a little is a lot

I saw Dad today.  It was a simple visit. The idea now, is just to show up and be with whatever comes. Or remains. I have come to delight in telling him stories. This week, a childhood friend Eric reached out.  He lost his Dad years ago. I have been in touch from time to time with his Mom. We called one another’s folks – Aunt and Uncle. His mom Aunt Rita, and my Dad, Uncle Neil to Eric.  At their Sedar, Aunt Rita told Eric that my Dad was suffering dementia. He was saddened by the news, and reached out. He told me that of all of the “parent group” folks, my Dad remained a favorite in his memory. He mentioned his smile, and warm kindness. He recalled my Dad coming to their home to help delivery their puppies in the middle of the night.” Dr. Neil”, I joked. Dad worked in pharmaceutical advertising and his medical knowledge always had him a smidge away from Dr. in our hearts and minds. He asked that I shared with Dad that Eric was asking for him, sending love, and to give him a hug. His eyes lit at the story. Sure, he remembered Aunt Rita and Uncle Mark.  He recalled delivering the puppies as well.  

We walked to Lange’s Deli, where everyone knows Dad like they know you at Cheers. They still ask after his dog Max, and told him he should get another.  The man adds up our tab on the back of the brown paper bag. Two sandwiches, two diet creme Dr. Brown’s (I remind him it is a favorite—mine too), some new fangled pretzels that are hollow for a crisp and airy bite, and I get some vinegar and salt chips. They pack up our sack, and the deli man tells Dad, “ya know you should get a pony.”  They giggle and Dad wishes them a great rest of the day. He guides me across the street as if I am still a kid. “Watch that car, they are turning in”.  He’s still got my back. 

I leave him at the corner as I dash to mail a letter. He waits.  I sneak his photo. We finish up the short walk to his condo, and I steal some video of him walking. His gait is signature. He walks a bit on his toes, and the strides look peppy. At 83, with his new haircut and his Levi’s he is so seemingly young in spirit. I try so hard to look for the good in all of the loss we are experiencing as his memory fades. 

He points out the flowers newly planted on the condo grounds. Pansies, mostly yellow and some with purple centers. The daffodils and forsythia too. He has always admired a good manicured lawn and shares how it is cared for each time we talk on the phone, or walk by  and take in the fresh change of a season. 

I sort through his clothes. We have two baskets outside the closet, because they need to be out for him to remember where they are and to change. We swap out some new favorites into the rotation. We add these new boxer-type Depends. He tries them with no kerfuffle. Just askes me which is the back. He has a hernia which makes going to the bathroom a bit tricky these days. So this is for this just in case.

His easy-going Midwestern nature is so baked into his soul. This is Dad. I still see him. His wise counsel is missing, and gosh I miss that. But the heart of who is remains. 

I was fortunate to read a book recently called “The Beauty of What Remains” and meet the author, Rabbi Steve Leder when I hosted a chat with him on Clubhouse. His dad died after a ten-year bout of dementia. I see my dad through a Rabbi Leder’s lens this visit. 

I cream Dad’s hands. We watch a TNT show on foot surgery. Gross, but engaging. We wince and giggle. I tell Dad he has great feet and how lucky we are to have inherited them. He tells me about his recent trip to the barber, where only women work. He thinks the last trim is a bit short.  I say it is cool and modern. I call my Uber and as it pulls up, Dad takes his position on the porch. We hug and kiss and I tell him, “I love you Dad.” And as he always says, “I love you more.”  He adds, “thanks for everything Bub”. 

A little is a lot.  You are so right Rabbi Leder.  A little is a lot. 

hey bar, it's neil

There is loss and grief when you have a parent living with dementia. I wrote this in a writing group recently, in response to a prompt. Writing is a beautiful way to process grief. A vulnerable share. Perhaps you will do the same. X. B. 

Hey Bar, it’s Neil. 

I don’t call my father Neil. He is Dad, Daddy or Grampsy mostly, as affectionately known by the grandkids for years and all who know that throughout the town. Until his driving was revoked and the car sold, he would spin around town with plates emblazoned with his trusty moniker. They now sit proudly on his fireplace mantel. Even he was delighted in the law breaking idea of never returning them to the DMV.

It’s Neil. This is his dementia talking.

He rarely leaves the confines of his one-bedroom condo, or the surrounding block. His habitual memory is so deeply grooved in a decade’s old routine, we dare not remove this melodic record from its sleeve. 

He wakes, he swings open the familiar back fence of the enclave and walks to Lange’s Deli. This is his Cheers. They know his name. That his beloved rescue Max has died. (Though he often reminds them). That he will want both The Post and The Daily News. He used to get a toasted bagel too. He has grown accustomed to a newly developed sweet tooth. The donuts with the most sprinkles seem to call to him. They must think all the grandkids are coming for breakfast. His caretaker tells them to stop indulging them in multiples. There is a childlike spirit and joy to what is left of the man I know. I hang on to that fiercely. Tight like his best hugs. And advice. That is the new outside, simple and pared down. But I guess that is familiar too, when you take the rest down to his Ohio roots.

He tells me how quickly they remove the snow on the sidewalks. Goes on about the weather. Unless it is jotted on a calendar we keep for him on the dining table, it is not in his purview. Not happening.

He calls his caretakers “The Patchers”, as they switch his daily medication from place to place on his back. A small 1x1 medicine doused square of hope to slow the hideous progression of the disease. He regales the Patchers with charm. On walks, he shows them the tallest pine tree, the house on the block with the wrap around porch that he admires most. At the library, he takes in the children’s story time. I have noticed, that there is something familiar to him that he sees in kids. He takes them in with rapt attention. Does he feel their equal? I am not sure of the connection, but it is stunning and simple all at once.

I am not certain where Neil is most days. Sometimes I dread calling. My brilliant advertising Mad Man of a Dad is no longer. His strong but quiet advice. A great ear and dazzling story teller. I can hear the ice cubes clinking in a cocktail back when he held the room. He is still funny as fuck. Thank God. The Patchers think so too.

I tell him stories about Neil. The one about taking a friend’s son to soccer games after she lost her husband on 9-11 and could not be at two games at the same time. How we dedicated a bench to Alan at his favorite diner, and how he used to place flowers there in memorial on that day. He would always send me a photo. “Boy, that sure sounds like something I would do, I wish I remembered.” Humbled by his own heart and actions. I take a mental note to keep on telling him these stories. This is my salve. How I keep him alive, though he is before me smiling and breathing and being.

When asked about hitting up a movie, or something that Neil used to really enjoy, he often declines. The inside gets bigger and more familiar as the outside eases in. I wish so much more for him. But, I am learning lessons in all of this. I too admire the way the fruit is so artfully stacked at Whole Foods now. He pointed it out on our visit there. You are so right Dad. We are in no rush to check things off the list. We are just inside.