What To Do With Dad?

They say what drives you crazy makes you strong. Don’t you believe it! What drives you crazy really does drive you crazy. Nothing short of that, unless it is merely near crazy. I am not a stronger person for the experience. At best, I benefit from the emotional nourishment gleaned from my fits of maniacal laughter. The relief is infrequent and short-lived.

Before I proceed, my apologies. Is it bad manners to conclude before you commence? Have I confused a push cart for the horse-drawn cart? In summary, I begin.

We are clearly the product of the post-WWII sperm flow … the baby boomers. We lapped up life like a dog on a hot day. Somewhere along the way, we lay down for a nap, and pods were secretly placed beside our heads as we slept. We are one of them now, and we recognize one another by the distant stares and vacant eyes. Our worlds have turned upside down. The child has become the man and the man has become the child. We are like a drop of water in an ocean of boomers ... all of us trying to figure out what to do with our parents. If you are not there already, you will be.

We are trapped in a classic lose-lose situation. Our backgrounds suggest that we are decision-makers … our approach is to take control. Logic says to make all the decisions and to tell dad what he can or can’t do, to take away the car, to take over the checkbook and to bring in someone to clean and watch over him. Logic says to do all the things that I would rather die than have done for (or is it to) me. The alternative is the nursing home. It’s the easy path. I believe the easy path would kill him. I know this sounds bad, but I will say it anyway. Sometimes, I hope for dad to die. I do not mean that I want to kill him. I hope for him to die doing. I am not ashamed of this . We have done my dad and millions of others a great disservice. We have chosen life over dignity for our elders. We are trying to keep dad at home as long as possible … a facade of independence. We all know it is not real. He can’t see. He can’t hear. He can’t remember. But, he thinks he can do all three. We stick red-hot pokers in our eyes and hope for blindness. But we can see. We make speeches about the sanctity and dignity of life. I fear that both cease to exist in the absence of choice.

For now, my role is to telephone and to visit. I try to call weekly, but dad doesn't always hear the phone. The short-term memory is gone so our conversations are tough. My strategy is to listen to each story over and over again as if I had never heard it before. The re-telling of the story may begin 30 seconds after the finish of the first telling. I pretend that we are having a real conversation.

Yesterday, it was the leaf story. Dad is a little obsessed with the leaves. The gist of the story is that he rakes, he piles them on a tarp, he hitches himself to the tarp like a mule, he drags the leaves to the edge of the yard, he sneaks out to burn them, Dean stops him and tells him he will compost the leaves, the leaves have not been composted yet, dad wants to burn them again. Repeat chorus.

I am weak. After seven tellings, I couldn't take it any more. "Dad, where is your tarp?" I retrieved the tarp from the well house, intent upon removing the cursed pile of leaves. I unfolded the tarp. Unfurled before me was a twenty year old tarp, tied together in no less than 8 places with wire and with a multitude of holes ranging from 1 inch to 15 inches in diameter. I burst into uncontrollable laughter. "Dad, this tarp is useless. Have you ever thought of throwing it away?" Dean listened, obviously amused, and knowingly smiled and rolled his eyes. Dad launched into the eighth retelling ... the ninth ... the tenth. I walked away and disposed of the leaf pile in fifteen minutes. I made a mental note to buy a new tarp.


I took a walk with Dean in the garden to regain my composure. On our way back to the yard, I spotted what may have been the worst leaf rake I had ever seen. I started busting on Dean, but his grin told me what I should have realized at the start. The rake’s broken handle was repaired with a nail and duct tape. The plastic rake itself was broken in half and had been bolted back together with large bolts. Every tine on the rake had been broken off. Shaking my head in bewilderment, I listened as Dean explained how dad had taken it out of the trash three different times. I made a mental note to buy a new rake and secretly threw the old one away.

I rejoined dad at his chair in the sun. I believe he is attempting to turn himself into a piece of leather and, in the process, is driving Dean insane. Personal care is a big issue now, and I noticed the new beard he seemed to be sporting. My question about it served as the catalyst for a new story, the retelling of which I would endure five times in the next 20 minutes. The electric razor pulled the hairs out and got so hot he could not put in on his face. No, he did not consider throwing it away or letting us know about it. I made a mental note to buy a new electric razor.

Like a new razor on a bearded face, we glide smoothly to the flower story. It is touching and sad at the same time. Dad walks twice a day and stops at mom’s grave and has a talk with her. As dad says, “She probably can’t hear me, but it makes me feel better”. Anyway, dad has beautiful azaleas. He picked a bunch, tied them with string and took them over to mom’s grave. He was astounded the next day when they were dead. The fact that they were left in the 80 degree heat with no water did not seem to register to him. He retold the flower story without interruption about eight times. I am weak. I excused myself to go to the bathroom. In the back door, out the front. I placed a bouquet of azaleas in a jar of water on mom’s grave and returned to the house.

It was time for me to go. By this, I don’t mean it was actually time to go. I needed to go! I drove straight WalMart. I bought an electric razor. I bought a tarp. I bought a rake. Tomorrow, I will go back to visit with dad.

Tomorrow, we will start over.