The Escapeartist Speaks

The Hotel California

 

Ageis was the kind of place my father would abhor living in if he had the choice. But at this mid-stage of his Alzheimer’s progression, he did not.

It was our third stop on a parade of retirement homes throughout the Santa Cruz area, and my younger sister Jenny considered it her top finalist for three reasons: One, it was spotless. Two, it had a Dementia wing.  And three, it was bike-riding distance from her condo.  These were all valid reasons to me, the delegated facility-screener, but the third reason pertaining to convenience rather than quality weighed most heavily in Aegis’s favor. I still had my reservations about the place. My first thought was “cold.” Jenny called it “clean.” My father would have called it “expensive.” And that’s why he would’ve hated it.

As we approached the entrance in all its faux grandiosity, predictable ivory columns and shining brass emblematic of the more upscale facilities we’d seen, I’d sensed something more personally familiar. Like I’d been there before…or maybe, stayed there before, overnight. Ageis seemed like a five-star hotel with an age restriction, with the primary distinction being the guest’s length of stay. The difference was rather than enjoying a fleeting getaway these guests were held inside the confines of the resort by electric fence and alarm-wired exits. These guests were permanent residents of a docile purgatory dressed up as a luxury resort. "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."

I did my best keep an open mind. More often than not my perspective was split between my father’s and my own eyes. And when this happened I was caught between his extreme budget-consciousness and my own total lack thereof.  But this was Jenny’s turf now and if she was altruistic enough to host him in her home town, I would acquiesce to her decision--Not only with the appropriateness of the home but also, the convenience of it to her daily routine. I was more concerned with managing her burden than carrying on my father’s propensity towards an unnecessarily Spartan lifestyle. Although he never considered himself deserved of life’s luxuries, I did. And because I was in control of his finances now, I made the executive decision to spend graciously for the sake of Jenny’s convenience. After all, she would be the one taking on the lion’s share of responsibility. She would be the most compelled to visit, for placing him within bike riding distance of her condo--Which to me seemed both a blessing and a curse.

I assumed my five-page facility interview would be a piece of cake for Ageis, or shall I say, I expected it should be. If they were bold enough to deem themselves The Ritz Carlton of Elder Care, I assumed they’d have their bases covered. After all, this facility was not only the most expensive in Santa Cruz, but it was also nearly double the price of the all others we’d seen. They most certainly should have their ducks in a row. Nevertheless, I touted along my list of 116 questions anyway, rationalizing that at least in the research department; I’d be staying true to my father’s wishes. I was also curious to know what the obligatory $8,000.00 community-fee was being utilized for. Surely it was for something more useful than the Ageis Cadillac--a chauffeured sedan that transported residents to doctor’s appointments. Maybe they were serving caviar and champagne during cocktail hour?  It definitely wasn’t for the grounds. The building was located just off the highway convenient to visitors commuting from more upscale suburbs of Northern California--But not so valuable to Jenny, who lived a mere bike-ride away.

I forcibly reminded myself that money was no object.  In reality, it wasn’t far from the truth.  But the frugal perspective that had been hammered into my brain since birth was difficult to undo. Dad raised me to believe exactly the opposite and for thirty years, he kept me completely oblivious to his financial status. Only after the diagnosis did he finally break down and share his secret. He was a planner, and because his imminent mental decline was on the table, he felt compelled to put a trusted family member in the driver’s seat: He defaulted to me, the daughter with her head screwed on straight.

The Grand Parlor was busy with activity, unusual for a retirement home. There was a pianist in the foyer happily tinkling a waltz and two sets of old people were dancing feebly in the center of the room. The scene was an equal mix of charming and heartbreaking. As bittersweet as it was, I did appreciate the crowd existing outside of their wheelchairs, and that they were doing something besides staring blankly into the distance. It was a nice contrast to Independence Village, my father’s current home, which was considered a progressive step above communities like Ageis because daily care was outsourced rather than all-inclusive. To me, Independence Village was a dressed up nursing home in the absence nurses, or any skilled care for that matter. With no medical care to speak of and no liability to insure, it became a popular option for the value-minded retiree too new at the elder care game to know better, which included us at the time. It was a laissez-faire operation appealing to those who needed meals cooked and linens washed, like my father did in the beginning. After he moved in he grew far more confused—But the staff at Independence Village never mentioned this. Apparently that was not their job, which perfectly illustrates the critical difference between the “Assisted” and “Independent” living. Independent living could be classified as senior citizens housed under one roof plus maid service. And that was all the help my father thought he needed back then. Assisted living offers help in all areas of one’s declining mental and physical condition. Offering services ranging from escorted nature walks to “toileting.” Had we known the distinction at the time, we could have saved Dad the stress and ensuing mental ramifications of moving twice. A transition, we soon discovered, that took years off his life.

