Showing posts with label Alzheimer's Disease. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alzheimer's Disease. Show all posts
Saturday, January 18, 2020
Over at the Register
The March for Life is next week. I submitted a piece from my own personal history of writing that addresses some of the other vulnerable threatened by those who do not think human life is sacred in all of its stages, and that each person irrespective of physical, mental, moral or economic condition, is of infinite worth. While I have more current stories from my father's battle with the same condition, this piece talking about my grandmother brings the point home rather nicely.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
When We See
This past weekend I flew down to Texas.
It was for a baptism, meeting a future sister-in-law and seeing my mom and my dad who suffers from Alzheimer's and cannot say all the things he thinks or know anymore all the things he once knew with startling ease.
We ate, we talked, we went to mass. We hugged, we did ordinary things like shopping for diet coke and jeans and making pot roast and folding laundry. We also tried to hang onto moments, to slow time. To freeze the frame when the baby smiled, to remember the words my father could get out and cram every moment with all the stories and thoughts and feelings that too infrequent visits allow to pile up.
It was a joyful luminous glorious sorrowful ordinary time.
At mass, I watched as my father followed my mother to receive. He bowed his head and took the Eucharist on the tongue. He then tried to follow his wife but the traffic to the cup was confusing and for a moment, he looked lost. Then my uncle steadied him by putting his hand on my dad's shoulder and he received the precious blood. I breathed out.
Meanwhile, my mother realized Dad was not behind her. She was about to look about when my brother gave her a reassuring touch of the shoulder to show all was well. My dad was returning.
As a Godparent, I (along with the Godfather)was in the second pew with my sister and her husband and their newly baptized daughter. It was an unfamiliar church for my Dad, but he turned and he stopped. He looked at my face. Out of the packed pews and confusion, he pointed and nodded his head with a slight smile. "I know you." the smile said.
In that moment, I flashed back to the first year I really knew how to swim. I'd had a tracheonmy for the first 8 years of my life and so at nine, swimming underwater was a wondrous new thing for me. I was at the YMCA pretending to be a dolphin or a seal or a mermaid. A man came swimming towards me and his face flowered into a smile. It was my dad. I had not recognized him, being lost in the wonder of being surrounded on all sides by water. When I did, I remember smiling back at him underwater in sudden recognition and then zooming upwards for a breath. Dad had been in the fog of his disease, but for a moment, saw me clearly. I was a mess for the rest of mass.
I was so grateful to see that moment, and all the moments before, the kindness of an Uncle, the comfort of a brother, the strength of a parish bursting with song and with children, the solid faith of my niece's family, the whole of it, all of it, that it was hard not to have my heart both burst with joy and weep.
Saying those vows, receiving, and being present, anticipating a wedding feast in July, it felt a bit like heaven , in that all of time collapsed in that full moment. Yes my dad is dying, but he is still with us. Yes I live far from a lot of the people I love, they are still with us, in this family, this Universal Church.
It was hard not to want to love endlessly in that moment, despite all the known and hidden crosses in that Parish, in my own, in our nation, in the whole world and the whole history of this fallen, broken confused world. For an instant, I understood how grace breaks through the fog of our hearts and even when we are lost in our own worlds, calls us to really see each other, and come out of the fake world where we cannot last long and into the real place where we can breathe easy.
On that day, we will be walking, and we will see Christ's face and He will smile at us. In that moment, when we recognize Him, our face will say, "I know you." too.
It was for a baptism, meeting a future sister-in-law and seeing my mom and my dad who suffers from Alzheimer's and cannot say all the things he thinks or know anymore all the things he once knew with startling ease.
We ate, we talked, we went to mass. We hugged, we did ordinary things like shopping for diet coke and jeans and making pot roast and folding laundry. We also tried to hang onto moments, to slow time. To freeze the frame when the baby smiled, to remember the words my father could get out and cram every moment with all the stories and thoughts and feelings that too infrequent visits allow to pile up.
It was a joyful luminous glorious sorrowful ordinary time.
At mass, I watched as my father followed my mother to receive. He bowed his head and took the Eucharist on the tongue. He then tried to follow his wife but the traffic to the cup was confusing and for a moment, he looked lost. Then my uncle steadied him by putting his hand on my dad's shoulder and he received the precious blood. I breathed out.
