One Day . . . and Someday

My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease when I was twelve (he was 57). He was diagnosed very early; a lot of people in our lives didn't even know for a long time, I don't think. But by the time I left for college, he was growing increasingly debilitated. Every time I came home for a summer break, I saw big declines in his functioning (in fact, family members would ask me how he was doing because for them, the decline was so gradual that they were sometimes not aware of the extent of the deterioration).

The summer after my freshman year was his Puppy Dog season. Dad followed my mother around all day like a puppy dog. Always by her side. Always trying to be helpful but not sure what was going on or what to do. It was stunning to watch because my dad had always been The Man. He was a strong leader, in and out of the home. To watch him following my mother’s lead, literally tagging along at her heels minute by minute, was rather disconcerting.

One day, on a hot weekday afternoon, my mom had had it. She was standing on a chair in the middle of the living room. I have no memory of what she was trying to accomplish up there. (That was another unsettling experience that summer: watching my mother take on work that used to be my dad’s and that she had no idea how to do. And this was before the days of Google and YouTube videos, friends. I don't have a clue how she managed it.)

I just happened to be walking by the living room when I heard my mother lose it. “Stop! Just, STOP! Go away!” I had never heard that tone coming out of my mother’s mouth. She was one of the sweetest humans that ever walked the planet. She was almost never angry, and when she was, it was a controlled anger. This tone in her voice – this moment of being completely at the end of herself – it was utterly foreign to my mother’s nature and almost frightening to hear.

I peeked in the room to see what was going on (that’s how I know she was standing on a chair). My dad was right behind her . . . and the look on his face was heart-breaking. He was trying to help, and he couldn’t help. To know he had brought her to this level of frustration must have almost killed him. I don’t remember my mother’s face. I’m sure there were tears – I think there was a part of me that was afraid to look too closely.

And I kept walking. I continued into my bedroom and shut the door . . . and tried to shut the scene out of my head.

For some reason, that episode from my young adult years came back to my memory this weekend. I’ve never forgotten it; in fact, I’ve told the story many times when talking about the stages of debilitation my father went through. But this weekend was different. For some reason, out of nowhere, for the first time in my life, I felt conviction and shame.

Why didn’t I help her?

Why didn’t I go in and see what she was trying to do and help her do it? Or why didn’t I take Dad and distract him with something so he was out of her way? Why didn’t I ever do either of those things at all that summer? How could I have been so self-absorbed and selfish?

I try to give myself some grace. I didn’t deal well personally with my father’s diagnosis and illness in those early years – I needed a lot of healing in that relationship that didn’t come for a long time.

But oh, people. How I wish I had stopped and hugged my mom that summer and cried with her and told her, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’re going through all of this. It’s horrible. It’s devastating. I wish I could take it all away. I'm sure you feel alone and abandoned, and I'm sorry I'm not here for you more.You’re amazing – I love you so much. I’m crying even as I type the words now. I want so much to say them to her.

Someday. We’ll have that conversation someday . . . while God wipes away all the tears from our eyes.