It didn’t take long for us to discover Independence Village was the wrong choice. The social worker warned the new routine would take him time to get used to, but after 6 months not only was his new routine still a mystery, but his everyday habits were becoming entirely new obstacles. Accomplishing daily tasks such as dressing and showering turned painstaking. Eventually, to save time and aggravation Dad stopped changing his clothes. There were too many hindrances now. Buttons too tiny to see, laces too complicated to tie, patterns and colors too imperceptible to match, and discerning what was clean from dirty could only be detected by scent, allowing for spills and soils to multiply as the week progressed. Dad reverted to sporting the same outfit Monday thru Thursday, until Lois picked him on Fridays to spend the weekend at her place. Out of respect for her, he would spend half the day attempting to bathe himself-- Feeling his way around the shower, testing multiple combinations of pulling, turning and twisting the faucet to start the flow of water. How to go from a flowing spout to shower spray? Which way to turn…or to pull…or to push? Was it the knob…or the handle? Was it the drain or the temperature gauge? This became a merry-go-round of trial and error that could go on for hours, episodes of scalded skin, overflowing tubs and frigid showers becoming dangerously familiar.

After a failed six-month attempt at adjusting to Independence Village, my father grew increasingly stressed. The stress exacerbated the confusion and the confusion kick-started the memory loss.  Soon enough, the weekend jaunts to his girlfriend’s place became too much. He would take his frustration out on her, and she on us, and we made bets amongst ourselves how long it would take before she ended it. Within six months their five-year relationship took a genteel turn for the convenient and Lois slowly, but sweetly, began fading away. Her departure inspiring an entirely new onslaught of mini transitions we never anticipated. Dad was fading and fading quickly. We were duped, and yet again, left to frantically trample fires this disease had been igniting for years.

The dementia caught us off-guard for good reason. My father was a fabulous actor. He’d adopted a covert system of coping to shield us from his burden: Sleeping in his clothes rather than changing, sponge bathing rather than showering, sporting the same nylon jacket everyday to camouflage spills from mealtimes. All these shortcuts worked temporarily. He presented himself normal enough. I’m sure the staff at Independence Village was used to it, and his decent appearance was appropriate enough not raise any red flags with visiting friends and relatives. But when I flew out to see him on my third visit, seven months into his stay, I became suspect he wasn’t faring as well as he’d communicated during our bi-weekly phone calls. His paranoia was a bit more difficult to conceal.
    “Someone’s stealing my clothes.”
    “Dad, why would anyone want your jeans from 1974?”
    “Hell I don’t know. It’s either they’re stealing them or they’re hiding them. It happens all the time. That’s why I never know where anything is. People come in here, they buzz around, in, out, all over the place. They never tell me what’s going on…” 

I did my best to preserve his dignity by offering suggestions rather than calling out his paranoia. It pained me to see him so helpless.
     “Maybe they’re just stuffed up in your closet where it’s hard to see. You have sooooo many clothes Dad. You really don’t need all 200 sweaters.”
    “I don’t know who bought me all this stuff but it just doesn’t work.  These leather pants are way to heavy.”
    He yanked at the top of his pant leg in dismay, a feeble attempt at demonstrating the inappropriateness of leather in June.  Never mind he was really wearing Khaki Levis, a former favorite pair.
    “Maybe later we can clean out your closet together Dad. We’ll sort everything out where you can see it.” 
    Solutions…I remember reading this in The 10 Golden Rules for Dementia Care. Don’t argue.  Offer solutions.
     “OK honey, “ he said, relieved. “That would be real nice.”

That was my method. Listen. Empathize. Strategize. Dad would reach a threshold and I’d find away to cross it. I was full of handy solutions. I decorated his bathroom in red. Despite his increasing blindness, he could still discern the color red and I took it to the extreme. I bought all red bathroom accessories:  Shower caddy, toothbrush, sponge, bathmat, comb, even soap. I covered the handle on the faucet with colored electrical tape: Red for hot.  His basket of fresh Bic razors placed on a washcloth: Red for sharp. I outlined every switch, knob, and cabinet: Red for on, off, up, down, push and pull.  My father’s once serene domicile in beige had been transformed into a caricature lined in scarlet.

The funny thing is, I actually thought my systems would help him. I seriously felt that when I returned next time, Dad would be showering, shaving, and flicking the lights on and off like a pro. I headed back to New York ignorantly satisfied. A false sense of accomplishment packed neatly away in my suitcase: Red for wrong.

When Jenny came to visit the same complaints resurfaced in different variations. After her first day there, just as I did, she came to his rescue with her own set of coping mechanisms. She called me later to give an all-too-familiar report: 

“Dad says someone’s hiding his clothes…He can’t find his soft towels, did you move them? He’s cut his face from shaving with dull razors…He can’t find his clothes so I re-arranged his closet…The maids are taking his chewing gum and hiding his favorite jacket…He had no toiletries when I looked in the shower. Nor the basket you mentioned.  But I did find six barely-used-bars of strawberry soap on the floor…”
No routine would stick. No strategy could be retained. No matter what we did to Alzheimer’s-proof his daily existence, it wasn’t enough.

