Dad

I went to visit my father yesterday; he is in an Alzheimer's care facility up in Sonoma. Dad is in the late stages of Alzheimer's, and has long since stopped calling me by name. But, for one quiet, peaceful hour, I sat next to him and held his hand and talked intermittently. His conversations are disjointed and make little sense much of the time, but his grip on my hand was true. Periodically, he'd look at me and I'd smile at him and he would reach out with his other hand and stroke my hand holding his, the same way he did all my life since I was a little girl. I remembered how he'd do that even when I was an adult, and so many more things went through my mind: that he learned to ride a horse so that he could take me riding as a kid; that he taught me to play Pedro (a four-player card game) so that I could come down to visit him at his school during the summers and play with him and the other administrators in the faculty lounge; that from an early age I would traipse into my parents' room sometimes early in the morning and watch him shave while my mom was still asleep. Dad would lift me onto the bathroom counter and proceed to explain the "best" way to shave - first hot water, then soap and water, more hot water to soften the beard, then a good, close shave. He had an extra razor with the blade removed, and sometimes he'd put more shaving cream on his face when he was done shaving and let me "shave" him with the bladeless razor. Luckily, I don't have a beard (then or now), but I still know the basics of a good, close shave. And, to this day, one of my favorite things to do is shave a man's face. It's completely relaxing, it makes me happy, and it's still a great bonding experience.

Seven years ago, I wrote an essay about my dad's disease, and how frustrating it was for him at the time. Now, he has blessedly gotten beyond most of that irritation; he is finally at peace much of the time. It's good for him, because I cannot imagine the horror of that feeling, knowing that your mind is slipping away. It's bad for the rest of us, because the man who we knew and loved is absent much of the time. I have to be (and am) happy that when I walked in and said, "Hi, Daddy," he said, "Hi, sweetie," the way he always did. And when my brother and sister-in-law arrived, and I said, "Hi, guys," he likewise said, "Hi, guys!" He is happy to have the company, and I'd like to think that he knows, somewhere in his heart, that we are people who are special to him.

In any case, here is that essay I wrote long ago. This post is dedicated to my father, who I can say with all honesty and clarity was (and is) a good man. His heart is huge, and he would have done anything for us. I know for a fact that he would gladly have died for us and for my mom, instinctively and with no hesitation. Any of us on this earth would be lucky to have that.

Happy Father's Day.

HOLLISTER

When I was little, my dad would sometimes tell me he was going to Hollister. He wasn’t really going, but he learned from his mom that when someone asked you where you were going and you didn’t want to say, you simply said, “Hollister.” (Of course, my grandmother didn’t really speak English, so she probably said, “Holy-stare,” but that’s beside the point). We actually went to Hollister once; it’s a dry, desolate cattle community that was a couple hours’ drive from our home in the Bay Area of California. My sister was on a softball team, and her team was playing a team from Hollister. I was too young to know or care why, but I found myself in the back of our old gray station wagon with six or eight other girls, my dad driving, my mom in the front seat, all of us singing “100 Bottles of Beer.” I have no idea who won the game. It was a great day.

But even after having been there once, my dad used the same answer when questioned. It took me a while to figure out that he simply didn’t want me to know; I spent a good number of years wondering why he’d ever want to go back to that horrid place. Now, if we went to Hollister, my dad wouldn’t know it. He often asks me where we are, why we are there, and then asks me again a few minutes later. And again. And again. The magical connections that fire in the human brain which allow information to complete the circuit into an area of retention have stopped performing for my father; he remembers things from 40 years ago, but not 40 seconds ago. His lives in the past now; not because he chooses to, but because it is the path his body has chosen for him. Once upon a time, my father spent hours at night lying awake and conjuring complicated and fascinating mathematical scenarios involving the number nine; now, he cannot add a column of numbers because he cannot keep tally in his head. Once, he drove us everywhere (including Hollister); now, he cannot pass his written driving exam because he cannot recall the question for which he is looking at possible answers. Once, he believed the sun rose and set in a woman with whom he could have incredible conversations; now, he believes the sun rises and sets in a woman for whom he believes he can provide no comfort, no conversation, no companionship.

The truly sad fact is that, even though we’d love to believe that he doesn’t, my father knows that his memory has left him. He knows that he was a genius who graduated high school early because he had learned it all. He knows that he was a professor at Berkeley at an early age, and that he fell in love with a student because she had freckles and a gorgeous smile and “great gams.” He knows that he was in control of his life, of his wife, of his children, of his world. Now, he spins out of control along a highway of fear and disbelief; his life, his wife, his children, and his world speed past him and leave him behind, and he can’t know where they’ve been or where they are going.

My dad has gone to Hollister.