Because This Is How It Is

Anger is not a strong enough word, but it's the first to mind.
When a person has neurologically "degenerative" or "altering" disorder, such as Alzheimer's or Pick's, that's pretty much who you'll be dealing with, or worse, for the rest of your lives. Take one of your parent's for example. Then identify one quality of their personality which you love, which you know makes them who they are.
Now get rid of all traces of it. Welcome to the world of FrontoTemporal Dementia!

Sucks the big one, huh?

It's not that this is an "overnight" onset, either. A Frontotemporal disorder affects a person's Personality and Daily Life and is progressive. It's not like they wake up and can't move their little finger. They wake up and can't tell you what fingers are. And it gets worse. My dad is in the earlier stages of all this, where we think it's only been happening for about the last 3 years or so. He's not crazy nor is he wandering the streets wondering where his house is. I haven't really noticed until the last year, and noticed it a lot more as we have a diagnosis and a treatment schedule. Ignorance is/is not bliss. Dignity dignity dignity. Anger Anger Anger.

Sigh.

So I'm here at work, a place that I'd rather not be, writing about something very real to my family and my life, and all I wish right now is that there was a magic pill that would cure my dad. If there were such a pill, what would the proper cost be? What would any of us be willing to give up to save a parent and a family from the ills of aging? Discuss.

E-mail me at GBLott@hotmail.com

Last night I attended a class at Overlake Hospital that spoke on accomodating and handling the behavioral changes of a person with Alzheimer's. My Dad doesn't have Alzheimer's disease, but he has been diagnosed with "frontal-temporo lobe dementia," which creates a lot of the same behavioral changes in the person.

This is where life got tougher. This is how my dad has changed. His speech is clipped and mono-tone. He has gained weight. He has a lot of difficulty focusing on tasks, so much so that he no longer reads the daily news or works out at the local gym. It gets too boring for him. He knows who all of us are, but he's not the same man who raised me.

See, the man you would meet now is not the man I have known for 29 years of my life. He's so very different now, and not in a bunch of bad ways, but in enough ways that he is not Himself. He is not as jocular, intuitive, or sweet-natured. This is not cancer. According to the experts, he is not going to get better or go into remission. This is the new him, and the man he will be and become for the rest of his life.

Why the hell am I sharing any of this? Because I don't know anybody who has a parent with this condition. This is the man who read books to me before bed and taught me to throw a spiral. He bailed me out of jail, shared bottles of wine with me, and watched years-worth of sporting events with me. And those are all in the past, building blocks to the monument of steadfast love and devotion my dad had to his children. That monument is now in his honor. I have nothing but love for my dad, and as I grow into my new role as his protector and helper I know that I have a strength about me that will carry me through moments of our new life.

Regardless, I'm still angry to punch Jesus.

My Dad's New Life

My Father's Days

"Who is this man?"
I'm not as confused as I am damn-near heartbroken. Tears welling even as I write this. But I have to write it. I gotta get this out somehow, because I had only one cry over it so far, and if I don't get it out somehow I fear it will live inside me and eat at my desire to Live. If you don’t want to read any further, go here. I need to share somehow what life can be like, even when you appear totally normal, happy, and completely free of anti-depressants.

60 years old, to be 61 in October, Gerry Lott, my father, is not the same man he was 5 years ago. Other than tall, my dad has been pretty much everything most kids want in a dad. I fault him not for his height Smart, caring, funny, mentoring, encouraging, firm, hard-working, steadfast in his faith, paper-reading, cologne-wearing, golf-playing, whispering dirty jokes and able to run 5 miles in under 45 minutes. So very proud of his children, even when I messed up, and prouder still when I would man-up and right my wrongs. He's always been fair, a great listener, a man of intellect in life and business, and if he didn't know the answer, he'd make me look it up. Whatever he achieved, he wants better for his kids by 1000-fold. He was meant to be a Dad, and he has been amazing at it.

He is very different now. He's still here. But it's not him. It's him. But it's not. He's here, but he's not here. Some of you know what I'm talking about. Really though, I'll explain another time when I'm not sitting at work cursing and questioning the existence of the God my dad helped me learn about and seek answers from when I couldn't think of anything else to do. The God of all creation and destruction. With what I feel today, I could totally take God. Blasphemous? Yes. But until my heart quits feeling like it's trying to run from my body, so these feelings of impending loss and fear will not cloud into my career and social life, I waver between asking God to protect my family, and ordering God to stop it all and set the clock back 5 years. How about 3?

It's not going to happen. And all I can do for now is write about it. All I can do for now is write about it? For now.