. I decided to to make the best of the situation, whatever may come.

Evan M.