Meanwhile, my mother realized Dad was not behind her. She was about to look about when my brother gave her a reassuring touch of the shoulder to show all was well. My dad was returning.
As a Godparent, I (along with the Godfather)was in the second pew with my sister and her husband and their newly baptized daughter. It was an unfamiliar church for my Dad, but he turned and he stopped. He looked at my face. Out of the packed pews and confusion, he pointed and nodded his head with a slight smile. "I know you." the smile said.
In that moment, I flashed back to the first year I really knew how to swim. I'd had a tracheonmy for the first 8 years of my life and so at nine, swimming underwater was a wondrous new thing for me. I was at the YMCA pretending to be a dolphin or a seal or a mermaid. A man came swimming towards me and his face flowered into a smile. It was my dad. I had not recognized him, being lost in the wonder of being surrounded on all sides by water. When I did, I remember smiling back at him underwater in sudden recognition and then zooming upwards for a breath. Dad had been in the fog of his disease, but for a moment, saw me clearly. I was a mess for the rest of mass.
I was so grateful to see that moment, and all the moments before, the kindness of an Uncle, the comfort of a brother, the strength of a parish bursting with song and with children, the solid faith of my niece's family, the whole of it, all of it, that it was hard not to have my heart both burst with joy and weep.
Saying those vows, receiving, and being present, anticipating a wedding feast in July, it felt a bit like heaven , in that all of time collapsed in that full moment. Yes my dad is dying, but he is still with us. Yes I live far from a lot of the people I love, they are still with us, in this family, this Universal Church.
It was hard not to want to love endlessly in that moment, despite all the known and hidden crosses in that Parish, in my own, in our nation, in the whole world and the whole history of this fallen, broken confused world. For an instant, I understood how grace breaks through the fog of our hearts and even when we are lost in our own worlds, calls us to really see each other, and come out of the fake world where we cannot last long and into the real place where we can breathe easy.
On that day, we will be walking, and we will see Christ's face and He will smile at us. In that moment, when we recognize Him, our face will say, "I know you." too.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
My Brother Runs for Our Dad, and For Us
My younger brother runs in marathons and teaches high school English. This is the brother that almost lost everything in a fire, but his dog was saved, as were many important sentimental things, and the rest has been replaced. For the second year, he is running to help raise money to address/cure Alzheimer's. Our Dad suffers from it. But Dad is still Dad.
And as my mother wrote: He is still funny. He puts on a great show for visitors...when the nurse was here yesterday, he brought a book to the table that he had once read...on Plato and Aristotle. (I was sure the nurse was going to dismiss us, when she saw what he was reading). But she also saw through all that. I think it was his way of saying, I did not always have this disease. I once was a brilliant man, and could remember everything.
My fundraising goal: $350.00
My fundraising progress: $390.00
This past Christmas, my father proved that Alzheimer's hasn't taken everything. While most of his sentences falter after the 7th or 8th word, my mother and I were amazed by his sudden recollection of the first 18 lines of Geoffrey Chaucer's prologue to the Canterbury Tales. ...There aren't many of my students who can do that after three weeks of memorization and study.
Still, my family knows first hand that Alzheimer's worsens over time. A progressive disease, the symptoms only increase. In the earliest stages, memory loss is mild. With late-stage Alzheimer's, individuals lose the ability to carry on a conversation and respond to their environment.
According to the Alzheimer's Association website, we have new 2012 stats. Now it says that 5.1 million Americans are currently living with this disease. Of course, this will only increase over the next 20 years rather significantly. Additionally, there are over 10.9 million unpaid caretakers at work with these patients. These are the wives, husbands, children, neighbors, and colleagues who give of their time, talent, and treasure.
So again, I run for my mom, a caretaker of my grandmother and now my father. She's wonderful, I love her, and I want to run in gratitude for her selfless service to our family.
For all those families dealing with Alzheimer's, I run. You are always in my prayers.
For my brother and sisters, my uncles and aunts, my cousins, my nieces and nephews —for all these people who love Dad as much as anyone ever could, I run. (I also miss you all. We need to hang out.)
Finally, I run for Dad.
Peace,
Dan Green
If you see me running by, feel free to scream all words of encouragement you have. Here are some suggestions:
"GO GREEN GO!" (Watch out for saying it too quickly and making it sound like "Go Gringo!" People might find that offensive.)