By the time we realized he was not suited to live independently at all, it was much later than we wanted it to be. After a year of struggling intensely with daily tasks, Dad was adamantly opposed to the idea of starting all over again at a new place. He was highly resistant to any change or new routine--not that he’d ever established one in the first place. It was of little consequence that he would be moved close to one of his daughters who could visit all the time. It didn’t matter that the place was steps from the beach, or had a view of the mountains, or was properly set up for Dementia care. Never mind the move would be in his best interest.  He was not taking kindly to an entirely new transition only to find himself at another place like Independence Village. The place, he cited, “where old people came to die.”

I found it odd when he mentioned being bothered by the presence of these “old people” because as far as I knew, he couldn’t even see them. I began questioning if Dad was indeed bothered by what was truly going on around him, versus what he perceived to be occurring by referencing old precepts and stereotypes. There were many days when his reports of the place were joyful. And for a moment I would exhale and happily dial my sisters to report Dad’s sunny disposition, only to be cut short by someone’s opposite rendition of the same story:
“Dad was crying on the phone. He said he hates it there and there is no way in hell he wants to move to a place like that again.”

His reports would flip flop depending on the day and the daughter. When we all began to compare notes we heard completely different stories. After a while we learned his opinions couldn’t be taken as absolutes, that they were indeed fleeting thoughts that changed at whim, making our choices all the more difficult. We had to make the decision ourselves, and the decision had to be unanimous. This verdict of where we would move him next and what daughter would be in charge was the most challenging we’d faced yet.  We loved him so much. We all had our own ideas for our own reasons. We all stood steadfast in our opinions. We all wanted to be the better daughter.

My Father's Keepers

 

I rushed into the restaurant breathless and made a b-line for the ladies room hoping to get by unnoticed. This was less of an opportunity to relieve myself and more of a chance to check myself out. These lunches were important. They were instances that called for extreme apropos: To be dressed properly, to be prompt, and to address the burning issue that had grown like a tidal wave in our lives--my father’s steadfast progression of Alzheimer’s Disease.

I looked too tan. My dangly earrings were too bohemian. I looked all together TOO relaxed and it bothered me. The last impression I wanted to make was that of a jet-setter fresh off the shores of St. Tropez. Especially while my dad was stuck back in Michigan counting down the hours alone in that stale little box they call an apartment in his nursing home.

On the outside I may have appeared the picture of R&R but inside I was a guttural mess. Yet revealing my unkempt side was never my style, be it physically or emotionally. I had always relied on my well-monitored composure to mask whatever was really bugging me. When it came to lunch with my father's keepers however, keeping up appearances seemed all too devil-may-care. What was the appropriate look for a RESPONSIBLE TAKE CHARGE WOMAN when what I really felt like was a little girl without a plan? I padded down my highlights and yanked at the sides of my periwinkle sundress in dismay. Why didn’t I just wear black? This was Manhattan afterall, 90% of my closet was black…

Yes, the guilt was definitely creeping in and we hadn’t even sat down to exchange pleasantries.

I approached them from behind relieved to find their appetizers freshly delivered. My guilt faded a tad when I realized they hadn't allowed my tardiness to dampen their fine dining experience. I was always a bit self-conscious around Frank and Eve, my father’s best friends, who routinely met me for lunch in the city to discuss the progression of his AD and just what the hell I was planning to do about it.

“It’s been difficult..." I would begin."...He constantly urges us to hold off...He says he isn’t ready...that the thought of re-adjusting to a new place sends him over the edge...”

Frank and Eve are my father’s transition friends. Meaning they stayed close to him before, during, and after the Alzheimer’s went from bad to worse. They knew him as the old John who joined them as a third Musketeer, and they’ve stuck with him as the new, more unfamiliar John--The one that lags a few steps behind. Still they remain dedicated to him and visit him weekly. They do their best to carry on conversations that have grown progressively one-sided as he slowly begins to forget their names and fun times they'd shared for the past two decades.

They were an odd couple. Beyond their down-to-earthiness and extraordinary intelligence they were polar opposites. Maybe that’s why my father enjoyed their company so much--Dad liked stirring up the difference between the two of them. He enjoyed the banter.           

Frank was thin and speedy, with an overly-keen sense of his surroundings and darting eyes too easily distracted. He was a human radar constantly tuning into his environment. I used to make fun of him for being the oldest man alive with ADD.  Never short on wit or humor, Frank was on stage always and got a kick out of entertaining us with his Brooklyn-based sarcasm. His quippy demeanor was a sharp contrast to my father’s steadfast seriousness. But these days the difference between the two of them was growing inconvenient and uncomfortable.  Frank couldn’t concentrate or ponder a subject too long before tiring of it and eagerly moving on. Dad on the other hand struggled to stay on topic, and would often need reminding of who said what, and “what exactly was it that we were talking about in the first place?” He tried his best but extended conversations seemed to fail him. His responses started off strong, but somehow seemed to fade into the uncertainty of an Alzheimer-y void. 

“It really pisses me off!” Frank would declare.
I wasn’t sure if he meant the dad’s deteriorating mental state, or the fact that it could happen to him one day. Of course I forgave him for this. I knew at the end of the day he just really missed his old friend. I empathized. I really missed my old dad.

