My dad is dying. He suffers from Alzheimers and cancer; his doctors estimate he has between six months and a year to live.
My wife and I decided my dad’s best chance would be with us. At the beginning of the year, we moved him into our home.
Caring for the elderly is an immense burden, one that has challenged us in every way.
My dad requires 24-hour care. Like most with Alzheimer’s, he’s prone to falling, wandering, incontinence, and peeing in the closet (this might be unique to my dad). The feelings of frustration, being trapped and resentment build up when caring for him. Having the responsibility of caring for someone 24 hours a day wears on you. Its a constant build-up of stress. We take breaks to help us reset and stay calm. Otherwise, the mounting stress of caring for my dad becomes overwhelming.
It’s hard to describe what caring for the elderly is like, the closest analogy is caring for a child: a child can’t be left unattended, messes happen, and sometimes he/she can’t grasp the bigger picture, but it’s also different. A child learns, and you are privileged with witnessing their minds blossom, in the elderly, it’s the opposite, you tragically witness their minds wither. This brings on incontinence, unpredictable behavior and sometimes violent outbursts, both verbal and physical.
Empathizing with the suffering from Alzheimer’s helps me relate to my dad: Imagine waking up not know where you are or how you got there. Imagine not recognizing the people around you. Imagine not knowing who you are. Imagine being in a constant state of confusion. Any normal person in these conditions would be scared out of their wits. This is what every minute of life is like for those suffering from Alzheimer’s.
When I first started caring for my dad, he was a strong independent man. It’s been heartbreaking watching him deteriorate from a strong, powerful man to a frail, feeble man. This might sound strange, but my relationship with my dad is closer now than ever before. However, it’s different. I’m now the parent, and he’s the child.
Since coming to stay with us, I’ve learned a lot about my dad and his condition. For example, I have a new relationship to bodily functions. Before, upon the sight of feces, I would recoil and think: “Ewwww, that’s disgusting,” now, upon the sight of feces, I think: “Oh, no big deal, that’s how the body works.”
My dad can be comical:
We live in typical suburban America. One night a week, my wife cares for my dad while I exercise. One evening, my dad said he needed to use the bathroom. My wife helped him up, and they started walking toward the bathroom, but instead of walking down the hall to the bathroom my dad headed into the living room. When my wife asked about the bathroom, he said he didn’t have to go. They walked around the living room and then he started towards the front door. My dad began opening the front door, my wife stopped him and asked him what he was doing. He said, “I’m going out to take a whiz off the front porch.”
My dad can also be charming:
He’ll often say things like “Is that you?”, “I’m so glad you stopped by, come by more often!” He’ll offer you a bite of his food. He’ll make sure you are full or have food to eat. He’ll go around each evening ensuring all the doors and windows are locked. How do you get upset at someone for trying to keep you fed and safe?
For me, caring for my dad can be intensely frustrating, but it can also be immensely gratifying. In one moment, he’ll wander and be combative, and in the next moment, he’ll call me by name and remember I’m his son for the first time in months.