Mother’s Day: Damned If Ya’ Do, Damned If Ya’ Don’t


Whether it’s a Hallmark holiday or a religious holiday, I have yet to meet a family who’s facing a loved one’s dementia diagnosis that doesn’t have some reservations about holiday celebrations. In my situation, the big religious and national holidays aren’t as challenging as they once were because JHP, JR no longer remembers he hated them. Nowadays, I really dread the Hallmark holidays. Mother’s Day may be the worst one of all.

I’m confident there are a number of other caregivers out there debating how to handle Mother’s Day with their loved ones this year. The reality is holidays such as this often remind dementia patients that their parents, or spouses, are dead. Whether it comes back to them because the day’s celebrations serve as reminders of these long-gone loved ones or because they just happen to remember these people died, this Hallmark holiday can be surprisingly challenging.

What’s a family to do?

I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out myself.

JHP, JR and his mother, 1923

My initial thought was to visit JHP, JR today so the girls and I can share some cake or chocolates with him. I love the thought of bringing him in on my special day. Then, I stop and think for a minute and I realize there’s a very good chance my good intentions could add a few pavers to the road to hell. Wanting to share my special day with my father may serve to make him miserable.

I can hear it now, “It’s Mother’s Day? I need to call mom.” Or “Did you get mommy something?” Then, I must decide to either carry on and say, “Oh yes!!” or “Well, Dad, they are dead.” Okay. I wouldn’t be quite that blunt. But still, it sounds like a no-brainer, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not because the problem with JHP, JR. and other dementia patients is that when we say “Yes I did,” they often carry the conversation further by asking more questions. In my situation, if I answer with a fib, JHP, JR will, in all likelihood, move to the next logical group of questions: “Where is she?” Why hasn’t she visited me?”

I have no doubt at least a few of us caregivers are holding up in our homes trying to decide whether or not to visit our parents today. If it wasn’t so sad, it would be a laughable damned-if-I-do-damned-if-I-don’t situation.

JHP, JR and Mom, circa 1947

The question remains. What do we do? What do family members do on days such as Mother’s Day and Father’s Day? Do we visit and hope for the best? Do we avoid visiting and convince ourselves that all is well? In all likelihood, someone is sure to bring our loved ones into the reality of this Hallmark holiday. In all likelihood, especially if they live in a facility such as a nursing home, our parents will figure out the significance of the day.

God forbid caregivers think, “Oh. Wait. When I wish Mrs. Jones a happy Mother’s Day, that might remind her and all the people around her that it’s Mother’s Day…which might remind her and all those other people around her that they forgot to do something for their mothers….which might cause her and all those other people around her to ask about their mothers…which might lead me to being in a situation where I can either lie or break the news that their parents died a few decades ago…which may lead to an entire group of patients realizing their parents are dead…which will make them all sad…which will make them very sad.

I know that sounds uber-dramatic, and maybe it is. Again, it’s almost laughable. For many family caregivers, however, it’s the sad reality they face every single holiday. Don’t get me wrong,  I appreciate facilities wanting to help their charges celebrate special days. I get it. I really do. Even the best facilities are also in the damned-if-they-do-damned-if-they-don’t situation because if they don’t acknowledge the day some family member will moan and groan because their parents aren’t being honored. It’s enough to make me want to scream-laugh.

I won’t lie and say there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t want to completely shelter JHP, JR and every other dementia patient from this day. The thought of Dad and all those other residents remembering again, for the first time, that their parents are dead, breaks my heart. But, again, what do you do? I still have no idea.

I know I’m not the only one whose role today will probably be that of the comforting child who either lies my butt off or explains the when’s and where’s, the how’s and why’s of people long gone. I can guarantee I will do everything I can not to mention Mother’s Day because, if there’s a chance we can avoid this sadness, I want that chance! And, like so many other family members, that may mean not visiting at all. Honestly, I’m still not 100 percent certain what I will do today. As selfish as that sounds, it’s the guilt-ridden truth.