"Dan the Man"
"Go Badgers!" (Spring Hill)
"Ruined for Life!" (JVC)
"Go St. Thomas!" (Work)
"Yeah Beaumont!" (hometown love)
"Go Pim!" (POWER IN MOTION)
"Sr. Verde!" (for my Spanish speaking friends)
"Look out! There's a mad man behind you! RUUUUUUN!" (just to see what happens).
"Go Mr. Wonderful!" ...It's a new nickname, but I like it.
If you can support his run, the link is here:
http://www.chevronhoustonmarathon.com/Donate/PersonalPage.cfm?MID=8136&CRID=33&CID=295
I lifted the writing from his page and my mom's note.
And as my mother wrote: He is still funny. He puts on a great show for visitors...when the nurse was here yesterday, he brought a book to the table that he had once read...on Plato and Aristotle. (I was sure the nurse was going to dismiss us, when she saw what he was reading). But she also saw through all that. I think it was his way of saying, I did not always have this disease. I once was a brilliant man, and could remember everything.
My fundraising goal: $350.00
My fundraising progress: $390.00
This past Christmas, my father proved that Alzheimer's hasn't taken everything. While most of his sentences falter after the 7th or 8th word, my mother and I were amazed by his sudden recollection of the first 18 lines of Geoffrey Chaucer's prologue to the Canterbury Tales. ...There aren't many of my students who can do that after three weeks of memorization and study.
Still, my family knows first hand that Alzheimer's worsens over time. A progressive disease, the symptoms only increase. In the earliest stages, memory loss is mild. With late-stage Alzheimer's, individuals lose the ability to carry on a conversation and respond to their environment.
According to the Alzheimer's Association website, we have new 2012 stats. Now it says that 5.1 million Americans are currently living with this disease. Of course, this will only increase over the next 20 years rather significantly. Additionally, there are over 10.9 million unpaid caretakers at work with these patients. These are the wives, husbands, children, neighbors, and colleagues who give of their time, talent, and treasure.
So again, I run for my mom, a caretaker of my grandmother and now my father. She's wonderful, I love her, and I want to run in gratitude for her selfless service to our family.
For all those families dealing with Alzheimer's, I run. You are always in my prayers.
For my brother and sisters, my uncles and aunts, my cousins, my nieces and nephews —for all these people who love Dad as much as anyone ever could, I run. (I also miss you all. We need to hang out.)
Finally, I run for Dad.
Peace,
Dan Green
If you see me running by, feel free to scream all words of encouragement you have. Here are some suggestions:
"GO GREEN GO!" (Watch out for saying it too quickly and making it sound like "Go Gringo!" People might find that offensive.)
"Dan the Man"
"Go Badgers!" (Spring Hill)
"Ruined for Life!" (JVC)
"Go St. Thomas!" (Work)
"Yeah Beaumont!" (hometown love)
"Go Pim!" (POWER IN MOTION)
"Sr. Verde!" (for my Spanish speaking friends)
"Look out! There's a mad man behind you! RUUUUUUN!" (just to see what happens).
"Go Mr. Wonderful!" ...It's a new nickname, but I like it.
If you can support his run, the link is here:
http://www.chevronhoustonmarathon.com/Donate/PersonalPage.cfm?MID=8136&CRID=33&CID=295
I lifted the writing from his page and my mom's note.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Return to the House at Pooh Corner
Written by my sister, Jennifer Sanders
If I close my eyes now, I can go there. The bonfire is massive, tediously constructed from driftwood the family has collected all afternoon. The air is salty and warm, while the evening breeze provides a respite from the mosquitoes. There is an assembly line for s'mores, and the family gathers to hear stories and songs. I pop a freshly made s'more into my mouth, rewarded with a goey, chocolatey mess on my face and fingers. Dad has a guitar, and he begins to play.
"Christopher Robin and I walked along under branches lit up by the moon..."
A Loggins and Messina classic, I smile and sing along.
"Posing our questions to Owl and Eeyore as the days disappear all to soon..."
A song about slowing down enjoying the innocence of childhood...Dad is belting it out, and the rest of us can't help but sing along.
That memory is a beautiful one. I treasure it. It came to me this afternoon as I was nursing my 6 month-old daughter, Lucy. I have been reflecting on the meaning of Advent on this eve of Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete, meaning rejoice, reminds us to wait in joyful hope.
Since my dad has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, this type of waiting has become difficult. More often than not, I shake my fists at God. But other times, when I am touched by grace, I grasp beauty in the midst of my families' suffering.