"There’s never going to be a good time to move your dad..." Eve would remind me in her most convincing, non-confrontational tone. Then her voice would trail off as if she were leaving me space to offer a solution. I allowed the gap to widen into uncomfortable silence—as the solution never came.

Eve was a tall, gentle, empathetic beauty who spoke softly and deliberately. She was peacefully disarming, graceful and quiet, subtle and warm. She was everything Frank was not and I’m sure that’s why they got along so well. She was the perfect confidante and my father trusted her wholeheartedly. When the blindness took over he trusted her to open his mail and read it to him, financial statements and all. That privilege alone spoke volumes of her character. Dad looked to Eve for advice when the AD became too all-encompassing to disguise--and he no longer trusted his own mind.

At one time they were the Three Musketeers, and dad maintained strong friendships to both of them separately as well as a couple. He enjoyed Frank for his incredible wit and battled him over politics for fun. Dad always appreciated a good argument and Frank was one of the few people that wouldn’t back down. He often poked fun of Dad and got away with it because he was his closest friend.  Dad endearingly referred to Frank as The Professor. Beyond the obvious fact he taught physics at the University, I think dad held fast to this nickname he truly admired Frank’s intelligence. Debating seemed a common pastime between the two, and he challenged my father’s conventional thinking in a way most people wouldn’t dare. Dad was a stealth debater in his day. He lived for the contest. Back in the day, dad thrived on ideas to fight for.

But these days the relationship is growing strained. As the Three Musketeers sit down to visit, the conversations are growing increasingly one-sided.  Eve, the more patient; more genteel of the two does most the talking. Dad’s passion to debate has now morphed into gentle acquiescence. A man who once held rock-solid to his convictions now just goes with the flow and tries to agree in all the right places. The common bond that he and Frank shared has faded away along his unyielding inspiration to challenge him just because. Now Dad dismisses Frank’s personality as too “all over the place.” And he no longer refers to him endearingly as The Professor. Sadly, he doesn’t refer to him much at all.

I know this hurts Frank as he witnesses his best friend dissipating both in mind and spirit, as they no longer have anything in common but history. What’s worse is that it’s a history only remembered by one.

 

During these lunches Frank and Eve would gently aver their opinions and although I take their advice to heart it’s much easier said than done. In all other aspects of my life I’ve been a go-getter. But in my father’s case the big decisions were far more complex. They involve negotiating four separate opinions: My sisters, my father’s and my own. And at this point none of us could come to a unanimous decision. So for the past 16 months Dad struggled to get by alone and totally dependent at Independence Village, while my family remained in a stalemate over whether or not to move him out.

It doesn’t help that Dad changes opinion of the place daily. Last week he complained he was surrounded by old people whose eating habits disgusted him, but the week after he was spotted strolling arm in arm with an attractive female resident and rumor has it, she’s got  a crush on him. His stance on the place would drift from repulsion to contentment depending on the day, and the daughter. After a while we figured his reports of Independence Village were completely subjective, and I restrained my knee-jerk reaction to call my sisters in a panic and report his latest complaint. The following day he would typically forget anything bothered him at all. Moreover, he’d go on to recount the pontifications his men’s club shared over The Davinci Code, and how they were covertly devising a plan to overthrow the administrators.

Half of me knows there’s no ideal time to pull the trigger. The other half of me whispers Wait till he's too far gone to know better. But until we can all put a stake in the ground together we’re left  spinning on this merry-go-round of guilt and uncertainty...pondering, mulling, and fighting tooth and nail over our respective positions, over what we feel is the best option for Dad. As if each of us has their own psychic bond with him and believes beyond a shadow of a doubt, that our connection is the strongest (We each selfishly believe this).

It amazes me to think just two 18 months ago my father was lucid enough to declare the move into a nursing home. It stuns me to think less than two years ago he was driving his car 30 miles a day to and from his girlfriend’s house. Today, he can’t even sit himself inside the front seat of a car without assistance. Instinctively he heads to the driver’s side. Every time I say the same thing, “its cool dad, this time I’ll drive.” And when he comes around to the passenger's side he laughs at himself shaking his head, as if this were our first drill at whose driving who. Now when he reaches for the door handle it turns into another woeful attempt to sit inside the car, backwards.

Post lunch, tea time was usually spent discussing the follow up back in the day, I would obediently carve out the key phrases: “meals on wheels,” “day-glow bulbs,” “talking remote,” etc.  But these days my dad’s condition was beyond handy living aids. Follow-up notes turned into to specific agendas that I entered into my Blackberry punctuated by alarms and due dates:
1. Interview top four nursing homes on the West Coast.
2. Sort out long-term health insurance.
3. De-archive Advanced Directives and submit Power of Attorney.