Wish me luck!

Jerome's daughter and granddaughters, 2004

…and good luck to you on your journey,

Lucy
Jerome’s daughter

My First Encounter With Dementia: Daddy Pat (Part II)


…continued from My First Encounter With Dementia: Daddy Pat (Part I)

This installment is long overdue. It was challenging to write. I cried a lot, and I’ve finally given up on editing it. I want to note, however, the fact that my Uncle Sonny and Aunt Leta were by my grandparents’ sides the entire time. Mommy and Daddy Pat were not on their own. My sister was living in England at the time and she visited them every chance she could. She took the majority of the photos I’ve used in these postings. My cousins also visited Mommy and Daddy Pat regularly. They were loved by many.

Daddy Pat circa 1947

When Mommy Pat called to tell me she had to move Daddy Pat to a nursing home, it felt like a confession. She was making a tough decision, one nobody would be entirely happy with. She was also grappling with her own sense of guilt despite having done all she could to put off this final move. Add to that the fact she now had to deal with telling me, and you’ve got a challenging situation.

Mommy Pat knew me better than anybody. She knew I would be upset. Despite the fact we had always shared an open and honest relationship, there was a real sense that we were biting our tongues during this phone call. Neither one of us wanted to say anything that might make an already challenging situation more difficult. She wanted to help me through it just as much as I wanted to help her through it.

I clearly remember Mommy Pat saying, “Lucy, he’s not himself any more. The doctor said his brain isn’t working right. He has something called a degenerative brain disorder. He’s getting violent and you know that’s not him.” The sound she made after finishing that sentence, a sound like holding back a whimper, brought me to tears. My rocks, Mommy Pat and Daddy Pat, were at a crossroads. I had no idea what to expect.

Mommy Pat and Daddy Pat, circa 1984

It was so hard to see Daddy Pat in that nursing home.  A short time later, Mommy Pat joined him. What I remember most are my feelings about walking into that building, smelling the odors, and seeing people in wheelchairs lining the hallways. It was horrible. And my two favorite people in the whole world were living there.

My sweet grandfather seemed to fade away rather quickly. The already quiet man became nearly mute as he developed repetitive behaviors such as tying and re-tying his shoe laces and playing with his fingers. I remember one time sitting with him while he ate. He picked up the napkin and put it in his mouth. I didn’t know what to do. So, I said, “Daddy Pat, those don’t taste good. Ya’ wanna try some of this?” and motioned towards the food on his plate.

A glimpse of one of Daddy Pat's repetitive behaviors.

This is when I began noticing Mommy Pat’s slow decline. As Daddy Pat fell deeper into himself, Mommy Pat began repeating her stories. It was as if she was on a 10-minute loop. If I visited her for an hour, we would have the same basic conversation five times. I once told her that I would say something negative about myself just to hear her compliment me over and over again. She swatted me gently with her hand and laughed. “Silly girl.”

Daddy Pat was in really bad shape by now. I never felt like he recognized me, but Mommy Pat said he did. “He knows you and he sees your hair. You got that red hair from his brother, Roderick, ya’ know.” Thus was born my new greeting for Daddy Pat. No matter where he was, I would hang my hair over his head and whisper in his ear. “Daddy Pat!! It’s Lucy. You’re other favorite redhead!” It may have been my hair tickling his nose. It may have been the silliness of it that made him laugh and swat at my hair.

Mommy Pat died in late May, 1993. Sadly, I was living in California at the time and was unable to get back to Texas for her funeral. Looking back, I think I may have been able to make the trip but I was probably trying to avoid the pain of a funeral. I was naïve to think that avoidance would help me, because instead I developed the pain of regret. The day after her death, I went to the beach and felt sorry for myself. Angry with myself for moving to California instead of staying with them, I decided I would never again run in fear when someone I loved was sick. I had to make sure I never felt that kind of regret ever again.