Jesus reminds us that, "...unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven." (Mt. 18:3). Dad is surely becoming like a child again. Stripped of all things, he is humbled and vulnerable, an image of the incarnation.
I think again of my dad playing guitar down at the beach, and the words of that song.
"But I've wandered much further today than I should, and I can't seem to find my way back to the wood..."
All of us wander far from the path God would have us take. God asks us to be like children: docile, humble, innocent, dependent on Him.
Surely, my father is back on the right path. Looking at my dad and this disease with human eyes, he is lost, wandering, aimless. Yet, at the same time that we here on earth are losing him, he draws ever closer into God's mysterious and loving embrace.
I gaze at my sleeping baby as I rock back and forth, and I know that my dad has found his way back home. I pray that God will lead all of us back home into his loving embrace. I will see my dad again. One day he will be whole again.
And we will sing together.
"At the end of the day, I was watching my son, sleeping there with my bear by his side. So I tucked him in, I kissed him, and as I was goin', I swear that old Bear whispered, 'Boy, welcome home.' Believe me if you can, I've finally got back to the house at Pooh corner by one. What do you know there's so much to be done? Count all the bees in the hive. Chase all the clouds from the sky. Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh.
See you at the beach, Dad. I love you.
If I close my eyes now, I can go there. The bonfire is massive, tediously constructed from driftwood the family has collected all afternoon. The air is salty and warm, while the evening breeze provides a respite from the mosquitoes. There is an assembly line for s'mores, and the family gathers to hear stories and songs. I pop a freshly made s'more into my mouth, rewarded with a goey, chocolatey mess on my face and fingers. Dad has a guitar, and he begins to play.
"Christopher Robin and I walked along under branches lit up by the moon..."
A Loggins and Messina classic, I smile and sing along.
"Posing our questions to Owl and Eeyore as the days disappear all to soon..."
A song about slowing down enjoying the innocence of childhood...Dad is belting it out, and the rest of us can't help but sing along.
That memory is a beautiful one. I treasure it. It came to me this afternoon as I was nursing my 6 month-old daughter, Lucy. I have been reflecting on the meaning of Advent on this eve of Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete, meaning rejoice, reminds us to wait in joyful hope.
Since my dad has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, this type of waiting has become difficult. More often than not, I shake my fists at God. But other times, when I am touched by grace, I grasp beauty in the midst of my families' suffering.
Jesus reminds us that, "...unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven." (Mt. 18:3). Dad is surely becoming like a child again. Stripped of all things, he is humbled and vulnerable, an image of the incarnation.
I think again of my dad playing guitar down at the beach, and the words of that song.
"But I've wandered much further today than I should, and I can't seem to find my way back to the wood..."
All of us wander far from the path God would have us take. God asks us to be like children: docile, humble, innocent, dependent on Him.
Surely, my father is back on the right path. Looking at my dad and this disease with human eyes, he is lost, wandering, aimless. Yet, at the same time that we here on earth are losing him, he draws ever closer into God's mysterious and loving embrace.
I gaze at my sleeping baby as I rock back and forth, and I know that my dad has found his way back home. I pray that God will lead all of us back home into his loving embrace. I will see my dad again. One day he will be whole again.
And we will sing together.
"At the end of the day, I was watching my son, sleeping there with my bear by his side. So I tucked him in, I kissed him, and as I was goin', I swear that old Bear whispered, 'Boy, welcome home.' Believe me if you can, I've finally got back to the house at Pooh corner by one. What do you know there's so much to be done? Count all the bees in the hive. Chase all the clouds from the sky. Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh.
See you at the beach, Dad. I love you.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Father's Day
Yesterday I posted the piece I wrote four years ago. This story will make more sense if you read "Hey Beautiful" first.
My dad has Alzheimer's.
We don't talk about it much if for no reason other than, it hurts.
He is still Dad. He will always be Dad; but the shell of him is being slowly stripped away. Word loss creep first led to fewer letters. I've saved them all. When he visits, we get to eat together, to share the chaos that is my life and laugh a bit, sometimes it overwhelms him --which is reasonable; they overwhelm me sometimes too.
