I’ve written this blog post in my head a dozen times over the past couple of days. I’ve titled it (“They Call Me Lefty”), re-titled it (“Brokenhearted”), and settled on something entirely different. I’ve started the post with the events of the past week, then decided to begin with my show at Guardino Gallery last March because that show was inspired by him. Now that I am actually writing this post, I’ve decided to begin somewhere else entirely.
Note: This is a bit more of a personal post than my usual art post, although art is included, it is about my dad’s battle with Alzheimer’s.
My dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2009, and as expected, he has slowly dissolved into the disease. It’s been a painful progression of lost and scrambled words, memory loss, and unfortunately, flares of anger. A couple of years ago when my dad was earlier in his disease, I made a small visual journal as a way to acknowledge the beginning of his long journey home.
Last March I had the privilege of a solo show at Guardino Gallery in Portland. The title, Beneath the Surface: Searching For Memory, was dedicated to my dad and chronicled his fading memory. The pieces were titled to reflect his mental decline. Here are a couple of photos of my dad looking at the old black and white family photos I had scattered in the window display and a few pieces of the art I created for the show.
Over the past six months my dad has significantly declined. He lost his driver’s license and my parents moved into a retirement community. I took my dad for drives during the summer and he always smiled and laughed during our country drives or stops for frozen yogurt.
A week ago, everything changed. My dad’s outbursts of rage escalated to the point that my mom became fearful. An event occurred that required that my family intervene. We had a family meeting with my mom and told her it was time we put dad in a memory care unit – it was the only way we could guarantee her safety. She agreed and made arrangements at the retirement community where they lived. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t have a bed in the memory care available for about 30 days. The retirement facility put an emergency alarm bracelet on my mom and said they could do some respite care with my dad – a few hours at a time in the memory care unit. She made arrangements on Friday to give it a try. That’s when it all fell apart. 9-1-1 was called, the police came, an ambulance arrived and my dad was taken to the emergency room. While there, my dad decided he had waited long enough. He unhooked his monitors, got up, put on his shoes, and started to leave. It took four security guards, two nurses, and a tech to put him back in the bed, this time with restraints. During this time, the hospital’s social services located a bed for my dad in a memory care unit across the river where my dad could stay until a bed opens up where my mom lives. On Friday night I rode in the medical transport with my dad as he was taken to memory care. He was silent the whole way. He was reluctant to go in, but he finally did. He pleaded in garbled and disconnected words to go home. I had to say good-bye and leave him. My heart broke. I hate this disease.
