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.
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.
- 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.