I made sure to visit Daddy Pat as often as I could after Mommy Pat died. On one visit, I found him tied to his bed. Somebody had tied my grandfather to the bed! I tried untying him but I was shaking so hard, I couldn’t. So I went to the hallway and found the first person wearing scrubs.

“MY GRANDFATHER IS TIED TO HIS BED! UNTIE HIM NOW!”

“Well, he keeps trying to leave the building and walk to Ennis, as if he could,” one of the caregivers said. Harsh and condescending are the best words I can think of to describe how she spoke to me. Everything I felt about my grandfather aging, everything I felt about losing the rock of my life, everything came out in that hallway on that caregiver in that moment. It was ugly, and I’m not proud of my reaction. Her insensitivity towards what he was going through, towards the family, towards the entire situation was palpable. Tough day or not, a little sensitivity would have been nice.

The look in his eyes is burned into my memory.  When he was finally untied, he just looked at me. I said something like, “Hi Daddy Pat. It’s me. Lucy.” His stare became more intense. So, I climbed in his bed, put my hair in his face and said, “I know you know who I am, Daddy Pat.” He closed his eyes and sighed, then reached for my shoulder. I believe he knew it was me and that he was relieved.

The last time I saw Daddy Pat, I was too afraid to give an official goodbye. In my heart, I think I knew it would probably be my last time to see him. I guess I thought by saying goodbye to him that would somehow make him die sooner. I hugged him and told him I loved him.

After I got back to California, I couldn’t stop thinking about the regrets I had about not saying goodbye to Mommy Pat. So, I decided to make sure Daddy Pat knew how I felt about him. I made a tape for him. I recorded my devotion to my grandfather. I told him he was the best man I ever knew. I told him he saved my life. I told him I would never forget all those times we sneaked into the kitchen for late night treats of ice cream covered in Mommy Pat cookies. I said it all. Then, I sent the tape to a lifelong friend who had been working in hospice. Besides being my maid of honor and the best friend I’ve ever had, she was one of the most compassionate people I knew.

Mary took the tape, a portable tape player (it was the early 90s, mind you), and headphones to the nursing home. She put the headphones on Daddy Pat and hit play. He woke up, then he fell asleep. Mary rewound the tape and started it over saying, “Stay awake Daddy Pat. Lucy has something to say to you.” She stayed with him until she was certain he heard the entire thing. How blessed I am to still call this woman one of my best friends.

Eventually, he heard the whole thing.

Daddy Pat died in late 1993, about a month after hearing my tape.

Lucy
Mommy Pat and Daddy Pat’s Granddaughter

Holy Feedback, Batman!


After yesterday’s blog post I received a number of emails, along with a few online comments, relating similar situations in families all over the world. I don’t know what surprises me more, the number of issues our parents have or the number of professionals who have issues with families’ decisions. And to think, I was sitting here yesterday afraid of hitting the “publish” button because readers might judge me.

(Insert sigh of relief here)

What this tells me is that none of us are alone, even if it feels that way. Apparently, such struggles are part and parcel for end-of-life care whether it is related to dementia, cancer, or another disease. This feedback further illustrates why I tend to get so frustrated with “professionals.” I can’t help but wonder how much of this disapproval falls under the category of CTA (covering their a$$e$) in the hopes of avoiding a lawsuit later. That sounds cynical because, well, maybe I am. On the other hand, my father might say I’m realistic about what happens when we live in a litigious society.

I honestly believe it comes down to each family collecting professional opinions and expert information. Then, all of that can be paired up with the loved one’s wishes and what the family can handle financially, emotionally, and logistically. What is right for your family may not be right for another family. And what works for your family may be contrary to professional opinions.

There is something to be said for quality of life, too. This is such an important concept, but each family and each profession may define that concept differently. I believe my father’s definition of quality of life would include having his faculties, but he made choices that prevented that from happening. So, what’s he left with? He’s left with being able to go out on his own terms. Chocolate and whiskey are part of those terms.

Professionals don’t have to live with the patients. Professionals aren’t the ones hoping to have a decent relationship with an ever-changing personality. While we pay them for their opinions, that doesn’t mean we must agree.

