My Dad's Dead And My Mom Has Alzheimers

This is an image of an angel that a friend of mine noticed after doing some workworking. He makes wooden bowls for a hobby. I hope that my Dad looks like this now.

On August 1, 1997, I was on vacation and my best friend drove 35 miles to our rented beach cabin to tell me that my Dad had dropped dead of a massive heart attack that day. We had been out of touch--imagine, only 10 years ago cell phones weren't that common. I think I had one, a big ol' clunky yellow thing, but I didn't carry it with me that day. We had traveled from Greenville, SC to Myrtle Beach, SC using country roads, just enjoying having a long day with nothing to do but wander around the state. The night before, we had attended a Little Richard concert in Greenville, and the next day, I was breathlessly anticipating attending a wedding of the only 2 people that I have EVER successfully hooked up together. (I'm still hoping for another hit).

We drove up and Gayle was eating my Low Fat Doritos. She told me by just telling me. Roger hugged me and excused himself to use the bathroom after a long drive. I calmly turned to Gayle and said, "It should have been HIS dad, my dad is so much better in every way." I was very calm. I calmly packed the car and left the state park--haven't been back to a cabin since that day. Roger suggested that we get some supper and I agreed. After we ate, I rolled the window down and threw the entire bag of trash out the window. Never before or since.

"I think the universe owes me this!" I roared, lighting another cigarette from the one already smoldering.

I stayed calm as I embraced my mom and aunt, still stunned. Dad's presence was in the house. I knew he was still there, I could feel it. I did not feel much except numb.

Today we went out to eat with Mom. Her mind is slowly drifting into dementia as surely as cobwebs creep over an abandoned barn. I lifted my glass in a toast.

"To Dad," I announced. Roger clinked glasses with me. Mom sat, staring at her plate.

"It was ten years ago today," I said gently. I reached over, gesturing for her to pick up her glass.
She remained staring at her plate.

She can't remember what grades the kids are in, or that she told me something five minutes ago. I wish a kind stroke would take her, but I am bracing myself for a slow and torturous decline. Mom as I knew her is already gone forever.

And the beat goes on. The girls shop for school supplies. A new school, a new life, the 21st century is theirs. A 20th century gentleman and scholar's ashes are under the earth, and the kids only know him from fading pictures. Oh, how Dad would have crinkled his eyes in delight at them.

Here's to you, Dad. I hope you have your very own room up there filled with computers and Milky Way Bars. And for God's sake, if you really are up there, visit Mom tonight like you did a few years ago when you kissed her so hard that she woke up and felt the pillow to see if you were really there. (This was before Alzheimers).

And eight years ago today, we stepped off the plane in Charlotte with our first child in our arms.