I still see Frank and Steve for lunch every 6 weeks. They still ask me "What next?" and I still admit I’m not 100% sure. And I still try (probably too hard) to get my point across. To state my case and explain although I’m here and he’s there I’m still very much his daughter--The same responsible woman he raised in his likeness that’s trying her best to do the right thing. I admit there are times when I feel like that uncertain child not yet ready to let go of her dad, but I take comfort in knowing it’s Frank and Eve who empathize.

 

The Taboo Moment

As always, my trip felt too short. There was never enough time to get it all done. There were always so many requests, so many adjustments, so many to-dos that I never left my father and returned to New York feeling a sense off accomplishment. So I adopted his habit of keeping lists on his behalf--And they never seemed to get any shorter.

I had 45 minutes to say goodbye to dad before heading to the airport.
Dad’s last request before I left was to help him with “the voices.” Apparently, the neighbors next door were keeping him awake at night with their mumbling. At this point I never thought to question what dad had seen or heard. I still took everything seriously. Taking great care to ensure each time before I flew home, dad was left in good spirits, as comfortable as possible, with all adjustments made, and all items crossed off the list. 
But this current request was a bit more complicated than the others.

I racked my brain for a useful quick fix. One that would keep him from being bothered by his mumbling neighbors in enough time to get me back to New York on the last flight out. I was desperate for a 30-minute solution. I could pass the buck to the ladies at the front desk, but I knew once I walked out that door the dilemma would be dropped. One of those Zen alarm clocks could do the trick, drowning out their ramblings with crashing waves or thunderstorms--But it was nearly 7PM, Wallgreens was a 10 minute drive, and my chances of making it before closing were slim.  I considered the direct approach; just knocking on the door and talking to the neighbors myself…but there was no way to accomplish a polite sit down in 30 minutes or less.  Stating my father’s case then running out of the room to catch a plane would be rude. The least I could do was offer them a box of Russell Stover’s or something, which again required Walgreen’s.  A benevolent quest that time, unfortunately, did not permit.

I had 28 minutes to come up with an answer and I could feel my anxiety mounting.  Dad stood there in the corner staring at me blankly, patiently waiting for the light bulb to flash above my head, totally unaffected by my quandary.  He lingered, anticipating a cue to respond…I considered the ridiculousness of my own anxiety as I wondered to myself if he even remembered complaining about the neighbors in the first place. Then the semi-rational idea hit me:

“OK, dad here’s what we’ll do…We’ll move your bed to the opposite side of the room so you won’t hear your neighbors so much. We can put it there (roughly 36 inches away from where it currently stood) and then you’ll be furthest away from the wall that separates you. Plus, you’ll be facing the bathroom so you won’t get lost at night when you have to go. Look, from this view, you can even see your night light!”  I vivaciously gesticulated my plan from across his bedroom. It wasn’t the most elegant solution, and certainly not the most efficient, but it was the best I could do in 28 minutes.

Dad stood peacefully to my opposite across the room. I sensed his attempt to follow my convoluted logic and respond accordingly, but the best he could do was smile half heartedly, uncertain as to what to do next. I doubt he fully comprehended my plan, but as usual he went along. I often wondered if it was the meds or the Alzheimer’s that kept him so compliant, but these days no matter how uncertain he was of anything, his default response was always “OK.”

“Ok honey, that sounds great.”
He continued to stand there, staring at the bed, a subliminal attempt to lend a hand.  I’m sure he wanted to help, he just didn’t know how.
“It’s fine dad, just go in the other room, I can move it myself.”
He briefly drifted out of his trance, said, “OK,” and wandered into the living room.

It seemed like an easy enough task.  His bed was small beneath the disheveled sheets.  Just a thin narrow mattress, box spring, frame and wheels. He had no headboard, no footboard, no extra padding to comfort him. Just an old, thin mattress and rickety box springs, basic and spartan. The littleness of it made me sad. When I was a child I remember my dad’s bed being gigantic, a King size. But it never was, it was always a full. The only thing that changed about his bed since then was my perspective, and looking at it now, it seemed so feeble and lonely. A few years back I gave my father a set of luxury sheets, down pillows and a high-thread count duvet. But he never took it out of the package. He considered it too nice to sleep on.  And lying before me now was the bed he laid on for the past 25 years—Just an old mattress and box springs with a set of low thread-count sheets on wheels. It killed me that throughout his whole life, my father never allowed himself to feel comforted, not even in sleeping.

I grabbed the left corner of his mattress and began turning the bed clockwise. Then I repeated the same with the right. My plan was to maneuver his bed into a 90-degree angle then shove it into the opposite corner of the room. I had 26 minutes to complete my mission. But as I reached 45 degrees I noticed something was wrong. The left side of the bed was no longer moving. I shoved harder and felt an unrelenting pull on the carpet. Something was stuck, hard. I peered underneath to find one of the wheels was completely missing from the frame. Dad had actually been sleeping on a lopsided bed for God knows how long and never knew the wiser. I glanced at my watch, 19 minutes and counting….

