August 14, 2022. My living room, Spokane, WA.
The second to last time we talked by phone, Dad asked, "How's the weather up there?" My heart did a little two-step as I explained it was a stunning, not-too-warm day with clear skies in the Pacific Northwest. The simple words up there meant he was tracking that I live in Spokane, Washington, not San Diego. At any rate, that I live north of his home in Los Angeles, not south or down there.
Watching my 86-year-old dad learn to live with dementia is a journey with so many twists and turns that sometimes I feel dizzy. And, honestly, to say I am watching it all happen is much too passive a suggestion. I am living it alongside him. More importantly, however, is the fact that my stepmom is living with him. At every disorienting turn, I try to keep in mind what she is experiencing, how drastically her life has changed since Dad broke his hip in April and his dementia has begun to progress more quickly.
Today when I called and managed to catch Dad between naps, we stuck to safe topics. The news he loves to watch, and, naturally, the weather. Then he asked about the rental unit that he and my birth mom still own together in San Diego. He remembered it had recently been vacated, but I assured him it was rented again. "Everything working well, the water heater is good?" he asked.
That's when I caught on. This conversation, he had me placed in San Diego, in the duplex home where I grew up, the rental unit just downstairs. "As far as I know, all is well," I replied.
"Oh, well, you can check it yourself you know, and if we need to replace the water heater we can."
After several weeks in a rehab hospital post-hip surgery, I had convinced my stepmom that an assisted living home was the best option for Dad, and her. He was there just over two-and-a-half months when she moved him back home at the end of July. She is quite literally living with dementia.
When I asked Dad this afternoon how he is liking being back home, he replied with a certain equanimity. "If I'm sitting around not doing anything, I might as well be doing it here, rather than somewhere else."
No fuzzy thinking there. That's about as clear as it gets.
Lately, when I picture Dad, this photo comes to mind. It was taken six years ago, after a lovely seafood lunch in Dana Point, California. We didn't know yet what was happening inside his noggin. But we had spent part of lunch, on a patio overlooking the marina, discussing aging and my role in the process for he and my stepmom.
I was trying to get ahead of the game. They were reluctant to engage.
And now here we are, muddling through every twist, every turn, just barely staying within the white lines.
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