I was talking about my father’s dementia yesterday. In my own meandering way, I was grieving for…what exactly, I’m not sure. Not my relationship with my father because that’s always been strained. That’s putting it politely.
I’ll be blunt. We don’t have a relationship; we never have. My father spent most of my childhood not in the house. I am not going to get into all that, but he and my mother had a very fraught marriage from the start. He cheated on her constantly, and he never bother keeping it a secret. I knew about it once I hit my teens–maybe even before that–because my mother made me her emotional support person when I was eleven.
My father claimed to be working until midnight every day. Yeah, right. ‘Working’. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? He was fucking around–and he never found out. It was an open secret at our church that he always had a piece on the side–from the church.
My father never went to any of my activities. I was in dance, orchestra, softball, cello, and theater at various times in my life. I can count on one hand the number of times he showed up to one of my activities, and that was when my mother made him go.
I didn’t mind, honestly. He was such a negative presence in my life–holy shit. I just thought of something. My ex-SIL was someone who sucked the joy out of the room. She was so unhappy all the time, and she made it her life’s mission to make everyone aroundher miserable as well. I don’t think it was a conscious decision on her part, but she was just so unrelentingly negative. And I’m saying that as someone who is fairly negative myself.
My father is the same. He doesn’t find any joy in anything. There are things that he likes doing, but he rarely smiles unbidden. He doesn’t like any food. Well, he likes Taiwanese food, and very few specific American dishes. The cod dinner from Culver’s and the burger from Smashburger were two of them. His favorite, though, was the brisket my brother made the last time they came. This was Thanksgiving after my medical crisis. Keep in mind that my father never praises anything. After he ate the brisket, he said it was the best thing he had ever eaten. Unprompted.
When I only see him once a year at the most, it’s easy to see his decline. I have not seen him in nearly three years, but I can tell when we talk on the phone that he’s slipping away a little more each time. We only talk for five or so minutes. When they were here for my medical crisis, my father was present maybe 75% of the time. 15% of the time, he struggled with remembering who I was or where he was. He slipped into the past or went delusional roughly 10% of the time.
Now, nearly three years later, I can tell that he’s declining more rapidly. I’d say within the last six months, he’s deteriorating at an accelerated rate. He can still remember who I am most of the time, but he hsas more difficulty remembering where I am or when we have talked. This is not unusual with dementia, obviously, but it is stil heartbreaking to watch.
This is the main ponit of this post. And, yes, I’m getting to it earlier than I normally would.
No matter my history and/or relationship with my father, he does not deserve this. Nor does my mother as his caregiver, but this is post is focused on my father. Watching him being destroyed inch by inch is sobering. And, much to my surprise, it’s breaking my heart.
I have told my friends that in order to deal with my parents (outside of the dementia), I have to think of them not as my parents. Or rather, as not my parents. I have to think of them as old people who are on the last journey of their lives in order to allow my compassion for them overtake my personal feelings toward them as my parents.
If you had told me thirty years ago that I would be in this place now, I would have scoffed at you. I hated my parents then, though I wouldn’tadmit it even to myself. When we talked, I would sink into a deep depression and literally lose my will to live. I’m not being hyperbolic, by the way. I felt I had nothing to live for after talking to them.
I went as low contact as possible, mostly meaning that I did not call them–ever. I dreaded it when they called. Or rather, when my mother called and then handed the phone off to my father. This was once a month or so, and I was grimly acceptant that I had to do my filial duty. Then, I would be relieved that I did not have to do it for another month. Hopefully. My mother would call more often when she wanted to complain. That’s her M.O., by the way. Call and dump.
Side note: my brother and I have joked heavily in recent years that if our mother calls, you better answer. Why? Because she will keep calling until you do. She has learned that she gets what she wants more often than not if she keeps nagging. Oftentimes, it’s easier just to give in than to keep saying no.
More to the point, you have to pick your battles carefully. I will not tell her anything of importance until I’m ready to deal with the consequences. If I tell her at all. I usually keep everything on a very surface level when talking with her. How am I? Fine. Everything is fine. Nothing is anything but fine.
Picking up the phone when my mother calls was one way of giving in to her on a fairly painless point. Talking to her for twenty minutes every other week is doable. She still calls me to dump on me, but I’m resigned at this point. I suddenly got really tired, so I will end this here. More tomorrow.