Alzheimer's is brutal and it's ongoing and it makes my heart howl sometimes when I know he's fishing for the next word, the next thought and they all get away. When my grandmother had it, I remember I did what I could to joke it away whenever possible, and I could usually make her laugh. "You always get to go new places. You always meet new people. You can claim you met anyone you want to and impress because we'll never be certain and neither will you." We had a good laugh about that as I helped her get her "doll face" on, she loved for me to draw her eyebrows.
Even late into the disease, Coco and I could still laugh a bit at this hard thing; one time she came into the dining room saying "This cereal tastes terrible." I looked at the silver tray she'd filled with granola and salsa. "Yes, I bet it did." I deadpanned. She smiled at me, she knew it was a bit of a rub. The ability to joke at it took some of the razor edge off, but this time, I can't laugh.
It's too close, too near, too sharp and too soon. Even though it's been ongoing, it still feels like a hard slap whenever we get to a new barrier of "we can't." and that's made harder by being only able to walk in spirit with my folks on this road to the cross because we live so far away.
Dad's still here and sometimes, he's really still here. He can sing with his son if his son coaxes him along and he loves his grandchildren fiercely. He knows the mass and he tries to read things. Sometimes he can.
He still laughs at movies and enjoys company and wants to participate and Mom fiercely takes every opportunity to bring him to those places and people he loves as often as possible.
So today, I am grateful I wrote that piece back in 2007 so I could have a mental snapshot of some of the wonderful things my Dad is; because Alzheimer's can make everyone else forget what was wonderful and magnificent and beautiful about a person over time, as they are less able to be present and witness to others. It is then that those that love the person who has Alzheimer's must do the remembering.
Christ understood how we remember, by analogy, by familiarity, by meals, by ritual, by words. I at the very least, am not a linear thinker and as such, can tell you the lyrics of a song but not which year the song came out. It gives the impression of someone who jumps from thought to thought, because in reality, that is how my brain operates, in lots of jumps and arcs, very little of my thought process is a grid.
I miss the hooks to old jokes and puns and memories that Dad by citing six thousand books (all of which he had read and I should read by the way) in a single conversation would prompt. I have to prompt them myself to recall his teaching me how to tie knots for a boat, to play poker and make a pina colada. He also cultivated in me a love of Catholic writers that continues to deepen to this day but that seed took a long time to germinate. When we drove across country in a car where only one side door opened when I finished graduate school, he had me read City of God aloud to keep us from growing bored on the road. I told him that sometimes the tone felt like Saint Augustine would walk through town, see something that ticked him off and go back to his room to write it up as an op-ed. He laughed. He'd send me books and articles hoping one day I'd be caught on fire by the stuff. It took, but it took the better part of the past 20 years and now, it is my bed time reading and I wish I wish I wish I could really share it with him.
I can remember him chopping ingredients for gumbo and thus the gumbo recipe. I can remember him strumming the guitar and singing, I've taught some of those songs to my children. They don't always get why I love the song "My old man's a sailor..." but that's okay, hearing their voices evokes his voice; and I get a lump in my throat at church when I hear him sing; it would make me stop singing to listen, but then he'd give me a glare as if to say, "Why aren't You singing?" because that's what we're supposed to be doing at that point.
When a person has Alzheimer's, the first thing to go, are words. They can't remember the word they wanted, the memory evoked won't come into focus, the present goes out of focus and everything is as it isn't. The world becomes a confusing tide of memory, present and unexplained gaps and holes where people and books and ideas and jokes and dreams and pains and loves should be. I don't pretend to be an expert on treatment or care or the long term process or an authority on this of any kind. I'm just his daughter, and I miss his words, his new thoughts, his old puns, all of it.
Part of my present and my past is missing with his memory, like a story he wrote for me in 8th grade. Dad wrote about my very awkward adolescence on an old computer. It was in a word program that no longer exist. So when my modern machine translates it, it becomes gibberish. The story is there, the information is there, it just can't be accessed. I love that story and will have to share it in my own words with my children; but I'd rather have them hold the pages with his words.
Alzheimer's is exactly like that.
I still can't quite laugh, my brain starts to tease about it and I wince. But I know, it is only his brain that is decaying, not his soul and recalling that, fixing on that, it does not ache as much.
My dad has Alzheimer's.
We don't talk about it much if for no reason other than, it hurts.
He is still Dad. He will always be Dad; but the shell of him is being slowly stripped away. Word loss creep first led to fewer letters. I've saved them all. When he visits, we get to eat together, to share the chaos that is my life and laugh a bit, sometimes it overwhelms him --which is reasonable; they overwhelm me sometimes too.
