The confirmation that my father Rico had Alzheimer's Disease came
as a crushing blow to the entire family. I was in denial, initially
challenging the diagnosis. My father was retired, enjoying his annual
winter holidays in the Caribbean, and it was hard to realize that
one day he would become helpless.
My father's slow decline began in 1993. His last act of love
was to walk me down the aisle, smiling proudly in a way that warmed
my heart. Time stopped when I watched my mother and father dancing.
Dad was a good dancer and, when it was my turn, I eagerly followed
his lead to his favourite foxtrot.
The writer with her father.
(courtesy Maria Perry)
As his illness progressed, I treated my father as normally as possible,
including him in all the family holiday activities. I was proud
of his strength and acceptance of this dreadful disease; "Damn
it" was his only comment. He had a difficult time adjusting
to his new home in 1994 in a health-care facility, although it provided
a comfortable environment.
We learned that the Alzheimer patient perceives strangers as threatening
and will strike out in fear. As a family, we worked out a schedule
that would keep my father surrounded by comforting familiar faces,
in contrast to the daily facility caregiver changes.
My visiting routine on Tuesdays and Thursdays began at 4 p.m. and
ended at 10 p.m. First I would gently wake my father from his rest
with homemade juice, which always prompted a smile and sometimes
a comment: "That's great!" This was followed by a
bath, shave and dress in his best street clothes to have dinner.
Frequently, I brought homemade foods, which delighted him. Afterward,
we would leave the building behind and walk in the parks in the
summertime and in the mall during the winter months. These outings
of fresh air and exercise were stimulating and relaxing for both
of us, and a remedy for mood swings and depression.
In 1995, my most courageous undertaking was to take him for two
weeks to Jamaica, our country of origin. The tranquility and lush
vegetation stimulated Dad's conversation and assertive behavior;
it gave my mother and me a jolt when he disappeared from his bedroom.
After a frantic search, he was discovered heading towards his childhood
home in Kingston with a hairbrush in hand, his pajamas and a determined
stride despite his bedroom slippers.
Just like children, patients with Alzheimer's Disease require constant vigilance.
As a 24/7 caretaker in Jamaica I rested during his rest periods
and swam late at night after he went to bed. This quiet time with
my mother in the pool was enjoyable and supportive. Water was very
therapeutic to Dad, but to my dismay, I discovered that he couldn't
remember how to swim. He had been a very strong swimmer, participating
in cross-the-harbour swims in his younger days; he enjoyed this
activity until this ill-fated disease changed the course of his
life and ours.
On our return flight to Toronto, Ontario, he became impatient and demanded
to get off the plane. I calmly told him to look out the window at
the clouds and pointed out that our flight height was 33,000 feet,
and he would fall and freeze. He sat down and said, "You have
a point."
Looking back, I would do that trip again, for the sheer pleasure
of watching my father enjoy his favourite foods. It was also gratifying
to see my parents interacting affectionately. My father passed away
in November 1999. His last words to me were, "I love you more
than you know."
Comfortlife.ca offers more information about and lists homes with Alzheimer's care.
