It's funny how my intuition always lets me know before I pick up a ringing phone that the call is not going to be a lighthearted one. The news today was rather somber and not news that I had really wanted to hear, but have been expecting for a while now. My father, who suffers from Alzheimer's, has reached one of the very last stages of the disease. He has forgotten how to swallow, or is incapable of it. For several months his meals have consisted of pureed or gelled meals to prevent him from aspirating his food. Over the last couple of weeks, he has had trouble eating even these kinds of meals. At first it was thought by the physician that perhaps it was because he just wasn't feeling well due to a recent infection. I have to say that I didn't buy into that theory, but didn't want to voice my thoughts to my stepmother and sister.
While visiting my father on Christmas Eve, I knew that this would be the last Christmas with him. He has no idea who I am now, even though a few weeks ago he was well aware that I was someone he knew. I don't believe that he knows who anyone is, even his wife. There is no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, no admonishing looks when I say something inappropriate (as I usually do), no hugs or kisses or interaction of any kind. He sat with me on Christmas Eve and again Christmas Day and just stared at the floor. In order to get a photo with him, I had to cup his head in my hand to get him to look at me. This broke my heart a bit, because I know that if he knew that this is how he'd ended up, it would break his own heart.
Apparently, there is some kind of stimulating medication that can be administered to try to get his throat muscles to work a bit. There is also a sub-hydration injection that he can be given to keep his hydration levels up. I don't hold much stock in either of these options. Since Alzheimer's doesn't work in reverse, he is not going to remember how to swallow and sub-hydration will only keep him hydrated, it won't give him any of the sustenance that his body would need to live. I understood the meaning behind his wife's words when she said that nursing homes don't do feeding tubes for patients, but they would make him as comfortable as they could. Then again, I have spent the past year preparing myself for these words, so it didn't come as a shock.
After relaying the status of our father's condition to my sister, she said I didn't sound very hopeful. At least I could answer honestly when I said that yes, I did indeed hold out hope. I just didn't bother to tell her that I hold a different kind of hope than she does, because she may think it callous of me. You see, my hope is that this disease quickens it's pace and runs it course swiftly now. I hope that my father leaves this world soon and surrounded by those that love him, and I hope that there is no unnecessary suffering for him. I don't hope for this with any callousness intended, but because I feel he has suffered enough now and that letting go would be the best thing for him.
Had my father been the type to accept the fact that he was aging. or to let age slow him down in any way, then perhaps I wouldn't feel the way I do. My father however, was the kind of man that was always busy. If he had no project to work on, then he would make a new one or improve on a finished one. He was always physically active and had the sharpest mind of anyone I have ever known. He knew a little something about everything, whether he needed to or not. He could figure out a way to make just about anything work, and his creativity stayed with him until just before his diagnosis. He and his wife spent their twenty years together travelling the world, and he was up for any adventure with her. At the age of 80, he earned his black-belt in tai kwon do - not an easy feat at that age, but as far as he was concerned, age was just a number. A year before his diagnosis, I stopped by his house and found him meticulously planting trees along the edge of the property. By meticulously, I mean that each tree was evenly spaced, every hole was the exact same depth as the others and he was taking into account the future growth of the trees. I remember thinking that I couldn't be bothered to have to do that kind of planning for a few trees, and feeling a bit ashamed that he had much more energy for that sort of thing than I.
My dad would be devastated and mortified to see himself now. He would not want to be fed and bathed and confined to a wheelchair. He would want to be able to leave this world with a little dignity, and if this continues much longer, then any little bit of dignity that there still is to his life will be gone. I don't wish this for him, so I hope that things end sooner rather than later for him.
That's the kind of hope I hold on to, and the last good hope that I can have for the father who I have always loved with all of my heart and soul, and always will.
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