Besides feeling judged by professionals, it’s easy for you to judge yourself, question your decisions, and wonder “what if.” You are the one who has to look yourself in the mirror every morning. You are the one who will live with regret or satisfaction regarding how you handle the remaining time you have with your loved one. It’s your loved one. It’s you.

I seriously doubt I will ever regret sitting with JHP, JR while he has a night-cap and  listens to Big Band music as his granddaughters dance around his room with the dog. His smile, his calm, and the look on his face when he decides if he likes the beer I brought him tell me he’s okay with his life in that moment. These nights will forever remain with me as good memories, and as a sign that his alcoholism no longer controls my life. Maybe the memories created through forced sobriety would be nice, too. I guess I’ll never know. And I’m okay with that.

Good luck to you on your journey.

Lucy
Jerome’s Daughter

Whiskey? Sure, Why Not?


Once we are out of our parents’ homes we can, for the most part, set aside our feelings about some of our parents’ personal issues. When the time comes for adult children to return to their parents’ sides in order to help them maneuver their way through dementia diagnoses,  they often find themselves facing more than just health care concerns. Many adult children have to face, head on, their judgments about their parents’ lifestyles. Childhood issues can come full force into adult children’s faces. And deal with them we must.

The following post may be a bit controversial. I know my stomach churns a little at the thought of being judged for what I’m about to write, but a friend said something to me that made me realize the point is not how people feel about my family’s choice. The point is to share my story and hopefully help others realize they are not alone. So, here I go.

JHP, JR and me, circa 1979(ish)

For as long as I can remember, my father has been an alcoholic. It’s colored my entire family’s life. It’s stained our childhood memories and caused a great deal of pain. So, in the beginning of all this JHP, JR dementia fun, I had to stare down the fact that I had (and probably still have) serious issues surrounding my father’s alcoholism. I probably  would have benefited from hiring a personal valet for all my baggage I carried about this one issue. And, oh, I would have done anything to have a sober father. Maybe I could have forced him to become one, against his will. My sister and I thought long and hard about making him sober. In the end, we chose to let him have his booze.

This wasn’t an easy decision.

See, after watching dad go through DT’s the last time he was in the hospital, then dealing with his withdrawal-driven tirades about wanting whiskey, we gave up on the idea of ever having a recovering alcoholic for a father, because even in his weakened state Dad could intimidate the hell out of just about anybody. I went through the usual frustrations, blame, resentment and sheer hatred. I even utilized avoidance tactics to put off enabling his drinking. Most often, they helped in the moment, but not for much longer than a moment.

I could have stopped buying his whiskey for him. I could have said, “No Dad! I won’t support your continued abuse of alcohol.” And maybe I did a couple of times. I could have poured out every bottle in his house. Did I consider it? Oh hell yes! Did I resent being in that position? Double hell yes. I think I can speak for my sister when I say she was as frustrated by it all as I was.  Did I follow through and stop buying, providing, crying? No. I kept buying his booze for him and I even taught caregivers how to make his drinks. Does that make me an enabler? Maybe. Does that make him any more of an alcoholic than he was before? Not likely. Does allowing an 89-year-old alcoholic to drink make me a bad person, or a bad daughter? No. I don’t think it does. And it’s taken me a couple of years to finally allow myself to be okay with his continued drinking.

Mind you, his drinking is monitored now. And sometimes he even forgets about booze, but it’s never permanent. In fact, I very well may be a trigger for his desire to drink. I don’t know. There’s a very good chance he associates me with liquor.

Now, coming to this decision has taken a great deal of time, effort, tears, conversations and a few visits with Al Anon. And, maybe, if JHP, JR. hadn’t lost everything else I would feel differently.