Alzheimer's is brutal and it's ongoing and it makes my heart howl sometimes when I know he's fishing for the next word, the next thought and they all get away. When my grandmother had it, I remember I did what I could to joke it away whenever possible, and I could usually make her laugh. "You always get to go new places. You always meet new people. You can claim you met anyone you want to and impress because we'll never be certain and neither will you." We had a good laugh about that as I helped her get her "doll face" on, she loved for me to draw her eyebrows.
Even late into the disease, Coco and I could still laugh a bit at this hard thing; one time she came into the dining room saying "This cereal tastes terrible." I looked at the silver tray she'd filled with granola and salsa. "Yes, I bet it did." I deadpanned. She smiled at me, she knew it was a bit of a rub. The ability to joke at it took some of the razor edge off, but this time, I can't laugh.
It's too close, too near, too sharp and too soon. Even though it's been ongoing, it still feels like a hard slap whenever we get to a new barrier of "we can't." and that's made harder by being only able to walk in spirit with my folks on this road to the cross because we live so far away.
Dad's still here and sometimes, he's really still here. He can sing with his son if his son coaxes him along and he loves his grandchildren fiercely. He knows the mass and he tries to read things. Sometimes he can.
He still laughs at movies and enjoys company and wants to participate and Mom fiercely takes every opportunity to bring him to those places and people he loves as often as possible.
So today, I am grateful I wrote that piece back in 2007 so I could have a mental snapshot of some of the wonderful things my Dad is; because Alzheimer's can make everyone else forget what was wonderful and magnificent and beautiful about a person over time, as they are less able to be present and witness to others. It is then that those that love the person who has Alzheimer's must do the remembering.
Christ understood how we remember, by analogy, by familiarity, by meals, by ritual, by words. I at the very least, am not a linear thinker and as such, can tell you the lyrics of a song but not which year the song came out. It gives the impression of someone who jumps from thought to thought, because in reality, that is how my brain operates, in lots of jumps and arcs, very little of my thought process is a grid.
I miss the hooks to old jokes and puns and memories that Dad by citing six thousand books (all of which he had read and I should read by the way) in a single conversation would prompt. I have to prompt them myself to recall his teaching me how to tie knots for a boat, to play poker and make a pina colada. He also cultivated in me a love of Catholic writers that continues to deepen to this day but that seed took a long time to germinate. When we drove across country in a car where only one side door opened when I finished graduate school, he had me read City of God aloud to keep us from growing bored on the road. I told him that sometimes the tone felt like Saint Augustine would walk through town, see something that ticked him off and go back to his room to write it up as an op-ed. He laughed. He'd send me books and articles hoping one day I'd be caught on fire by the stuff. It took, but it took the better part of the past 20 years and now, it is my bed time reading and I wish I wish I wish I could really share it with him.
I can remember him chopping ingredients for gumbo and thus the gumbo recipe. I can remember him strumming the guitar and singing, I've taught some of those songs to my children. They don't always get why I love the song "My old man's a sailor..." but that's okay, hearing their voices evokes his voice; and I get a lump in my throat at church when I hear him sing; it would make me stop singing to listen, but then he'd give me a glare as if to say, "Why aren't You singing?" because that's what we're supposed to be doing at that point.
When a person has Alzheimer's, the first thing to go, are words. They can't remember the word they wanted, the memory evoked won't come into focus, the present goes out of focus and everything is as it isn't. The world becomes a confusing tide of memory, present and unexplained gaps and holes where people and books and ideas and jokes and dreams and pains and loves should be. I don't pretend to be an expert on treatment or care or the long term process or an authority on this of any kind. I'm just his daughter, and I miss his words, his new thoughts, his old puns, all of it.
Part of my present and my past is missing with his memory, like a story he wrote for me in 8th grade. Dad wrote about my very awkward adolescence on an old computer. It was in a word program that no longer exist. So when my modern machine translates it, it becomes gibberish. The story is there, the information is there, it just can't be accessed. I love that story and will have to share it in my own words with my children; but I'd rather have them hold the pages with his words.
Alzheimer's is exactly like that.
I still can't quite laugh, my brain starts to tease about it and I wince. But I know, it is only his brain that is decaying, not his soul and recalling that, fixing on that, it does not ache as much.
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