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.