The whole time Cliff was fighting cancer, all the doctors visits and worrying and surgeries and medications, I thought over and over and over again that I would never, not in a million years, wish that on anyone. Even my worst enemies. It’s not a statement I make lightly.
But I really wish my dad had cancer. Instead, he has Alzheimers.
Cancer is a fightable disease. Doctors will pat you on the back, give you odds, tell you with confidence (even if it’s feigned) “We are going to throw everything we have at this and you can beat it!” With Alzheimers, it’s all about “slowing things down” and discussion about “the progression”, but there’s no fighting spirit or positive attitude called for. Because it doesn’t matter. You can’t beat it. It wins the battle before you even have a chance to marshall the troops.
Cancer comes with a two part diagnoses: The Bummer : “The test results are back, and it’s cancer.” and The Hope: “…….here’s our plan of attack“. Alzheimers diagnoses are different. They are more of the “It sucks and I know it sucks and unfortunately you’d probably better become accustomed to it sucking, because soon it will suck even worse.” variety.
Cancer is long periods of nothing punctuated by shorter periods of intense need. People respond pretty well to that. People can organize meal delivery, they can drop off a casserole, they can mow your lawn while someone recovers from surgery. Alzheimers never stops. It never takes a break. It just gets worse.
Of all the things to befall my father in particular, Alzheimers has a specific sort of cruelty. I have never known a man more cerebral than my father, a man who lived inside his head more. Of all the words anyone ever used to describe my dad, I imagine “capable” probably took top prize. But he’s not capable anymore.
He was diagnosed right after my son was born. At the time, his symptoms were mostly of the Party Foul variety. The same story, told over and over, forgetting to meet his daughters at the movies, losing things. It stayed that way for a long time. I actually began to doubt the timelines we’d been given. Yeah, dad was forgetful. Sure, you had to check the stove burners before he left the house, make sure he had his phone, call him both the night before you met him for lunch and again a half hour before you were going to pick him up. He’d get irrationally and disproportionately angry all of a sudden, but not often. But it was manageable. In the past year, though, the disease has picked up some speed, and it’s hard to keep up, like dribbling a soccer ball down a hill. You have control for a second, and then you lose it, careening down the hill far too fast, unable to steer, hoping you catch up.
I miss my dad. My kids won’t know him like I do, or even like my nieces do, or even like they do. Drew and Zachary have totally different grandfathers in many ways.
We took my dad to see Van Morrison in concert last week. Van is one of his favorites, and I felt particularly lucky that he was in town and playing now, while we could go and enjoy it. I asked my parents if I could take their picture. Dad was goofing off, making faces, and I chided him a little bit, and he laughed just as I snapped the picture. I love this picture. It’s my ‘real’ dad.