Let’s review:

  • The man who did the NY Times crossword puzzle in pen every morning, can no longer think of simple synonyms for everyday words.
  • The man who used to read a couple of books each week can no longer read because he can’t see well enough, and even if he could see he can’t comprehend the words he’s reading.
  • The man who used to play golf at least 5 days a week, can no longer remember how to play golf or walk well enough to do so.
  • The man who once argued and won in front of the Texas Supreme Court more than any attorney in the state can’t come up with words to make an argument.

He has no real friends. He has paid staff at the facility. He has his dog. He can’t drive. He can barely see. He doesn’t remember his own life. People tell him when to get up, when to eat, when to bathe. He can’t focus on a storyline, so he can’t even watch TV. He doesn’t even know how to work a TV any more. He has to rely on others to get him where he needs to go, even if it’s just down the hallway to the dining room. He can barely get himself to the bathroom without falling, and that’s when he’s stone cold sober.

If he wants whiskey or chocolate, I’ll give it to him. Hell, I’ll soak the candy bar in whiskey if that’s what he wants.

Lucy
Jerome’s Daughter/Bartender

Self Care: My Decompression Chambers


As I wade my way through JHP, JR’s new life, I have slowly begun to realize the importance of self-care. One of the ways I take care of myself is to have a variety of what I call decompression chambers where I can sort through my feelings, or just forget about them for a few moments, particularly after challenging visits with my father.  Being able to process these feelings while also learning how to fill one’s own cup are necessary skills for anyone. Let’s face it, unless there is somebody to call or talk to right away, caregivers are often on their own emotionally.

I’ve also learned that processing my reactions to what’s going on with JHP, JR can take time. The fear, the feelings of helplessness, not knowing what to do with these new feelings about our new relationship can be overwhelming. It’s important to find that balance between reaching out and reaching within. Not only must caregivers be careful about over-utilizing friends’ ears and shoulders, we must also strengthen our resolve to honor ourselves and our situations while taking good care of our bodies and minds.  Since I’m more than just a daughter, I’m also a mother and a friend, I have to find that balance. Dad is not the only person who counts on me to be strong and effective. In fact, it’s easy for me to forget that I, too, count on myself to take the necessary precautions. And I am fairly certain I’m not so unique as to be the only caregiver who does this.

One of my most effective tools for decompressing is walking outside. These days, one of my favorite decompression chambers is a local park that includes a small lake and lots of trees. Not only does it have a paved walk that wraps around the perimeter of the lake, there is also a nature trail that takes walkers through loads of mature trees and leads to a simple meditation labyrinth.

Whether I walk at the park or in my neighborhood, I always have my cheap little MP3 player in my pocket. This gives me the option of either listening to nature mixed with car sounds or listening to music. When I listen to music, I have a tendency to think of it as a soundtrack to the sites I see as I either try to forget about my emotions or work them out in my head. After a couple of miles, I usually pull out my camera and take pictures while I cool down. This simple act serves to literally shift my focus away from my fears and concerns about dad and force a different perspective, if even for just 20 minutes.

Then there’s drumming. I’ve been learning how to play the djembe for over three years. Besides attending Saturday morning classes sponsored by Drums Not Guns, I’ve also taken classes taught by Master Drummers from West Africa, and other talented musicians in the DFW area.

What I love about hand drumming is that my teachers use the rote method of instruction, meaning there’s no sheet music. These teachers use vocalizations to signify the different ways of hitting the drums to make the right sounds. Since I haven’t read music for many years, this works well for me. Then, there’s this one little aspect that makes drumming such a great tool for me. When I stop thinking about whether or not I sound stupid, if I focus on technique and allow myself to feel the rhythm I’m creating, then I get lost in it…if just for a few minutes.

Photo by Billy Keith Bucher

Finally, there is dance. Yes. I dance. I don’t dance in public, but I dance nearly every day. Whether I’m dancing with my kids around the house or working out, it puts me in a happy place that makes me smile, laugh, and sometimes I even sing. Mind you, I’m not much a dancer, but I’m not a horrible one either. Dancing serves as both exercise and a decompression chamber/mood lifter. Maybe one of these days I’ll set aside my self-consciousness and dance in front of other people like I did when I was younger. For now, it just helps me let go.

