The Silent Fear

Have you ever been so frozen by fear, so utterly paralyzed by such a dreadful thought that you dare not speak it? Almost as if in the speaking you might actually provide the dragon its oxygen?

Over the last 8 years or so my brothers and I have been caring for our parents. As you probably know, aging can be a real bitch. For all involved.

For all of my life, the family dynamic has been that Dad looks after Mom. Dad had one job for most of his life. Mom had about 30 part time jobs that lasted no more than a couple of weeks. Dad took care of his health. Mom cheated on Dad with Little Debbie snack cakes. Mom believes there’s a heaven and that it has a smoking section. John Prine’s lyric about what he’s going to do when he gets to heaven fits here: “I’m going to smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long.”

Now, Dad is not a better person than Mom. They’re just built (and wired) different. Dad had zero Adverse Childhood Experiences, Mom would have scored a 6 or 7 on the ACES measure.

Mom’s been declining for about 20 years or so. And every step she took down, Dad stepped up. Until about 5 years ago when Dad’s cognition started to decline. Forgetful at first, then a little absent minded. His light has dimmed gradually over time.

So a little over two years ago, I was appointed Guardian over my Mom and we moved her to a skilled nursing facility. They were able to care for her in ways that Dad was unable to any more. And that left Dad alone in family home.

Good fortune, good brothers, and having an office less than a mile from that home made it work. Until it didn’t. The brothers and I were faced with a decision: Allow Dad to stay in the home he built 50 years ago, as he had insisted over and over, or move him into an assisted living facility where he would be closer to services and have more eyes on him. Dad didn’t get a vote in this decision. Taking this man’s autonomy away is, I guess, the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

So we set the plan in motion. Last week, we moved Dad into a wonderful facility on the North end of town. We took his furniture, some of which he built himself, and decorated his one bedroom apartment. Then we went back to the family home to take him to his new residence.

We stood in the kitchen one last time together and he said, “What do you think?” I said, “I think I’ve learned a lot in this kitchen.” I had to walk away for a minute.

Dad’s memory is such that he doesn’t remember day to day what’s going on. I told him no less than a dozen times what we were going to be doing in the days ahead. He didn’t like it one bit, and wasn’t shy about his feelings. But a couple of days before the move he seemed to relent. He didn’t raise any sand on moving day.

But he was afraid. And I’ve never seen my Dad afraid. As his dementia has progressed, so has his fear. He was experiencing the emotion without the cognitive ability to know why.

I was afraid too. But I’ve been afraid plenty in my life. But my fear was unspeakable. Until right now.

My unspeakable fear was that we were going to take this man out of the only home he’s known for 50 years, and that was going to hasten his decline. Dad was rarely wrong about things. And he thought staying put was best. He had been living alone for two years. He hated going out anywhere. It was a chore to get him out of the house once a week to visit Mom. What if this move did him in? What if we put him in this place, against his will, and we lost what remains of him in the process?

That last paragraph flew around in my brain, unobstructed, for about 6 weeks.

Of all the transitions I’ve experienced, parenting my parents is by far the most counterintuitive. And the most awkward.

And so we walked him out of the house one last time. He’s a little unsteady on his feet these days, so when we walk, I take an arm. He lets me do that, even though he was the one who tried to teach me how to walk, talk, ride, drive, shave, work, protect, defend, and do math. All of those levels unlocked with degrees of success and failure. He also taught me to hide my fears, a skill I wish I had passed on.

He’s been at his new home a week as I write this. Today, during lunch, I drove over there to check in on him. I found him in the dining area sitting at a table with two other men. I couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but it looked like the conversation was light and flowing. Dad got up from the table and made his way to the elevator as I hid behind a wall. I didn’t want him to see me just yet. I took the stairs to the second floor and waited out of sight to see if he could find his way to his room. He’d lost his way a time or two this week, and I wondered.

He turned the right way down the hallway, took a left at the 50’s diner after a brief pause, and walked the corridor down to his room. I waited until he touched his doorknob to call out his name. I felt like I imagine he felt the first time I rode a bike without training wheels.

He said, “Hi Larry, come on in!”

So we sat and talked. Immediately I noticed a difference in him. The fear was gone. He spoke about lunch and his companions with ease. He spoke about his surroundings with ease. He was at ease.

I hadn’t even considered the possibility. I thought best case scenario was he would maintain his level of functioning. You know what my worst case was. I never imagined that he might actually thrive and improve.

And he said, “You know, I like it here. I could stay here a long time.”

Dad, I sure hope you do. With everything in me I hope you do.

And just like that. In an instant. I felt like everything was going to be OK.