June of 2016. A neurologist confirmed the suspicion that had lingered for a couple of years: my father has Alzheimer’s. The news arrived with no great fanfare from the hands of a professional who, at last, put a name to what my mother, my brother and I had instinctively known.
“Dad is not right, he’s not the same, he doesn’t look, or communicate the same…”.
After a few years of failing to get any answers, we finally received confirmation that was as painful as it was a source of relief.
Pain, upon hearing the name of a neuro-degenerative disease that to-date has no cure. Relief, to know that at long last I could prepare myself, above all emotionally, to accompany my family on this new stage of our shared lives. And I say “my family” and not just my father because the challenge was one for all three of us to face, each of us with our own unique and individual way of making full sense of what life had in store for us.
To-date, there has been so much uncertainty, above all in the face of a treatment that changes my father’s attitude, energy and mood on a daily basis. However, although moments persist of adult sadness at not recognising my father, together with a child’s sense of abandonment in being unable to find the person who used to comfort me, I am living through one of the most beautiful, profound and serene periods of knowing a wonderful human being who has given me, and continues to give me, so very much.
I am sharing moments with him that directly reach my heart…
From the very first moments when, on holiday on the seafront, he shared his fear and his sadness and begged me in tears to never leave him. Through to more recent days, in which he admitted to me that he was “not very chatty”, almost by way of apology, while we continued strolling through the countryside and, all of a sudden, he began to speak about very personal moments and things he had never before shared with his daughter.
Today many filters have disappeared in the conversations with my father. We find ourselves amidst the words that remain and we communicate with frequent hugs which I unashamedly demand. And we connect with the songs we belt out at the top of our voices in the car or in the kitchen while we share some dance steps. There are still the classics like Nat King Cole that exude as much elegance as when my father would slowly get ready, with so much attention to detail, to go for a walk. And, like I always do, I remind him how good he smells, he never steps a foot outside the door without spraying himself with cologne.
A spark has gone from my father’s eyes, but a spark does remain in the connection I have discovered with him, though our hugs, laughter and all the affection he envelops me in. His insecurity becomes my energy to guide him, accompany him and take care of him. And I admire him tremendously for how he fights so hard in his own way, so determined to lay the table, despite the tablecloth ending up crumpled and the cutlery where it shouldn’t be, in going out in the neighbourhood to do errands with the note my mother gives him, or in finishing a “word soup”, even if we have to tell him where the missing word is.
Admiration of my father for his courage, his inner beauty, his light and the deep love he feels for his family, strengths he shares with my mother, a woman as extraordinary as the man she married almost 43 years ago now.
Life is blessing me with the immense gift of reminding me that everything beautiful, everything that matters, is to be found in the moments shared with my loved ones, that communication is more genuine when words are superfluous and that my path now has a deeper and more serene meaning.
Thank you, Dad,