And I think that’s part of it all. Letting go helps. It’s easy to get stuck in that place where I think I have to do it all. I have to put myself into caring for others so that I can continue caring for dad, but that’s bogus. It’s okay to be self-serving too. Because ultimately, who do I, you, rely on the most to handle all of this emotional messiness? I have to rely on myself to get to the place to find the love and support both inside myself and outside myself. It’s a tricky gig that I’ll keep muddling my way through even after JHP, JR dies. For now, I think it’s best just to go easy on ourselves and appreciate/honor/respect not only what our loved ones are going through, but also what we as caregivers are going through.

What it comes down to is simple preventative self-care. De-stressing in healthy ways that really do brighten your day can make all the difference in your effectiveness, and it may prevent caregiver burn-out, or at least more frequent feelings of caregiver burn-out.

Back to journey,

Lucy
Jerome’s Daughter


Decompressing In The Park


JHP, JR. has begun another downward turn from speaking clearly and remembering things to struggling just to find a simple word. Worst of all, he is fully aware of his memory lapses. And while this isn’t our first time down this road, it never gets easier for either one of us. When we have days like this, I have to decompress. Tuesday, I went to a local park, walked, took pictures and thought about our conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I need you to contact…..”

He couldn’t think of the person’s name. I offered to list names until we found the right one, but, as soon as I made the suggestion, I regretted it. We were about to go through the list of the dead unless I could skip those names. Unfortunately, those are usually the people he’s trying to get in touch with. Of course, I assumed he was talking about mom, so I decided to get it over with, like pulling off a band-aid.

“Do you mean Mom?”

“No! I know who Mom is! I don’t mean Mom!”

Whose mom? My mom or his mom? I didn’t know who he meant and was not about to ask for clarification. Even though he was yelling at me,  I was relieved to have dodged that bullet.

It’s hard seeing him like this, knowing that there’s a very good chance he’s about to figure out his wife, his parents, his aunts, his son, and his daughter are dead. Watching him struggle to say the right words, after years of always knowing exactly which word to use, is heartbreaking. It never gets easier, no matter how many times this happens.



I began rattling off other names, any names I could think of that didn’t come pre-charged with emotions. I prayed he wouldn’t ask for details about each person. No matter what name I said, he responded with an emphatic

“No!”

Then, he asked,

Am I married?

Oh how I hate that question. I never know how to answer it. Do I explain? Do I just say no? He was waiting for me to answer. I panicked and stumbled over my words….again.

“You once were, but you’re not anymore. I mean, you always said you still felt married, but you really…well…what I mean is…”


He asked again.

“Am I married?”

His tone and the look on his face told me he just wanted a straight answer.

I’ve never been a good liar.

“No.”

“But I was?”

“Yes. You were.”

“What happened to her? Is she here?”

“No, Dad. She’s not.”

“Is she mad at me? I haven’t talked to her in weeks.”

“No, Dad. She’s not mad at you.”


“Do I have any children?”

“Yes, and I’m one of them.”

“Where are the others?”

“They are at their homes with their families.”

I needed to change the subject quickly. Luckily, Dad took a breather to rub his eyes. He was beginning to tear up. I asked him if he was ready for a nap because,

“I know you’re tired and frustrated today. I’m so sorry you’re having a rough day. I can see it in your face, Dad.”

He stopped. He closed his eyes. His head and shoulders fell slightly forward.

“She’s dead.”

“Yes, Dad. She’s dead.”


He reached for my hand, held it, and brought it up to his cheek. Then, he pulled me down to his chair for a hug. Still holding my hand, he put his head on my shoulder and he cried.

“Thank you.”

I was crying, too.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry.”

“Tell me your name again.”

“Dad, I’m your daughter Lucy.”


JHP, JR’s Blog Blessing


If it’s not already apparent that the relationship between my father and me is very different than it was in the past, this blog post offers another bit of evidence. One of the changes we’ve made over the years is reflected in our ever-changing conversational styles.