Inch by painstaking inch I tried twisting and turning each corner but without the forth wheel missing from the frame this was a mere impossibility. I began to sweat. The metal continued to grind further into the thickness of the carpet. Suddenly something gave and half of his bed came flying two feet out from under me. The frame slid completely off-track and was now totally unhinged; the front and back portions of his bed fully separated. God damn it, I cursed under my breath, taking care he wouldn’t hear me in the next room. I could feel my blouse sticking to my back.
12 minutes.

I dropped half the bed and reached to open his window for relief--Nothing. I pulled the metal lip of the window harder this time, irritation building with every bead of perspiration that dripped from my forehead onto the clamped sill. Locked. Of course. GOD DAMN IT! Some sort of senior-proofing fixture had been installed to keep disgruntled residents from hurling themselves out the window, which was a thought I was seriously considering at the time.

Air conditioner. I fiddled with the digital display, pressing the down arrow in a mad frenzy with no luck. It was frozen at 78 degrees.  I tried unplugging it then plugging it back in. I slammed the display pad with my sweaty fist. Nothing. WHAT THE HELL? If I couldn’t figure this stupid thing out, how the hell could my dad? My blouse was soaked, my hands were slippery, and my watch kept ticking. SHIT! I’m totally not going to make it...
8 minutes.

I looked behind me at my father’s broken bed, cursing myself for even going there. He probably doesn’t even remember that people even live next door, and I’ve broken his poor little bed and messed up his room--His un-matching sheets now strewn across the floor, the skinny mattress bending at the center. It looked like an earthquake hit and it was all my fault. I was supposed to make it better and I made it worse and to top it off, I had to leave him. I had to fly back to New York in less than 6 minutes and leave him with his messy broken life.

I could feel the guilt descending like a storm cloud on, then the tears, no; he cannot see me like this. Why the hell did I blow off Walgreens? All of this could have been avoided had I just picked up the nature sounds alarm clock.

But I didn’t. And now I only have 5 minutes to clean up the ridiculous mess I created, and do right by dad. I had to cross this one last thing off the list.  With one final surge I lifted the mattress with one arm and strained to connect the metal fame with the other. It was a ludicrous, senseless attempt.  Within two seconds I was sitting on the floor: defeated. Bed:  in shambles. “SHIT!” I said too loudly this time. I was as broken as his bed--Beatened, flattened. I’d lost it. Despite my valiant attempt to stifle the sobs as the tears came streaming, I heard his voice beckoning…

“Honey?”
My dad was in the doorway. I can only imagine his alarm as he surveyed his disassembled bedroom. I didn’t answer. I sat on the floor with my back to him, frozen. He couldn’t see me breakdown like this. This was a taboo moment. He could never know that anything I did for him hurt me. He could never know things were tiring or burdensome or heart wrenching like this. He was supposed to let me take care of things like a good daughter would; he was never supposed to know this was killing me.

“Honey?” He asked louder this time, his voice thick with concern, which made me cry even harder. 
"It’s OK dad," I said, trying my best to sound normal, "I’m just sort of stressed out right now and the bed is a litter heavier than I thought it would be but…it’s OK. Really. I can take care of it just…go back in the other room, OK?”

But he didn’t say OK this time.

“Honey? Are you hurt?”
It was as if he didn’t hear a word I said…He started towards me.

“No dad. It’s OK. SERIOUSLY.” I said louder this time. As if the volume of my voice would stop him. But it was too late and he was directly behind me, hand on my shoulder, much too close for me to stave him off words, no matter how loud or seemingly authoritative.

I had no choice. I had to look up, to face him in all my broken-ness, bleary eyed and defeated, like a little girl who fell off her bike and skinned her knee.
I turned around to his embrace and lost control, the tears now coming hard and fast. We were both crying now and for a fleeting moment I succumbed to being his little girl again, allowing him to comfort and protect me one last time.
“Honey...I’m sorry your hurt,” he said--And I was. I was more hurt than I had ever been but not in a physical way.<br>

It was the first time I’d seen my father cry. Thankfully, he was convinced I’d somehow injured myself while moving his bed, and his attempts to soothe me were just the same as if I’d had fallen off my bike and skinned my knee. My sadness however, was inspired for an entirely different reason. My sadness for him was far more permanent. We stood there crying in his broken bedroom for what seemed like an eternity. I held onto him tightly and sobbed in his ear, “Dad I’m so sorry,” I said between sobs. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“It’s OK honey...” He repeated between sobs, “...It’s OK.”

It was at that point our roles reversed. Suddenly I was the parent and he was the child and we cried because we didn’t want to let go of the relationship as it was, and as it had been for the past 34 years.

I missed my plane that night. I never told my father, I just checked into the Marriott down the street and collapsed. I sat the anonymity of the hotel room and broke down where no one could see. I pondered that taboo moment when my father caught me crying, totally disarmed and childlike. I played the scene over and over in my mind, the two of us hugging and crying, clinging to that delicate bond we shared as father and daughter--So unready to let go.

Our roles were inevitably reversing and neither of us could halt the progression. We said our goodbyes that night. The exchange was a final farewell to the familial roles we once knew. It was the most melancholy yet poignant milestone we’d ever shared.

