Alzheimer’s won’t rob us of who our dad is
Family08.01.2025
Recently, while I was visiting my dad in Ireland, he asked my mom how many children I have. This means he forgot who they are.
They say Alzheimer’s disease is the long goodbye. They happen to be right. I can go back at least 15 years in hindsight and catch glimpses of some lapses in judgement that I chalked up to aging or simply busyness.
My dad would be mortified if he knew the kids he played with when they were no higher than his hip were now foreign to him. The kids he built memory boxes and bookshelves for. The little boy who loved to play in his workshop and who grew up to have every tool known to man and the ability to fix or build anything. The one who had a grandad-made original wooden canoe shelf to hold his favourite toys and teddy bear. The little girl whose beloved books were displayed on the shelves he built for her – the ones with the heart-shaped cutouts that held stories about ballerinas, giving trees, and barnyard dances. The one who still loves a good book and can decorate a room with flair.
My dad still knows me and my siblings, but sometimes he confuses me with my sister or nieces. He can’t remember I’m the little girl who wore the beautiful kimono he brought back from Japan when I was two. The child he took to the amusement park in Lyon when we lived in France for a short stint. The preteen to whom he handed a Popular Mechanics for Kids hardcover that explained puberty. I read it under the covers at night with a flashlight.
A life full of memories
When I was 19, my dad bought me a pair of olive-green leather high heels while on a business trip to Montreal. What joy for this shoe lover! He brought them back to New Brunswick, where I was working at one of my first jobs. I couldn’t believe they not only fit, but I loved the style and wore them for years. The fact that he took the time to shop on a business trip and chose something so thoughtfully is a memory I still treasure at the age of 59.
My dad loves photographs and has a vast library of old black and whites from his younger years, many from the ’60s when he was courting my mom, and slides (for those who remember slide projectors). Pictures of every relative and friend who crossed our path; weddings and special events; the school years my sister, brother, and I navigated: you name it, we have a photo of it. I’m so grateful for that.
Alzheimer’s disease is slowly taking those memories from him. My mom can’t leave him alone for long. He’s lost his independence, driver’s license, and joie de vivre in many ways, although he can still joke with us, which is a treat. My sister lives nearby and, as a nurse and loving daughter, does so much to support them. My brother and I live a continent away and can’t be there in the ways we’d like, but we visit as often as possible.
Honouring our dad
Why do I write this? Because this disease and the spectrum of dementia affects so many people – family members, friends, colleagues, and strangers on the street.
Approximately 10 per cent of Canadian men and seven per cent of Canadian women are living with dementia. Multiply that by all those who live it with them or experience it in myriad ways, and the numbers are staggering.
I find myself mourning the vibrant guy who used to be my dad, even though he’s still here. He’s still his awesome self, no matter how frail he becomes or how often he imparts the same information or repeats the same questions.
There are funny things to hold onto, like the times he’s told us the worst thing about having Alzheimer’s is the memory loss. Nailed it, Dad!
Our dad’s memories may be challenged, but ours aren’t. We honour him by repeatedly answering his questions and asking our own, so he is part of the conversations, not on the periphery of them. We honour him by caring for our mom. We honour him by inviting humour into the mix so that everything about this isn’t sad.
Alzheimer’s might be the long goodbye, but it’s not going to rob us of the person our dad is and used to be – that thoughtful, generous, giving person, blessed with a great sense of humour, a lover of Tullamore Dew, and a proud Irish dude who happens to have Alzheimer’s.