When I was a younger, my father often told me I talked too much. As I look back, I realize I chattered because I didn’t know what else to do. I was so intimidated by him that I would talk about anything that came to mind. Unless we were in Mass, sitting in silence with him was very uncomfortable for me. Things changed as I got older, moving from saying whatever I felt like saying, because he seemed to get upset at me regardless, to rarely speaking while also avoiding being around him. There were topics I knew would upset him, but then again there were many times I’d speak and his reaction would completely catch me off-guard. I finally got to the point where I tried to avoid any conversations because the payoff wasn’t worth the stress. Absence was my friend during those days.

Thankfully, this is no longer a big issue between us. Dad is a bit more predictable than he used to be, or maybe I’ve finally figured out a few things. It’s probably a combination of both. When he gets mad these days it’s because he’s either been disregarded, told what to do, or interrupted. When he has the mad/mean reaction, I either say “OK,” apologize, and/or gently tell him it’s okay to be nice to me. We no longer discuss anything potentially controversial like politics or religion, and now that all the “you can’t drive any more,” “you need full-time care” and “you have to move to a place where they can take care of you” conversations are done, we really don’t talk about anything that could lead to a negative reaction. He just doesn’t have the same extreme reactions he used to. (knock on wood)

Despite this new way of ours I was a bit anxious when I visited him on Friday because I knew I needed to tell him about this blog, what I’m writing, and why I’m doing it. I wanted to be honest with him because this isn’t just my story, it’s his, too, and it was important to tell him his life has become an open book. Granted, I had to consider shutting down the whole thing if  he didn’t want me talking about him anymore, or alter it in a way that seemed fair. I was ready, sort of.

What follows is our conversation. Try to imagine each of my words being followed by a comma. That, is, how, I, speak, to, him, so, he, can, understand, every, single, word. His responses tend to be a bit slow, as well. But, I gotta say, I think he still had a little of the superhuman in him from his head-bashing. Most importantly, he was interested in what I had to say, and he was very enthusiastic about the blog.

“So, dad. I’ve been writing about you…us.”
“Really? When did you start that?”
“Well, I’ve been doing it for a while, but now people know it and are reading our story.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How many people?”
“Well, one day close to 5,000 people read my story about Daddy Pat and what happened when he started having trouble thinking clearly. Some of those people also read about you.”
“5,000 people read about Daddy Pat?”
“Yes.”
“Dammit.”
“But they read about you, too.”
“Oh. Okay. What are you writing?”
“I’m telling people about what you’ve been going through since your strokes and about our relationship…how it’s changed.”
“OH?”
“Well, yes. I’ve been honest. I’ve told them how we used to pretty much hate each other and now we actually get along.”
“That we do.”
“So, I’m being very honest about private stuff. Is that okay?”
“Truth?”
“Yes. Please.”
“No. Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes. I am. And it’s not always pretty, in fact there will be times the truth will be very ugly. Neither of us look good.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“You’re glad about what?”
“I’m glad you’re telling the truth.”
“Are you sure, Dad? Some of it is….”
“I heard you. Yes. You can tell people about us. Will it help?”
“I hope so. Seriously, though. If you are uncomfortable with this, you have to tell me.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything! I said you can do it. You can tell people about this.”

The conversation continued after I apologized for “babying” him. We talked about what I’ve already written, about the pictures I’ve posted, and the fact that I’ve been writing every single day. “Oh…now THAT is GOOD.” The only thing he took issue with was the name of the blog. “I don’t know your name, but I know you are important,” he said.

So, with JHP, JR’s blessing, I offer you this, his first official “My Father Doesn’t Know My Name But He Knows I’m Important” video. We are doing one of his favorite things, sitting outside and basking in the sun. There’s a helluva breeze as Dad enjoys a bit of candy and watches Ishmael run around the courtyard. You may notice I sound a little choked up. The reason for that is, well, I was. It’s really nice finally being able to sit in comfortable silence with my father.