Path of no return

Yesterday after church I watched a scene that vividly reminded me of my dad. A gentleman -- and he truly is a gentleman -- and his wife have been coming to church regularly after a few years away; she welcomes the companionship as her husband sinks ever deeper into the world of dementia.

At the potluck afterward, the pastor called for “women and children first” in line, and the wife was among those who headed out of sight to get in line. The husband went looking for her, and a friend gently guided him back to their table.

The momentary disappearance of his “anchor” and his frantic reaction were oh so reminiscent of our experience with Dad, and at once I ached for my Dad and rejoiced that he is with his Savior.

It seems more and more of our friends and loved ones are dealing with dementia in varying forms, and the watching is painful because we have been where they are, and it is a terrifying place to be.

You brace yourself for daily confrontation, for conversations that defy logic and demand extreme patience, for that panicked call for help from Mom, and the need to drop everything and race to their aid.

A couple of days ago a colleague shared that he was traveling to San Diego a lot to visit his parents because his dad had Alzheimer’s. Yesterday at the office we had a chance to talk about that before he clocked out.

My brothers, sisters and I have been in his shoes. We’ve listened to Dad ask the same question 45 seconds apart, for 15 minutes before he moved on to another subject.

My husband and I have listened with growing anxiety to Dad accuse his son-in-law of stealing his license, stealing his car, and argue why yes, he CAN drive, and no one can tell him otherwise. Over. And over. And over.

After he was moved into the San Diego facility, he would call, begging to come home, to come pay the bill at this “hotel” and take him to Mom. He wouldn’t accept ‘No” for an answer, and often the conversation ended with him angry, frustrated, and me in tears. I finally learned to say that I would come get him the minute the doctor released him. And I wasn’t lying. If the doctor had said he was cured, I’d have been there in a heartbeat, or as fast as the car would take me.

Living with dementia is heartbreaking. You learn not to argue, not to fight back, not to try to reason, because there is no reasoning, and you fight to learn not to take it personally, because this isn’t your dad speaking to you like this.

The brakes are off on their self-control. Dad and others like him would say things in the fog of dementia that they never would have even thought to say before.

So when my colleague said he and his family were looking at options of places to put their dad, I told him about the place my sister found for our dad, and how the stability of such a place seemed to help Dad’s mentality, but it also sent him into depression not to be with Mom.

I can think of nothing more terrifying than to be losing your mind and know it, and know there’s nothing you can do about it, and then to be separated from your life partner.

And I can think of nothing sadder than being the family member watching this happen, knowing the release only comes with death. For Dad, that end meant he went home to his Savior, and there is enormous joy knowing that.

My prayers are with my colleague, my friends who now travel this path.