The next morning my mother called, wondering if I was all right.
Unaware of how much she knew, I played dumb: “What do you mean?”

"Your father told me you were hurt. He said you pulled a muscle trying to move his bed last night, and you left in a lot of pain….”

I exhaled. Thank God that’s how he remembers it. Thank God his Alzheimer’s had erased the painful truth of what really happened that night.  For the first time, I realized that through the sadness of the situation, there were moments of relief such as this. That Alzheimer’s had this unique was of forgiving and returning the mind back to innocence,  wiping it clear of the pain--A most unusual consolation prize.

I realized that day; my father’s disease could be dealt with in two ways. One way, the way I had been dealing for the past two years, was to dwell on the problems, to the tasks at hand, to the quick fixes, and the chores and the attempts to incessantly aid the symptoms and handicaps--The things to do lists are made of. I thought if I could somehow make dad’s life easier, it would relieve me of some of the guilt.

But the chores never end, and the lists just see to multiply. There is never enough that can be “done” to cater to the handicaps. More often than not, those multiplying problems tend to weigh most heavily on the minds of the caregiver.

After that day I learned to view the time I spent with my father in a different light. To weigh our moments together based more upon quality rather than quantity. This was very difficult for me at first.  At the beginning, I didn’t want to view my father in a reversed role. Maybe, I secretly wished he would remain dad, just as he always had, but with a few handicaps--With things that could be fixed.  But after a while, I began to understand the lists will just keep growing, and there will always be one more thing to cross off in not enough time to do so--Life is far too short to keep up.

It takes courage to face the truth and accept dad as he is, rather than as someone he used to be, but with caveats. Only after I acknowledged Dad’s PCA completely, with all of its misgivings, did I learned to relax and enjoy my time with him not as much in the doing, but in the being.

Revisiting the Whipcracker

 

Before: Devil inside.

After: Angel on a mission.

So he calls. Six months later. Informs me that he has changed. Fundamentally. And although this admission is not necessarily geared towards me, I still feel somehow satisfied. After so many pointless instances of scrolling through old emails and photos and deconstructing fragments of conversations once shared over too much tequila and too little inhibition--there was suddenly an opportunity to reconcile.

Maybe not for the relationship, but at least for my own jilted pride.
After all, we had a fu**king blast  together, from what I can remember. 
Our relationship marked by weekly anniversary's in the usual celebratory fashion: 
Getting kicked out of restaurants. Sprawling on his floor in a drunken stupor lip-syncing to Tricky.    And the usual morning after sarcasm that ensued as we struggled to recall: "What exactly happened last night, and why am I wearing Lola's dog collar?" Yes, romance was budding in the scariest fashion but I didn't care.
The guy was hot, smart, and kept me hanging on the seat of my la perla underpinings in a way that left me breathless but I digress--

The end began like this: 
Back in October, after having sabotaged myself in the usual fashion, I walked out on him and our "budding relationship" while still in the thick of it. Clutching onto my pride for dear life and heading out his door without peering over my shoulder to see if he was even watching. Violently pounding my heels against the pavement and soon to be forgotten familiarities of West 22nd street. Pushing me far away from him and all the bullshit insecurities he provoked. Chest heaving to repress the scream. Teeth tightclamped to silence the words. Thoughts much too scary to *gasp* speak to him. The ones that gave away the secret: No, I was not OK. I was human--and I was hurting. NO, I WAS DEFINITELY NOT OK.

And with the spin of my heel in the opposite direction--I went from hurting to hating.
Succumbing to that mantra that reigns supreme in my subconscious.  Like a safety reflex propelling me forward from potential hazards such as this. So the little voice in my head chants on:  Being pissed is empowering;  Pissing and moaning is for pussies.

I sublimated my anger for pain and continued on autopilot.  Returning to my apartment where the screaming ensued outside the confines of my own fucked-up reality. I sat there numb in front of my laptop. Words aching to burst from my own bloated ego. And in submitting to my own twisted, masochistic defenses, I recorded our epitaph.  An ode to the demise of a relationship that I decidedly snuffed: Words to him I could never verbalize, but instead would post on the internet for him to stumble upon and hear me out.  Only after my fingers hit the keyboard did my pride allow for my acquiescence entitled:   

"Getting Whipped, Licking The Wounds."

Yes--escaping from intimacy became a sport that I not only mastered, but depended upon for survival. By the time I reached my twenties I was a pro. Of course, I had mom to thank for this well-honed technique of walking away from the vulnerabilities of love. She was kind enough to outfit her offspring with this suit of armor at the tender age of 7. Preparing me for battle. Sending me off into the arena to joust away at those who tried to invade my vulnerable heart. And reinforcing the warrior within were guidebooks called: "Passages," "I'm OK You're OK," and "Looking Out For Number One." and my personal favorite; "Smart women Foolish choices." Titles whispering subliminal affirmations that would surely empower, as we sat together in silence bonding between episodes of Donahue.

