I’m not complaining, but as I get older, my body is aging. I had a knee replacement a couple of years back. My digestive tract is in revolt. And I occasionally have some back pain.
Everyone has problems. I recently read about a study that suggested human bodies go through periods of major physical change at around ages 40 and 60. I can personally vouch for sudden changes in the 60 range. I turned 40 so long ago I don’t recall if weird stuff happened back then.
Those physical problems are a fact of life for all of us. We just adjust our attitude and learn to live with them.
Mental deterioration is worse. I think, therefore I am. But what if I lose the ability to think? I don’t think, therefore I am not?
An estimated 6.7 million Americans suffer from Alzheimer’s, the most common form of dementia, according to the Centers for Disease Control. That includes more than 200,000 Michigan residents.
My mother never lost her sharp mind before she passed. But my dad, who preceded her in death, did.
Visiting my parents when they were in their late 80s became increasingly troubling. The last couple of years before Dad passed, my wife and I would visit and within 10 minutes Dad would ask Mom — while I was standing right next to them — “When are they leaving?”
I hope he knew I was his son. But there obviously was some cognitive disconnect that made me somewhat of a stranger in his eyes, a stranger that he was not comfortable having in his home. I asked my sister and brother about it, and they, too, noticed similar symptoms during their visits.
Mom must have covered for Dad for years. His condition changed gradually, and she adapted day by day.
Like most fathers, mine always was a bit odd. My kids think I’m a little weird. That’s just part of fatherhood. If we weren’t rather strange, how would our children learn to recognize normality?
My wife and I visited my parents’ home shortly before Dad ended up in a hospital. I noticed that many items in the house suddenly had labels, written on slips of lined notebook paper, clumsily attached with transparent tape.
A stapler on his desk had a label that read “Stapler.”
A rake in the garage had a label that read, “Rake, for raking leaves.”
Nail nippers on his dresser had a label that read, “Clippers for trimming fingernails.”
A half-gone yellow pencil on the table next to his recliner had a label that read, “Tom’s pencil for crosswords.”
I asked Mom about the labels. She said Dad was having “a little trouble remembering things,” so he had made and attached the labels himself.
But their life together was fine, she assured me. No problem.
I remember the look on her face as she said that: Her mouth was smiling but her eyes were blank, as if a roller blind had been hastily pulled down when I asked the question.
My siblings and I had many discussions about the situation amongst ourselves and with Mom. She adamantly resisted any thought of moving him or them out of their home.
The visit with the labels was just a few weeks before my father’s condition took a sudden turn that landed him in a hospital with severe end-of-life dementia. That stage was even more difficult to witness.
He could no longer get out of bed. He didn’t recognize anyone but his wife. He certainly didn’t know me. I stayed a couple of days with him and Mom in the hospital.
Dad took short naps around the clock, but most of the time he was mentally living in a world only he could see behind closed eyes.
He loudly gave house-building directions, complete with hand gestures, about how long eaves should be, how a ladder was in the wrong place, what kind of nails should be used to attach tread boards to a new stairway. Detail after detail.
My dad never was a contractor. He did build one house, almost single-handedly, two decades before he landed in that hospital bed.
He also had long conversations with his brothers, both of whom had been dead for years. Mom and I could only hear Dad’s side of the conversations, so it was impossible to comprehend the topics. We couldn’t tell if he was recalling decades-ago memories or if it was fantasy.
Those last few days, he ate hardly anything, and frequently refused to drink water. His lips dried out until they cracked. He would open his eyes and tell us he was thirsty, but when we brought a plastic cup toward his mouth, he would violently bat it away with a sudden burst of strength and accuse us of trying to poison him. Then he would instantly fall back exhausted and begin mumbling detailed instructions to imaginary construction workers.
I didn’t understand what was happening inside his head, and I still don’t. A year later — while my mother was gracefully approaching death — a hospice worker told me that the mind does important work when at the end, and that such work is impossible for survivors to comprehend.
Experts admit that the complexities of the deteriorating mind elude complete understanding.
My own mind remains intact for the moment, judging from the evidence. My wife still smiles both with her mouth and with her eyes.