My Dad

In Madison we visited my Dad, who has lived in an Alzheimer's unit since last July. On the past couple of visits it was clear he did not know us, not in the sense of knowing what we do in life or where we came from or what our relationship to him might be. This time I did feel he had some knowledge that we are connected. But I got that feeling only from seeing it in his eyes. Conversation is not possible. He has none of the major concepts that make it meaningful to talk. And so we mostly sat together. He likes being touched, which was not the case earlier in life. So, yes, we just sat together a little bit, looking out the window at birds on the patio.

Although all of this is naturally painful, the truth is that we always had a painful relationship. For many years there was the hope that we could patch it up, and yet each of us had habits and attitudes and old grievances too powerful to overcome, it seemed.

If my Dad is suffering, I cannot tell. He has no moment to moment memory. That, of course, makes it impossible for him to take care of himself. On the other hand, the lack of memory has freed him from some of the mental processes that most of us find rather oppressive when we look closely at our own minds.

Any peace that I will be able to find about my father has to come from within now. There is no more possibility of solving the problems in an interpersonal way.

And for him, who can know what goes on? Sometimes I think this may be an important period for him, to just be, to settle out. I have no idea what comes after this life. Neither does he. If he ever had an opinion about that, it's gone now. If something new emerges after death, he's going to arrive like an empty vessel, peaceful, non-resistant.

That's about as optimistic as I can be after a visit that shook me a bit.