So tonight, after his bold extension of the Olive branch, I agreed.
Yes, now I was ready to face my demon. Him, and the reflection of myself I saw within him.  Why did I bother to placate his guilty conscious? I had my own agenda. 
It was in this confessional where that lacey curtain of pride was ripped open,
exposing the nakedness of my own, pathetic truths. My attempt to reconcile the same guilt I felt towards all the other men in my life. And in our shared confessions, we repented and saved each others souls.  Yet still I question it. Does the whipcracker ever truly relinquish control? Maybe he had. As for my case...

I wasn't so sure.

We Swear We Will Never Be Them

    Foreshadowing.

My parents, my models, hated each-other at the time of their divorce.
And it stands to reason. Why on earth would a carefree, whimsical, French woman fall for a controlling, traditional, Greek man? 
Two polar opposites. Both in culture and in character.
When I ask them how it happened, how they ever got together in the first place, they both recount a similar tale:
At the beginning things were different. And each of them remember a more perfect mate. At the beginning, they were perfect together. 
From what they tell me, at the beginning they were in love.

All wrapped up in poetic love letters and picnics on sand dunes and Petosky stones collected off the shores of Lake Michigan.   
Blinded by the misty haze of spellbinding romance,  the two optimistic early day romantics only did what came naturally in those days.
They got married. And they had three little girls.  Both burdened and blessed by the stresses and pleasures of their familial bond--
Life changed dramatically.  But one thing remained certain. They were indeed opposite people. 
And the moment that misty haze of romance faded into cloudy trepidation--they did what came naturally in those days
and gave up.

"...your dad and I are not going to live together anymore...."

I was 5 back then and distinctly recall thinking:  Good. Now they'll be no more screaming and yelling.
Stephany, my older sister, had the opposite reaction. Her sobs came instantly. Hard, fast, and loud.
Confused, I imitated her cue and forced a few half hearted whimpers, squeezing out a few tears.
Still all the while questioning:  Am I supposed to act sad?
Because I wasn't. 
In fact, with the announcement of their split, I secretly felt the opposite.

At the beginning, when they were both different, I can see how it all made sense.
My father easily drawn into my mother's carefree glow
and she in turn reveled inside the warmth of his mediterranean embrace.
And at the beginning, the two fell hard and fast for their complimentary halves.
Both awestruck and charmed by the differences each other.
Spellbound by the sides of themselves they could never be
but perceived through the reflection of each-others loving gaze.

My mother slight and pale, with delicate blue eyes and French bones. Hair cropped Mia Farrow short--the ultimate pixie.   
She happily submitted to the Daughter's of Penelope gatherings at the Greek Orthodox church. Obliged to belong.
She played dollar poker with quarters alongside the ladies from the old country. She baked Spanikopeta and learned the appropriate Greek phrases:  "Theyes  cafe?" (Can I get you some coffee) and "Christos anesti" (Christ has risen).
She attended church on Sundays and sang in the choir. Lightly chanting hymns in ancient Greek and having no idea what they ment. 
Yes my mother played the role well. But indeed, it was only a role. 
And it wasn't long before that carefree mademoiselle became stifled beneath the confines of her Greek orthodox choir gown.
Naturally, she became itchy.

In marriage, my father didn't change so much. At least not in a cultural sense.
He was dark and handsome, with brooding eyes and warm olive skin. Dashing in his Marine dress blues, standing stern and proud.
He possessed  a quiet--yet undeniable charm.  An artist, a writer, a lover of the simple things and the beauty of their details. 
A dreamer and hopeless romantic that held strong to the ideals of family, religion and community.
Determined to be a good father and provider and willing to sacrifice his happiness for the future of his children.
He sold his soul to General Motors to do so. Pulling 60 hour weeks on the line and hating every minute of it.
In his mind there was no other option. My father, my hero, the ultimate martyr, believer in "doing what's right" spitefully stuck it out and became ultimately, miserable.   

It was no surprise his greek temper would easily escalate and turn our charming dollhouse on Darlington street into a den of volatility. Where my two sisters and I quietly tiptoed through eggshells praying not to set him off into a frenzy...
Trying our best to evade those wild screamfests we witnessed between he and my mother.
The ones that sent us running to our respective pastel bedrooms, doors slammed tight to muffle their screams. 
But the chaos between them seeped into us regardless.
And as young ladies we grew adept at silencing our pain. Masking anger with false smiles, repressing our pain.
We became experts at walking away from chaotic scenarios that evolve between two people who supposedly love each other.

But doesn't it always start this way? Two different people, in love with the characteristics in their partner that allow them to feel whole...
Yet in time, these once charming differences transform to annoying quirks that ultimately make us question what the hell we ever had in common in the first place.  We blame it on the other, that the other had changed.  In the end reason wins, and we hastily cut ourselves free.  We hang it up. Start anew. And repeat. And repeat again and again.
We forget how to appreciate one another. 
We forget to work and we forget that love, like anything in life, takes effort in order to survive. 

In retrospect we question how on earth we could fall in love with someone that so closely resembles our parents. 
Or worse yet, transforms us into them and everything we vowed we would never become.