Tuesday, November 18, 2014

True Confessions : I Kinda Just Slept with my Father


-->Well THAT got your attention, didn’t it??

Sometimes it feels like every time I see my dad I can detect a behavioural change that jumps out and reminds me that his disease is progressing; a taunting reminder that we are losing him, piece by slow piece, to the world of dementia.

We make note of these changes in a series of predictable well-rehearsed stages.  The first stage is humour: a text from my mom informing me that dad has suddenly decided that it’s OK to spit on the floor.  (Most recently accompanied by an EMOTICON - her latest and greatest tech discovery trick…) The phase quietly changes to sadness.  The laughter subsides as we each retreat into our own heads to process the implications of this newest mannerism.  And then there’s the guilt.  The guilt phase is fleeting and unpredictable and shows up in a myriad of facets; sometimes I feel guilty that I haven’t been AS patient as I know I can be.  Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m not around more to help my mom through these changes.  A lot of the time I feel guilty that I coped and received these changes with humour.

This weekend I was faced with perhaps one of the most poignant changes I have witnessed.  Guilt be damned- it’s IMPOSSIBLE NOT to see the humour in this situation.  So I decided to share it.

This weekend my mom took a 48 hr business trip to Vancouver.  She probably spent half of her time away travelling to and from her destination but welcomed the peace and quiet a work trip offered her; she did get ONE nice dinner out in the process.  I was happy to come down and help out with my dad for a few days and glad she had asked.

We had a low key evening together that consisted of countless retellings of the whereabouts of his “beloved wife” and an up-to-the minute countdown to her impending return home.  When I put Mia down in her bed I told her I would be sleeping down the hall in Grandma’s room and that she was welcome to come in and get me when she woke up.  Usually I sleep in the basement so this was a key piece of information for an anxious and early rising 3 year old.

Dad and I watched a dumb movie, ate pizza, and at 11:30 I told him it was time for bed.

“OK…” my anxious father said reluctantly, “Where am I sleeping?  Can I sleep with you?”

I assured my dad that he could NOT sleep with me.  That he had his OWN bed in his OWN room where he slept every night and would be just FINE.

“Of course.” 

It made logical sense to him for most of the walk upstairs.  By the time he reached his bedroom and the quiet darkness of nighttime he had changed his mind.  I barely had my pajamas on before I heard my mom’s door creak open and the thump of his cane as he hobbled down her hallway to her bed.

Reiterating my previous statement was ineffective.  He looked at me dumbfounded, “WHAT??!?! But I ALWAYS sleep in here!” he stated indignantly.

I pointed out the obvious fact that it was usually when my MOTHER was ALSO sleeping there, not when his DAUGHTER was sleeping there.  (Note – my father does NOT always sleep in there.  He does have his own bedroom where he spends most of the night.  Although he is a bit of a night wanderer so I have no doubt he spends at least some of the time in there…)

Again – dumbfounded.

Couldn’t he just lie down with me for a LITTLE bit?  Maybe while I read my book?

I had a moment.

You know those moments, when you suddenly look around the room frantically asking someone –ANYONE- is this REALLY happening?  And what’s the right answer here?  Was I fighting him off because I selfishly didn’t want to share a double bed with him and his night wandering habits or was I legit in my feelings of serious creepiness at sharing a bed with my father?

I shrugged my shoulders and told him he could lie with me for a few minutes until he got sleepy.

PERFECT.  He said and LEAPED into bed.

Alright, fine, it was more like a hobble, but I swear I would have gotten the exact same response out of EITHER of my kids if THEY had scored the jackpot prize of getting to sleep with mom.

I lay down on my side of the bed and attempted to read my book.

My quiet reserved father was suddenly chatty.

“So…” he asked, “What are we doing tomorrow?”

I gave him a brief rundown of the plan.

“Ok!” he said brightly, “And where’s your mother?”

THAT question again?

“DAD.” I reprimanded, “IF you’re going to lie here you have to be quiet”

“OH, alright.” He said and was blissfully silent for all of 10 seconds when his feet suddenly got itchy and he decided to roll them both back and forth up and down the bed in alternating succession.

That’s when he got evicted.

Dad reluctantly hobbled down my mom’s hallway and off to his own bedroom.  And I rolled over in what turned out to be failed attempt #1 of sleep.

It was a long night.  Each eviction and subsequent sleep attempt was quickly succeeded by another innocent plea and bargaining attempt by my father.  He didn’t have very many arguments but reverted to the same two lame attempts at reasoning

1.  I ALWAYS sleep here.
2.  I’m lonely.

One of which was an outright lie, the other of which broke my heart.

It was an interesting exercise in morality; balancing your innate need for sleep, your own guilt and compassion, and this engrained disturbance by the whole situation.  I toyed with the idea of going to sleep in the basement or up in Toby’s room but had also promised Mia that I’d be in grandma’s bed when she woke up.

By 4 am I finally heard the sweet sounds of his cacophonous snoring and I knew I was safe to sleep.  I closed my eyes, settled my brain, and lay there.

 Silently. 

Wide awake. 

 As I puzzled over the fact that I was not immediately sleeping I realized that every muscle in my body was tense and my brain was on high alert.  I supposed this is what one would classify as a natural response to having a wandering octogenarian with dementia intent on sleep cohabitation in such close proximity.

I’ll tell you one thing: if I were a cave man I would have survived; I have a solid alert mode.

I supposed I did doze off eventually, after the repeated shots of middle-of-the-night-wake-up-adrenaline wore off.  I slept just long enough to make my daughter’s 7 am arrival one of pure agony.  I managed to stave her off with the ceremonious handing over of the ipad and rolled over for a few more minutes of sleep. 

Twenty minutes later I was again woken by a little voice,

“Lyssie?!?” said my father

Good god he was up again.  My fight or flight response was back in full swing.

“What are YOU doing here?” he asked with kindness and genuine excitement to see me.  Clearly our recurring conversations in the night had long been forgotten.  He was so happily surprised to see me that my sleep-deprived grogginess was overturned with a sense of adoration for my poor old dad.   

The sweetness of the moment was quickly tempered by the addition of his familiar clause,

“And WHERE’S my darling wife!?!?!”

Here we go again…sleep be damned, it was time to get up for the day.

Not all changes are good changes, but not everything is entirely bad.  In many ways watching my dad’s dementia progress is like the reverse of watching my kids grow up; the days and months march on, marked by mini losses of his abilities and contrasted starkly by my kids acquisition of new language and skills.  But just as time unveils for me the true characters and likeness of who my children are, so too does my dad’s sweetness emerge; a side that he never really let out before.  And we greet both milestones good and bad with the same familiar statement which highlights what it means for all of us:  How fast time goes.   How quickly they change.   How precious this time with them is.

“Enjoy every second” the old ladies at the grocery store say to me “It will be over before you know it.”

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