Walking into the Fog

I think about my Papa a lot these days.  He and I have a lot more in common these days – both of us being caregivers of Alzheimer’s victims.  My grandfather cared for his wife until she passed away with pneumonia.  I am caring for my mother, right now in the moderate stage of Alzheimer’s.

My grandfather was a crusty, old man.  As a child I always equated him to a bear.  Not a welcoming teddy bear to cuddle into his lap and read a book with.  But a scary, imposing bear you’d keep your distance from.  He loomed above us grandkids and his voice, when he spoke, was a booming sound.  He lumbered about the house, filling the rooms.  Crossing into the next room he’d have to bend down slightly in the doorways and on the stairs.  We were always careful to keep a safe distance, or to keep one of my parents between him and us.  Thankfully we were quicker and could escape if needed.

I’m sure Papa viewed our visits with mixed emotions.  He probably loved the attention, energy and vitality of our young family.  But four nosy grandchildren getting into everything, hungry all the time and the incessant noise level almost certainly really upset his carefully planned routine.

A product of the Great Depression and life of hard knocks; he was a very frugal man.  My mom calls him stingy.  A container of frozen orange juice would last him a month, using just one teaspoon of the liquid gold to make a pitcher of orange juice.

I remember once we found a stash of hard candy he had hidden in the basement behind the laundry room.  You’ve got to understand, this was rare find.  There was nothing but the bare minimum in this man’s house.  To have found such a frivolous, yummy nugget his house was like discovering water on the moon.

It was probably Papa’s little retreat.  A little sweet needed to rejuvenate him. When we were discovered, we saw the bear’s anger!  From my mother’s accounts, he had softened with age.  She says I just knew the gentler side of him.  You couldn’t convince me that day he was soft or gentle!

My grandmother never saw a doctor.  Papa, most likely, didn’t want to pay for it.  He probably saw it as futile, since he had known Mama’s younger sister had already suffered through this disease and the doctors couldn’t prevent it.

Mama and Papa used to take long walks together.  Once the Alzheimer’s became more pronounced my grandmother walked by herself.  I imagine my grandfather relished the time by himself, as I do.

On one of our visits my mother noticed Mama was walking in a pair of house slippers that the tiny heels had been worn off.  My mom purchased a new pair of walking shoes for her.

One day Mama left for a walk and she didn’t come home.  The wandering had started.  My grandfather searched and searched the neighborhood and finally resorted to calling the police.  They found her sitting on someone’s step with a flower in her hand.

Papa began walking with her again, for safety.  His small reprieve was gone.

I recall stories of how my grandfather would go into the bank’s public restroom and take handfuls of their paper towels.  These he would use in my grandmother’s panties to stem the flow of urine when her incontinence set in.

Papa was all alone in dealing with this disease.

-     He didn’t have a wonderful husband who is there at the drop of a hat; someone to yell at in frustration, to cry on in pity or fear; someone to just say “Take me away”.

-     He also didn’t have a teenage son to laugh with; someone to lighten his day, take his mind off the end of life and focus on the fun, youthful years; someone that inexcusably gets hit with a lot of misdirected frustration.

-     He didn’t have a condo just hours away where he could escape to one weekend a month, just to get a breather.

-     He didn’t even have a pet, to give him unconditional licks of affection and the warmth of a loving lapful whenever it was needed.

Papa was all alone.

His neighbors were all shunned by disagreements or cold shoulders.  There were no sisters or brothers living nearby, not that he would have asked them for anything anyway.  My aunt, Sue, lived nearby and she helped as much as he would allow her.

This was his responsibility.  And he was never one to shirk responsibility.  He was stoic.

He cared for my grandmother during her entire ordeal with Alzheimer’s with love.  Not perhaps the most compassionate, warmest, huggable kind of love.  But with the love he was capable of giving.  Papa’s love was the independent, steadfast, take-care-of-everything kind of love.

And it was this exercise of caring for his wife through her Alzheimer’s that caused him to become softer and gentler.  That also allowed him to become closer to his own daughters.

I want to go back in time and will my little childhood frame the courage to go up to the imposing bear, reach out and give Papa a hug or a kiss.  Some sign of affection.  A sign of appreciation for the love he was showing in his own way.

Papa lived a few years by himself after my grandmother passed away from pneumonia.

He traveled out of state to my wedding – on a plane, no less. He was staying in a hotel in a downtown area, and the morning after the wedding, he got up, got dressed and went outside his hotel.  He sat down.  He had no idea where he was.  He was lost.

I can just imagine the fear that must have overcome him.

A bellhop found him and called my mother.  All was okay.  Mom got him where he needed to be and then flew home with him.

But the fear was still there.  It had gripped my Papa’s core.

Once home, he decided he’d had enough.

He didn’t eat or drink anything else.

He didn’t want to put anyone else through what he’d just gone through with Mama.

After I returned from my honeymoon, I found out what was happening.  I flew to visit him.  My brother had moved into his guest room to help him, to try and get him to change his mind.  No chance.  When I arrived he was bedridden.  He was no longer an imposing bear, just a mere man, hoping to die with his dignity.

For the better part of an hour I rubbed lotion on his feet, hoping it would feel good.  Hoping it would spark a sensory pleasure that would get him to want more, and thus sit up and drink.  Nope.  He was resolute.  It probably eased my conscience more than his.

My mother talked to him on the phone the night before he died.  She remembers him saying “I don’t want to walk by myself anymore.”